Chapter Text
Peter was braced for the worst from the second the bouncer handed back his fake ID and gave a lazy nod at the open door. There were a lot of reasons he hated working with Special Ops and every single one of them had to do with the fact that he’d gone to White Collar in the first place to avoid the kind of life-threating insanity he was currently roped into. He had Diana and Jones in his ear, and he’d finally managed to weasel a sincere promise from Neal that the CI understood he was not allowed to have any involvement in this case so at least he didn’t have to worry about the conman flipping the script and risking the entire mission on a whim. Thank god for small mercies.
That relief lasted for eight whole seconds, which was how long it took for Peter to enter the bar, look around, and recognize the person sitting at a booth way in the back. Peter stopped dead as shock coursed through him.
What the hell.
The man sitting in the booth wore tight-fitting tactical gear and even from this far across the room, Peter could see that he was heavily armed. And that wasn’t counting the butterfly knife he was twirling around in his hand. Which would have been insane enough without the fact that he had a faraway look in his exhausted eyes and he didn’t seem to be paying any attention at all to what his left hand was doing. It didn’t matter; the knife whirled through the air so quickly it was barely more than a blur of deadly silver.
“Burke? What’s happening?” an unfamiliar voice in his ear startled him back to awareness and Peter quickly placed it as Griffin, the Special Ops agent in charge of the case.
“I’m inside, I just need a minute,” Peter answered. He prayed that the confusion in his voice wasn’t obvious over the hidden wire.
“Is everything alright? Do we need to call it?”
“No, just… I just need a minute. There’s no sign of Brockovich yet,” Peter said honestly as his mind spun through the possibilities. The man in the booth wasn’t wearing an anklet and this bar was very, very far from his radius. If anyone in the van knew who was here, the man in question would be back in prison before any of them could blink. Whatever insane reasons he had for pulling this stunt, his CI had saved his ass enough times that Peter was willing to give the man a chance to explain himself on the tiny sliver of a chance that Peter would be able to accept it and find a reason not to throw his friend in jail.
“Alright.”
“Be careful, Peter,” Diana cautioned. Peter turned off his microphone and took a deep breath before marching himself over to the booth at the back. Snatches of conversations came at him from every angle and Peter ignored every “imagine how much the ransom would be” and “—found him half-dead in a warehouse in Kenya” and “it was in Ethiopia, not Kenya” that he passed. He was so focused on the distracted man in the booth that he barely noticed the fact that all the other patrons of the bar were giving that table a very wide berth. In fact, the bar was packed with mercs, off-duty sex workers and every flavor of sleazy nightlife. The patrons filling the bar clustered in groups, leaning on the wall and crammed into the available booths. Except for the two—make that three—on either side of Neal’s table that were completely empty.
Peter didn’t have time to think about why that was. He was dead set on his wayward CI and the words were on the tip of his tongue, “What the hell are you doing here—” when there was movement in the booth. Neal wasn’t alone.
A glove reached out and settled heavily over the hand still twirling the butterfly knife around in dizzying motions, pulling the weapon out of his grip and pressing his hand down against the table. The faraway look on the conman’s face twisted with anxiety before the glove grabbed his chin and pulled him forward. By now, Peter was too close to turn back and had a perfect view to see Neal stretched across the table, his fingers pale and bloodless from their grip on the edge of the wood as he kissed his companion. Peter’s first thought that Alex had come back into town disappeared as he saw who Neal was kissing. Or rather, who was kissing him.
Peter’s legs nearly gave out under him.
Even without his talent for faces, he would’ve known exactly who the other man was. Any FBI agent, even the most novice rookie, would know. The man’s face was plastered over every inch of the office alongside helpful warnings about not engaging in combat, how intensely dangerous the man was, and the laundry list of crimes and felonies he’d committed.
Neal Caffrey—Peter’s nonviolent criminal informant of the past two years—was sitting in a skeevy bar miles and miles outside his radius, allowing the FBI’s most wanted to stick his tongue all the way down his throat. Because that’s who was sitting across from him. Slade Wilson, Deathstroke the Terminator, whose face Peter got a split-second look at in between the man making out with Peter’s CI.
When the man released him, Neal slowly leaned back in his seat.
“Don’t look so down, little bird. We’re celebrating,” the mercenary said.
