Chapter 13: The Mob and The Rat
The maintenance shed at 2200 hours smelled like motor oil and old paint. April 20th. Twenty-seven days until Lincoln's execution.
Abruzzi stood in the center like he owned the place, flanked by two of his guys. Michael and I faced him from the opposite side. Sucre guarded the door.
"Let's talk business," Abruzzi said. No preamble. No pleasantries. "You're planning a break. I want in."
Michael's posture was perfect—relaxed but ready. "What makes you think that?"
"Don't insult my intelligence, Fish. You got yourself arrested on purpose. The magician here knows way too much. You've been meeting in corners, whispering like little girls." Abruzzi's smile showed teeth. "I've been running operations for twenty years. I know what planning looks like."
I studied him while he talked. Cold reading came automatically now—the way he held himself, the microexpressions, the tells.
Genuine mob connections. Absolutely ruthless. Would kill without hesitation. But honorable within his code—deals made were deals kept, as long as you kept yours.
And desperate. That was the key. His Fibonacci obsession drove everything.
"What do you bring to the table?" Michael asked.
"Transportation. Safe houses across three states. Money—clean money, already laundered. Connections to people who can make IDs, passports, whatever you need." Abruzzi stepped closer. "You need me, Fish. You just don't know it yet."
"And what do you want?"
"Fibonacci's location. The witness who put me in here. You give me that, I give you everything."
Michael's face was stone. "I don't have that information."
"But you can get it. I know who you are, Scofield. Structural engineer. Smart kid. You've got resources outside. Girlfriend who's a doctor, right? She can access databases, make calls, dig where I can't."
He's done his homework. Dangerous.
"Even if I could get the information," Michael said carefully, "how do I know you won't kill him the moment we're out and leave us hanging?"
"Because I'm a man of my word. You give me Fibonacci, I give you safe passage. We both get what we want."
"He'll kill Fibonacci," I said quietly. "The moment he has the location, Fibonacci's dead. That's non-negotiable."
Abruzzi's eyes shifted to me. "The magician speaks."
"Just stating facts. You're going to torture and kill Otto Fibonacci. That's your right—he betrayed you. But we need to be clear about timelines. You get the information when we're safely away, not before."
"And if I don't agree?"
"Then you turn us in and nobody gets out. You die in here, never getting your revenge. We die in here, Lincoln dies on schedule. Everybody loses." I held his gaze. "Or you take the deal. Wait a few extra days for your vengeance. And we all walk away."
Abruzzi processed that. Behind him, his crew shifted—waiting for the signal to get violent or stand down.
"Smart kid," Abruzzi said finally. "Okay. I wait. But the moment we're clear of the state, I get coordinates. No delays. No excuses."
"Agreed," Michael said.
They shook hands. The deal was made.
ABRUZZI'S POV
John Abruzzi walked back to his cell, mind already working through logistics.
The Fish was smart. The magician was dangerous. Together, they might actually pull this off.
And when they did, Abruzzi would have Fibonacci's location. Would find that rat bastard who'd testified against him. Would make him pay for every day Abruzzi had spent in this cage.
The thought made him smile.
Twenty-seven days. Then freedom. Then revenge.
Patience, he told himself. You've waited this long. A few more weeks won't kill you.
But Fibonacci? Fibonacci wouldn't be so lucky.
DANIEL'S POV
Breakfast the next morning. April 21st. I sat with Sucre, picking at eggs that tasted like rubber, when I noticed him.
Manche Sanchez. Small, rat-faced, constantly scanning the room. He was watching our table. Watching Michael's table. Counting who ate together, who talked to whom.
Informant. Building a case to sell to Bellick.
"Sucre," I said quietly. "Don't look, but Manche's been watching us for three days now."
Sucre froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. "The snitch?"
"Yeah. He's noticed we're meeting with Michael and Abruzzi. Probably thinks there's something worth reporting."
"What do we do?"
"We handle it."
That night, I waited until 0200. Used the cell key to slip out during guard rotation. Low Presence Zone activated—thirty seconds of invisibility, just enough.
Manche's cell was on B-Block. I moved through the blind spots, silent as smoke.
His stash was hidden in his mattress—contraband cigarettes, a shank made from a filed-down spoon, pills he'd been hoarding. Amateur hour. Any CO with half a brain could find it.
I pocketed the cigarettes and shank. Left the pills—those could be prescription. Then I accessed the guard station phone during Patterson's bathroom break, dialed anonymously.
"Anonymous tip. B-Block, Cell 17. Contraband. Check the mattress."
Hung up before they could trace it.
By 0600, Bellick was tearing Manche's cell apart.
