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“Okay,” Peter says. “Let’s go over the plan one more time.”
“I’m going undercover for a very off-the-record job interview as New York’s finest forger,” Neal says, proudly adjusting his suit jacket. Since starting on insulin, he’s stopped unintentionally dropping weight, and his suits are fitting more like they should. That, coupled with being back on the job, means he’s feeling physically and mentally better than he has in a while.
“We’ll be listening from the van on this,” Jones says, rolling their usual transmitter pen across the table to Neal.
“10-4,” Neal says into the speaker before slipping it into his pocket.
“If you get the job–”
“When I get the job.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “When you get the job, they’ll give you the location of wherever the real work is being done, and we’ll go bust them.”
“Sounds easy enough,” says one of the agents who will be on standby.
“We’ll take an easy win,” Peter says. “Any questions?” When there’s no response, he nods. “Okay, let’s roll out.” But then he puts a hand on Neal’s shoulder to hold him back.
“Yes, Peter?” Neal asks once they’re alone.
“Are you good?”
“Me? I’m great! How about you? How’s Elizabeth? Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
Peter drops his hand from Neal’s shoulder and folds his arms over his chest. “Come on, Neal. This is your first time going undercover since you’ve been back. Work with me a little.”
Neal sighs. “I checked my blood sugar an hour ago. It was 120. It’s been in range all day. I feel good.”
“You have supplies on you?”
Neal opens his suit jacket and slides out a zippered pouch which contains a glucose monitor, test strips, lancets, an insulin pen, and glucose tabs. “I have everything I need, but I won’t need any of it.”
“Okay. We have extra supplies in the van now, too. Plus juice and food in case you need it when we’re done.”
“Thanks, Peter. But I’m good. I’m ready for this.”
Peter holds Neal’s gaze for long enough that he must believe it, because he nods. “Okay. Let’s get out there.”
###
Neal’s pretty sure the two guys conducting his “job interview” aren’t the real brains behind the operation. They’re the muscle, sent to do their boss’s dirty work, which isn’t really a problem for Neal. Makes it easier to pull a con, if anything.
“Which one of these is fake?” one of the guys asks, sliding two passports across the table to Neal.
He picks them up. Studies them. The answer is immediately obvious, but he takes his time anyway. He doesn’t want to seem overly confident. Finally, he says, “Neither. This one,” he taps the one on the left, “is from before the 2007 redesign. They’re both authentic, though.”
The two men exchange a look. It must mean Neal passes the test, because the other man, the bigger one, slides a bond across the table. “This is fake. Tell me how you know.”
Neal runs a hand over the document. It’s an older one, or at least it’s supposed to be. “It’s not aged properly. That ink wouldn’t have been available until the 21st century.”
“Very good,” the bigger man says. “You have a good eye.”
“Yeah, but a good eye isn’t what you’re hiring me for, right?” Neal asks. “You going to let me try my hand at something?”
The first guy nods his head down a dark hall. “Let’s go.”
It happens very quickly: Neal stands and takes no more than three steps, his anklet beeps, and then there are two guns pointing directly at his head.
“What the hell was that?” the bigger guy asks.
“Came from his ankle.” The first guy keeps his gun trained on Neal’s head while using the toe of one shoe to lift Neal’s pant leg, revealing the tracker.
Shit. Peter had been so worried about his blood sugar that he’d completely forgotten about the anklet.
Even though Neal’s heart is hammering in his chest, adrenaline as high as the hands above his head, it’s never been just fight or flight for him. For Neal, there’s always been a third option: fight, flight, or con. He just hopes he’s quick enough to beat Peter from busting down the door and blowing their cover.
“It’s a glucose monitor,” Neal says quickly.
Neither man lowers his gun. “What’s that?” the smaller man asks.
“It monitors my blood sugar. I’m diabetic.” Yes, there are blood sugar monitors on the market. No, Neal’s government insurance does not cover them. No, they do not go around one’s ankle. Yes, Neal’s betting on the fact that Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber will not know that. “May I?” he asks, slowly lowering his right hand toward his suit jacket. “I’m just getting my supplies to show you, okay? Another glucose monitor, test strips, insulin.”
“No weapons,” the smaller man growls.
“No weapons,” Neal agrees, and shows them the pouch. “My blood sugar must be a little low. So maybe while I’m completing the next part of this meeting, one of you two can get me some juice or a piece of candy or something?”
Very slowly, both weapons lower. Neal lowers his other arm, puts his supplies back, prays Peter understands he’s still just pulling a con, and oh yeah, turns his damn anklet off.
“You like doughnuts?” the bigger man asks. “I’ll get you a doughnut.”
“Thanks, bud. Now, where were we?”
###
Two hours later, Neal is handing the address they were looking for over to Peter. “Got the job, anklet and all.”
Peter immediately hands the address over to one of the agents who will be shutting the operation down. “I can’t believe I forgot the anklet. I’m so sorry.”
Neal shrugs off the apology. “Glad you caught on to the con.”
Peter nods toward the van. “Come sit. Take a break. And please tell me you did not actually eat a doughnut without dosing up with insulin first.”
Neal laughs. “They weren’t Boston cream. I wasn’t even tempted. Just broke off a few pieces while I was working. They didn’t even notice.”
“And how are you feeling?”
“Thirsty,” Neal admits, opening a bottle of water and quickly downing half of it. “Might be running a little high even without the doughnut.” He takes out his test kit, letting Peter throw away his alcohol swab and lancet when he’s done with them.
“You know, that excuse worked so well, maybe we can just leave you on anklet for all your undercover operations now, huh?” Peter asks as he returns to his seat across from Neal.
“It worked well except for the part where there were two guns pointed at my head. So no.”
“Oh, right. And definitely not because you want to get away with anything.”
“Who, me? Never.”
The glucose monitor interrupts them, and both men look at the screen. 204.
“Apparently,” Neal says, already doing the math in his head and preparing the insulin pen with a dose to bring it back into range but not too far down, knowing he’s still got an hour or two before dinner, “the adrenaline high of said guns in my face is not something my pancreas can deal with.” He removes his jacket, lifts his shirt, finds a spot that isn’t too sore, and does the whole “clean, inject, release” process. “Now that I think about it, I would’ve preferred the doughnut.”
Peter grunts. “You know you just have to say the word, right?”
“What word?”
“That you don’t want to do this. Go undercover. Deal with your blood sugar shooting up because of guns pointing at you.”
“And you’ll what, put me back behind bars? I’m sure the diabetes care there is top notch.” The words hang heavier in the air than Neal intended. He sighs. “I’m sorry. Look, I just want to get back to normal, okay? Or whatever this new normal is. I’m all in on that, and I hope you will be, too.”
It takes a few seconds, but then Peter nods. “Okay. You did a really good job in there. And I won’t mess up the anklet again.”
“Thanks, Peter.”
Then it’s onto the next fight, flight, or con.