“Yes master,” Neal answered quietly. His hand twitched towards the butterfly knife resting innocently on the table but other than that, he was as still as a statue. Peter could only stare. He’d heard him right, Neal had called Deathstroke “master”, what the hell could possibly explain that?! And he’d never seen Neal sit so still or look so serious in all the years he’d known the conman.
Then Neal caught sight of Peter and froze. He stared at Peter and Peter stared back at him.
A low hum broke the silence. The smirk on Wilson’s face was predatory and Peter’s mind spun in nauseating circles as he tried to process how someone could sound so amused and so dangerous at the time.
“Can we help you?”
Peter swallowed.
“What are you doing here?” he asked very carefully, excruciatingly aware of every breath going in and out of his lungs. Neal didn’t move, his eyes flashing to Wilson’s face. Peter knew he was staring but he couldn’t help it. Wilson’s smirk grew even wider.
“That’s an interesting question. I’m not sure that a Fed such as yourself would be all that pleased with the answer,” Wilson answered before Neal could say anything.
“Neal, this isn’t funny,” Peter warned, “You’re outside your radius, you know I’m going to have to report—”
“Neal?” Wilson asked curiously. The deadly glint in his single eye became even more amused and the sight of it turned Peter’s stomach. His heartbeat was speeding up and goddammit, he always knew Neal was going to give him a heart attack one day but he’d never imagined it would be like this. The mercenary was looking at Neal but the words were directed at Peter, “Is that what he’s going by these days?”
Neal made a small choked sound unlike anything Peter had ever heard from him before but the panic that flashed across his face was gone so quickly Peter wasn’t sure it had been there at all. Because then Neal’s face was as blank as stone and his voice was soft and steady as he looked at Deathstroke.
“May I have a minute to speak with him privately, master?”
Now it was Peter’s turn to choke. Neal Caffrey was a million different things; a criminal, a forger, an art thief, a grifter, a conman, a world-class flirt, and most importantly, a pain in the ass. Peter couldn’t count the number of times he’d tried in vain to get the man to take their cases seriously or to just stop messing around for ten minutes and focus. But the Neal sitting in front of him seemed more like a robot than a man. In that moment, Peter didn’t think the conman would be able to crack a joke if his life depended on it.
And, no, Peter had absolutely not imagined it. Neal was referring to Wilson—to Deathstroke, Deathstroke the fucking Terminator—as “master”.
There was no part of this that Peter didn’t hate. Especially when Wilson’s expression hardened.
“No, you may not,” the mercenary’s voice was cold and Neal flinched, “It seems there’s some things you’ve been keeping from me, little bird.”
Something clicked in Peter’s brain and a horrifying possibility suddenly presented itself.
Oh shit. Holy shit, that wasn’t possible, was it?
Was Neal running a con on Deathstroke?
No. No, that was not possible, Neal wasn’t stupid enough to make a man as brilliant and deadly and viciously sadistic as Deathstroke the Terminator his mark. And he knew the terms of his parole, he’d spent two years in reluctant acceptance of his radius, Neal wouldn’t violate their agreement like that.
Except here he was. Sitting across from the world’s most deadly mercenary—calling him master—and Peter didn’t know what to think.
Wilson rose from the booth in one smooth motion, stepping to the side to allow Peter access to the bench.
“Why don’t you join us?”
Wilson’s voice was as smooth as it was deadly and all Peter could see was the tension in Neal’s frame as the conman’s eyes flicked over to the door like he was counting how many seconds it would take for him to run.
“Peter?” Diana’s voice was back in his ear and it was either the best timing in the universe or the worst. Definitely the worst, given the fact that Peter’s head was spinning and he had no idea what was happening, “Is everything okay?”
No, everything was most definitely not okay. But Peter couldn’t move. He’d completely forgotten about Brockovich and his backup waiting in the van outside. And now his eyes were moving helplessly between the empty seat Deathstroke—DEATHSTROKE—had just vacated and how horrific of an idea it was to put himself in close quarters with the FBI’s most wanted criminal. There was nothing Peter wanted to do more than to make a break for the door. This case wasn’t worth being horribly and violently murdered for. But Neal was still frozen in the seat across from him and no matter how the man had landed himself in this clusterfuck, Peter couldn’t abandon his CI. But if he survived this, mark his words, Peter was going to rip him a new one.