The contraband tumbled out—cigarettes, shank. Manche screaming he'd been set up. Bellick didn't care.
"Three days in the SHU," Bellick announced. "Maybe that'll teach you not to be stupid."
They dragged Manche away.
I watched from my cell door during morning count, face carefully neutral.
Three days without his eyes on us. Three days to solidify the plan before he comes back.
Worth the headache from the power use.
T-BAG'S POV
Theodore Bagwell sat in his cell, staring at the wall, paranoia eating him alive.
The ghost was real. Had to be real. Shoes vanishing. His contraband stolen. Now the magician and that Fish were meeting with Abruzzi, whispering in corners.
They're planning something. Something big.
T-Bag called over his cellmate. "You been watching them like I said?"
"Yeah, boss. The magician, the Fish, the spic. They meet up regular. Sometimes the old man Westmoreland joins them."
"What they talking about?"
"Can't hear. But they're real careful about who's around."
T-Bag's smile stretched wide. "They're planning a break. Has to be. Why else would Abruzzi get involved?"
"You gonna tell Bellick?"
"Hell no." T-Bag's eyes gleamed. "I'm gonna watch. And when they make their move, I'm gonna make sure I'm part of it. One way or another."
DANIEL'S POV
I caught T-Bag's crew member watching us in the yard that afternoon. Young guy, twitchy, trying too hard to look casual.
I walked over, friendly smile plastered on. "Hey, you're with T-Bag's crew, right?"
He tensed. "Maybe. What's it to you?"
"Tell him he's wasting his time. We're just playing poker. Friendly games, nothing serious." I leaned in, lowered my voice. "Between you and me? I think T-Bag's getting paranoid. All those pranks got to him. Seeing conspiracies where there's just cards and bullshit."
"I'll tell him."
"You do that."
I walked away, planting the seed. T-Bag would hear "poker games" and waste time investigating gambling operations instead of escape plans.
Misdirection. Classic magic.
That evening, I found another opportunity. T-Bag's shoes—left outside his cell to air out—were easy targets.
I waited until the evening guard rotation, activated Low Presence Zone for fifteen seconds. Grabbed the shoes, carried them to the workshop, used the nail gun to secure them to a wooden board.
Thirty minutes later, T-Bag discovered his shoes literally nailed down.
The entire cellblock heard his screaming.
Inmates laughed. Guards shook their heads. The "ghost" rumors intensified.
And T-Bag's paranoia spiraled higher.
Sucre found me in the common area afterward. "Man, you're evil."
I shuffled my cards, grinning. "I prefer 'strategically mischievous.'"
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael lay in his bunk that night, listening to Sucre snore, thinking about the expanding crew.
Abruzzi was in—dangerous but necessary. Westmoreland was considering it—useful for money and experience. Sucre was already committed. Daniel was the wildcard who somehow kept landing exactly right.
But the crew was getting big. Bigger than Michael had initially planned. More people meant more variables, more chances for betrayal or mistakes.
Six people. Maybe seven if C-Note figures it out.
Too many. But also necessary. Each person brought critical skills or resources.
Abruzzi: transportation and money. Westmoreland: escape funds and experience. Sucre: muscle and loyalty. Daniel: intelligence and skills. Lincoln: the reason for everything.
And Michael himself: the plan.
We can do this. We have to do this.
Twenty-seven days.
DANIEL'S POV
The next day, Abruzzi cornered Michael during yard time.
"I need PI access," he said without preamble. "If I'm providing transportation, I need to coordinate with my people outside. Can't do that locked in my cell all day."
"I'm working on it," Michael said.
"Work faster, Fish. Time's not on our side."
Abruzzi walked away.
Michael turned to me, frustration clear in his eyes. "PI work detail. That's the next phase. I need infirmary access, Abruzzi needs outside communication. Both require PI."
"So we make it happen."
"How?"
I thought about it. "You cause problems. Get reassigned as punishment. Abruzzi uses his connections to smooth the assignment. I provide intelligence on guard schedules and optimal timing."
"Bellick will be suspicious."
"Bellick's always suspicious. But if we make it look like punishment, he'll enjoy it too much to question it."
Michael nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll start tomorrow."
That night, I ran one more prank on T-Bag. Small this time—his commissary items rearranged into a pentagram pattern. Occult imagery. Feeding the "ghost" narrative.
T-Bag's crew found it during evening count. T-Bag went white.
"It's a warning," I heard him mutter. "The ghost is warning me."
Perfect. Keep him distracted. Keep him scared. Keep him looking the wrong direction.
The cards shuffled in my hands, muscle memory perfect.
Twenty-seven days until execution.
The pieces were moving faster now.
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