“I insist,” Deathstroke cut in when Peter still hadn’t moved, “You’re going to tell your vanful of FBI buddies that you found backup and you’re discussing terms. Then you’re going to take a seat.”
Peter considered himself a relatively smart man. He knew when he’d been backed into a corner and right now, it seemed like his only option to salvage this operation (let alone to get himself and his idiot CI out of this alive) was to play along.
“Peter?”
It was Jones.
“We’re sending in backup—”
“No!” Peter barked, scrambling to turn his hidden microphone back on, “Give me a few more minutes, do not send anyone else in.”
“What’s happening in there?” Diana demanded. With every ounce of self-control he had, Peter managed not to respond with, “oh nothing, just Neal getting caught scamming the deadliest mercenary in the world and the both of us being seconds away from certain death.”
Instead, he took a breath and answered, “I found backup. We’re negotiating.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Jones cautioned and Peter cursed how perceptive the man was.
“I have the situation under control. I just need a few more minutes. Do not come in, understood?”
“Alright. We’ll follow your lead, Burke. Don’t stay dark too long,” Griffin ordered.
Peter clicked off his microphone again, trying very hard to ignore the dread pooling in his gut as he cut off contact with his backup, and then slowly sat down in the empty booth. Neal was looking down at the table and the conman was maybe five seconds away from a full-blown panic attack. Then again, his hands were shaking. So maybe he was already there.
Before Peter could say anything, Deathstroke sat down across from him, trapping Neal in the tight space between the table and the wall. Peter wracked his brain desperately to try and come up with a way to get his CI out of the literal corner he was boxed into but there was no way to get him past Deathstroke unless the mercenary allowed it.
“So…” Wilson grinned and Neal flinched. He tried to shrink away but Deathstroke’s arm snaked around his back and squeezed right where his neck met his shoulders. Peter’s stomach turned at the sight. Satisfied that his victim was secured, Wilson turned his attention back to Peter, “His brother’s a fed now?”
His brother?!
“Criminal informant,” muttered Neal—not Neal?! Neal’s brother?! The brother he’d never mentioned having, the brother that looked so identical to Peter’s CI that Peter could barely tell a single difference between them?! Jesus Christ, did Neal have a twin brother?
“Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?” Wilson goaded. When Not-Neal didn’t move, the mercenary only grinned wider and the grip on the man’s shoulder tightened until it looked painful. Peter winced in sympathy.
“Don’t be shy, little bird, I know you keep tabs on him.”
“This is Special Agent Peter Burke, of the White Collar Division,” Neal’s brother said in a very tight voice, “He was the main arresting officer when I—Iv—”
He cut off with a shaky breath.
“For your brother’s arrest?” Wilson supplied helpfully.
“Yes, master.”
Wilson turned back to look at Peter with an appraising eye.
“What’d you get him for?”
“Bond forgery,” Peter answered. Wilson snorted.
“He always was careless,” the mercenary said, finally releasing his grip on the younger man to pick up his beer and take a drink. He set it down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. Neal—not Neal, Neal’s brother—grimaced. Peter felt the sudden need to defend his CI.
“He’s not careless,” Peter snapped.
“Oh?” Wilson raised an eyebrow and Peter resisted the urge to curse; that had been a trap and Peter walked right into it, “Then I suppose you must be very good at your job.”
Peter ground his teeth.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Wilson only grinned in response.
“It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you, Agent Burke,” he held out his hand for Peter to shake, “Slade Wilson.”
There was no way to avoid the handshake without snubbing a very dangerous man but that didn’t mean Peter had to play dumb.
“I’m aware.”
Neal’s brother had gone even more still and was staring at a spot on the far wall without moving. If it wasn’t for the tense rise and fall of his chest, he could’ve been a statue. The likeness only increased as Deathstroke tangled his fingers in the man’s dark curls.
“Allow me to introduce you to my apprentice, Renegade.”
Shock. That was the only emotion Peter was capable of feeling. Renegade—the infamous mercenary wanted in nearly as many countries as his boss— was Neal’s brother. Neal’s twin brother.
Well that certainly answered the question of why Neal had never mentioned having a brother at all. And the conman’s distaste for guns, violence and blood made even more sense given that his twin was a ruthless killer.
Peter had a million questions and that all ground to an abrupt halt when he realized that he was sitting across from two of the deadliest men on the entire planet with no escape routes or backup plan. The rest of his team waiting in the van might as well have been a million miles away for all the good they’d be able to do.
“Tell me, Agent Burke, how exactly did ‘Neal,’” Peter did not like the fact that Wilson punctuated his CI’s name with air-quotes. Tonight had confirmed all Peter’s suspicions about the backstory they’d dug up on Neal being a complete pile of horse shit and the idea that Deathstroke the Terminator might have had something to do with that made Peter sick, “end up as your informant?”
Peter tried not to let himself think about the danger he was in.
“That information is not available to the public.”
“Well it’s certainly a good thing that the public isn’t asking,” Wilson dragged a hand through Renegade’s hair and tugged sharply. Peter winced; the only reason the mercenary was putting his hands all over his apprentice was to make Peter uncomfortable, but knowing that wasn’t enough to get rid of the anxious nausea rising in his stomach at the sight. It wasn’t Neal sitting across from him. It was Deathstroke’s apprentice of the last nine years, a man who presumably had his reasons to work for a coldblooded killer. But he looked like Neal and even if he didn’t mind Wilson touching him, it was clear as day that he didn’t want his boss touching him in front of Peter.
“I presume it has something to do with those bonds you mentioned,” Deathstroke prompted when Peter still hadn’t answered.
“We hit a dead end on a case we were building against the Dutchman,” Peter said carefully, “Neal was able to provide us with information that led to a suspect, and then to the arrest itself. It was clear that his knowledge and insights were valuable and we made that arrangement permanent.”
“The Dutchman was arrested two years ago,” Wilson mused. Peter didn’t bother asking how he knew that. Renegade shifted uncomfortably but Deathstroke’s grip didn’t let him move very far.
“Master—” Renegade began.
“It’s clear there are some things you neglected to mention,” Wilson warned his apprentice sharply. Renegade’s face was as blank as stone and Peter had no idea what that meant.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not,” Deathstroke said, almost fondly, “But I’ll deal with you later.”
He released his grip and Renegade sagged into the booth, letting out a sharp breath as Wilson turned his attention back to Peter.
“And as for you, Agent Burke… I’m sure you didn’t just come here for a drink. So, who exactly did you hope to find tonight?” Wilson asked casually, lacing his fingers together.
Peter hesitated.
“A merc by the name of Brockovich.”
Wilson hummed.
“I know of him,” the mercenary nodded.
“The FBI is not asking you to get involved—”
Deathstroke held up a hand to cut Peter off and Peter’s mouth shut itself with a click.
“Agent Burke. It’s clear you care a great deal for Neal, which practically makes you family. And it’s so rare that Renegade gets a chance to do anything for his family.”
There was an ominous pause and Peter did not miss the way Renegade’s face turned a faint shade of green. Neal was clearly a sore spot for his brother and Peter did not like the way Deathstroke was flaunting his apprentice’s discomfort.
“We’d be more than happy to facilitate a meeting for you,” Wilson finished.
“On one condition,” Renegade spoke up suddenly, his voice hoarse. He snuck a glance at Wilson, who merely raised an eyebrow at him in what must have been permission, because the younger mercenary continued, “Whatever the case is, leave Neal out of it.”
Peter swallowed.
“I can’t promise you that,” he said, trying his best to straddle the line between not pissing off the deadly mercenaries offering him a break on his case and staying realistic, “Neal has… your brother has a way of worming his way into cases I wish he wouldn’t.”
“After all this time, it’s no surprise he lacks discipline,” Wilson hummed, passing Renegade a cellphone absently, “Handle it, little bird.”
“Yes master,” Renegade answered. He flipped the phone open and dialed a number.
“Stay where you are,” the mercenary ordered as soon as the call connected. Peter could imagine the indignant fury in his CI’s voice and Renegade’s mouth tightened into a thin line in response to whatever Neal said, “Yes, I can. If you go anywhere, we’ll know.”
There was a pause.
“Just until we leave town.”
Renegade’s eyes flicked up to Peter’s face, then over to Deathstroke’s impassive stare.
“Your handler is fine. And he’ll stay that way as long as you stay put.”
Renegade ended the call and nodded at Deathstroke. Wilson smirked.
Peter’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he jumped at the sudden, unexpected motion. He pulled it out and caller ID told him it was Neal. Peter frowned but made no move to answer it, not with the way Deathstroke and his apprentice were watching him.
“Alright. Neal stays out of it. Are we done here?” Peter asked, proud of himself for getting the words out without letting his voice shake.
“Nearly,” Wilson answered. He put a hand on Renegade’s neck and squeezed before manhandling the younger man onto his lap. Renegade closed his eyes and leaned pliantly into the kiss and Peter looked away sharply; his stomach wasn’t strong enough to handle the sight of that because as much as it disgusted him to see how blatantly Wilson was flaunting his control over his apprentice, Peter wasn’t stupid enough try and get in his way. When Wilson finally pulled Renegade’s mouth away with an iron grip in the young man’s hair, he shoved him out of the booth.
“Go find our friend,” Wilson ordered and Renegade nodded, smoothly landing on his feet like being manhandled and tossed around by the deadliest man on the planet was a routine occurrence. Probably because it was, Peter realized with growing unease.
Deathstroke leaned back in the booth, his one eye fixed on Renegade’s retreating form as he disappeared into the backroom of the bar. Peter took a deep breath and tapped the table with a pointed finger, drawing the mercenary’s attention back to him.
“What exactly is your help going to cost us? I know how men like you operate, Wilson, everything you do comes with a price tag.”
Wilson smirked.
“Well, you’re right about that. But in this case, it’s simply a matter of cultivating a bit of good will.”
“Good will,” Peter repeated dubiously, “Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”
Of all the reactions the mercenary could have to that, Peter wasn’t expecting him to laugh.
“My mistake, Agent Burke. I’m afraid I wasn’t referring to the Bureau.”
Peter swallowed a mouthful stale air.
“Is this about Renegade then?” Peter asked quietly. Wilson didn’t answer, but the gleam in his eye seemed to sharpen. Peter’s mind spun, his brain choosing that moment to supply him with a few of the things the mercenary had said during their earlier conversation.
Neal? Is that what he’s going by these days?
It seems there’s some things you’ve been keeping from me, little bird.
It’s so rare that Renegade has a chance to do anything for his family.
“It’s about Neal,” Peter realized with quickly blooming horror. His heart raced in his chest and suddenly he was a lot more worried about the likelihood of having a heart attack right here and now, “You’ve been looking for him.”
Wilson grinned like a shark, baring enough of his teeth that Peter nearly reached for his concealed gun—for all the good that would do him.
“My apprentice hid him from me.”
“You can’t have him,” Peter snarled, “I won’t let you go anywhere near him.”
“You misunderstand me. Neal isn’t the one I want. He’s only the means to an end.”
“I swear to god Wilson, if you so much as touch one hair on his head, you will find out exactly how good I am at catching people who think they’re untouchable.”
Wilson smirked.
“You may want to answer that.”
Peter jumped as his phone rang. Caller ID showed that it was Neal again. Not taking his eyes off Deathstroke, Peter flipped open his phone.
“Peter! Are you okay? Where are you?!” Neal burst out the instant he picked up.
“I’m fine, Neal,” Peter responded calmly.
“Is he there with you?!”
Peter didn’t answer.
“Peter!”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Listen to me, please. Do not antagonize him. Whatever he wants, just go along with it, okay?”
“I’m not going to let him—”
“Please.”
Neal’s voice had a ragged, frantic edge to it that stopped Peter cold.
“He doesn’t care about you, nothing about this has anything to do with you. You need to—” Neal cut off with a deep breath, “I need you to do whatever he says so you get through this in one piece, okay?”
Anything that Peter might have said in response to that was killed by the weight of Wilson’s stare. He took Neal’s desperation rattling around inside his chest, the chill that ran up his spine from hearing honest-to-god fear in his unflappable CI’s voice, and the iron grip on his lungs from “I need you” and shoved them all down as deep as he could.
“I need to go, Neal. Everything will be fine.”
“Peter! Peter! Wait, Peter, don’t hang up—”
Peter swallowed the lump in his throat as he put his phone away.
“Give me one reason that I don’t arrest you on the spot,” Peter ground out through clenched teeth, so furious that he had to dig his fingernails into his palms to hold himself together.
“On what grounds?” Wilson didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.
“On what— you’re the FBI’s most wanted—”
“Are you sure about that?” Wilson casually took another drink of his beer, “The last I checked, you needed a warrant to arrest someone, or at the very least, probable cause. Neither of which you have. I’d suggest you make certain of what you’re about to do before you cause an unfortunate scene.”
Peter scowled, but he unmuted his microphone.
“Jones.”
“Yeah boss?” Jones asked immediately.
“Tell me that Slade Wilson is still on the most wanted list.”
He heard Diana gasp and Jones let out a hiss of surprise.
“What the hell is going on in there?!” Griffin demanded.
“The list,” Peter repeated sharply.
“Of course he is,” Jones answered, too fast for him to have actually verified it, “The man’s wanted on hundreds of first degree charges and suspected in dozens of high profile—”
“Look at the list and tell me.”
There was clicking as Jones typed into his keyboard. Peter didn’t breathe and the smirk never left Wilson’s face.
“What the hell?” Jones muttered. Peter’s stomach dropped through the floor.
“That can’t be right,” Griffin sounded entirely dumbfounded and Peter’s heart was pounding so fast it hurt.
“I’m putting in a call, that has to be a mistake.”
“Any active warrants?” Peter demanded sharply, “Suspicious activities?”
There was only silence on the other end of the line.
“Is there anything.”
Wilson snorted, casually finishing off his beer and reaching for the one Renegade had abandoned.
“Burke, there’s nothing. FBI, CIA, Homeland security is all clean, hell, not even Interpol wants him anymore.”
Peter could only stare.
“Problem?” Wilson asked.
“What did you do? How did you…”
Peter took a deep breath to steel himself. Wilson was the best for a reason and it wasn’t because the man left things to chance. Attempting to take him on now would just spell disaster. Both for Peter and for Neal and he couldn’t risk anything happening to his CI. Especially not before he had a chance to confront Neal about this whole shitshow and figure out exactly how he fit into the twisted dance between Deathstroke and his apprentice.
Peter exhaled sharply.
“This isn’t over,” he promised Deathstroke.
“You’re clearly a very sharp man, Agent Burke. It’s gratifying to see that Neal is at least surrounding himself with people of quality,” Wilson smirked, swirling the bottle of beer in his hand, “We all stand to gain something tonight, why rock the boat?”
Renegade returned before Peter could answer that, a very familiar face following behind him. Deathstroke ignored his apprentice and angled himself to acknowledge the new arrival.
“Brockovich,” Wilson greeted with no trace of the mockery filling his voice only seconds before.
“Wilson. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Tristan Laguerre; he’s been having trouble with competition on a recent investment and he’s interested in the services you can provide.”
Peter made a point not to think about how the mercenary had known the cover name he’d used to enter the bar and Brockovich regarded Peter with hostility but not suspicion. Wilson’s introduction apparently carried more weight than the best of cover stories.
“I’m busy these days,” the mercenary finally answered. Wilson met his gaze calmly.
“I’ll consider it a personal favor,” Deathstroke promised and Peter fought back a flinch. Especially when the hesitation in Brockovich’s stance was replaced with sharp interest, “Tristan is an old friend.”
Peter could see the greed churning in the mercenary’s eyes as he considered exactly what he could do with a personal favor from Slade Wilson himself.
“Well, rest assured that your friend is in good hands.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Wilson smirked at Peter and pushed himself up and out of the booth. Renegade immediately fell in at his boss’s side, pointedly not looking at Peter. Brockovich shook the hand Wilson offered and Peter used the moment of distraction to turn his hidden microphone back on. Going toe-to-toe with Slade Wilson was not worth this case by any stretch of the imagination but he had a private audience with Brockovich and he was not going to waste this opportunity. Brockovich was going down. So was his mysterious employer. And after that, Peter was going to figure out what in the name of god Deathstroke wanted with Neal Caffrey.
Wilson turned to leave. Then he paused.
“Tristan, we’ll be in town a few more days. I’ll make sure we have a chance to catch up before we go,” The last words were directed straight at Renegade, “It really has been too long.”