Chapter 18: The Fibonacci Problem
May 4th. Seventeen days until Lincoln's execution.
Abruzzi found Michael during PI work, cornering him in the supply closet.
I was mopping the hallway outside, close enough to hear through the door.
"I've held up my end, Fish." Abruzzi's voice was dangerously quiet. "Transportation arranged. Money ready. Safe houses confirmed. Time for Fibonacci's location."
"Soon," Michael said. "I need to verify the information."
"Verify? You've had weeks. How long does verification take?"
"As long as it takes to be accurate. You want coordinates that lead nowhere?"
"I want coordinates that lead to Fibonacci. Now."
Through the gap in the door, I watched Abruzzi's body language. Tension in shoulders. Hands clenched. Patience at breaking point.
He's going to snap. We need to buy more time.
I pushed the door open, mopping my way inside. "Sorry, boss. Gotta clean the supply closet."
Abruzzi turned, murder in his eyes. "Get out."
"Can't. Guard rotation in five minutes. Bellick checks the closets. If it's not clean, I get written up." I kept mopping, playing oblivious inmate. "You guys can keep talking. I'm just cleaning."
Abruzzi looked ready to kill me. Michael caught my eye—understood what I was doing.
"We'll finish this later," Michael said to Abruzzi. "When we have privacy."
Abruzzi stormed out.
Michael let out a breath. "That was close."
"Too close. You need to give him something. Not Fibonacci, but something valuable enough to buy more time."
"Like what?"
"Partial coordinates. City and state, but not the specific address. Shows good faith without giving him everything."
Michael considered it. "That might work. For a week, maybe two."
"Two weeks gets us past Lincoln's execution. That's all we need."
ABRUZZI'S POV
John Abruzzi sat in his cell that evening, rage simmering.
The Fish was stalling. The magician was interfering. Both of them thought they could play him.
They don't know who they're dealing with.
Abruzzi had contacts outside. Resources. Power. He'd been patient, but patience had limits.
Tomorrow, he'd send a message. Show Scofield what happened when people didn't deliver.
Nothing fatal. Not yet. But enough to remind everyone who held the real power in this arrangement.
DANIEL'S POV
The "accident" happened during PI work the next day. May 5th.
Abruzzi was moving a heavy equipment cart. Michael was working nearby. The cart "slipped," rolling toward Michael with enough force to crush.
Michael jumped back. The cart crashed into the wall where he'd been standing.
"Oops," Abruzzi said. "My hand slipped."
I was across the room, but I saw the whole thing. Deliberate. Calculated. A warning.
Escalation. He's forcing Michael's hand.
I grabbed a mop bucket, carried it quickly across the floor, and "tripped." Water flooded everywhere, including all over my legs.
"Ah, fuck! Hot water!" I yelled, dropping to the ground. "Guard! I need medical!"
Dr. Tancredi came running. "What happened?"
"Burned my legs. Water was too hot in the bucket." I grimaced theatrically.
She helped me to the exam room. Once we were alone, she examined my legs.
"There's no burn," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Why—"
"Because Michael needed space. And I needed to talk to you." I met her eyes. "You're watching him. Michael. I can see it. The way you look at him when you think nobody's paying attention."
Sara's face flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. And it's dangerous. For both of you." I softened my voice. "He's a good man. In here for the wrong reasons. But getting involved with an inmate—that's career suicide for you and a distraction for him."
"I'm not involved—"
"Not yet. But you want to be. I can see it." I stood, testing my supposedly injured legs. "Just be careful. Both of you have too much to lose."
Sara stared at me. "You're protecting him."
"He's my friend. That's what friends do."
SARA'S POV
Sara Tancredi sat at her desk after Daniel left, hands shaking.
He'd seen through her. Completely. Read her attraction to Michael Scofield like it was written in neon letters.
I need to be more careful.
But the warning was kindly meant. Daniel wasn't threatening to expose her—he was protecting both her and Michael.
Who is Daniel Miller?
Not just a prisoner. Not just an entertainer. Something more. Someone who saw too much and cared too much and somehow made it all work.
She pulled Michael's file, stared at his picture.
This is wrong. He's an inmate. I'm his doctor. This can't happen.
But her heart didn't care about professional ethics.
DANIEL'S POV
That evening, the announcement came over the PA system.
"Lincoln Burrows. Execution date confirmed: May 11, 2025, at 2000 hours."
The prison went silent. Every inmate, every guard, everyone stopped what they were doing.
One week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
I found Michael in his cell. He was sitting on his bunk, staring at the wall, face pale.
"Michael—"
"One week." His voice was hollow. "We're not ready. The bolt hole isn't fully accessible. We don't have all the tools. Abruzzi's getting dangerous. C-Note's watching. T-Bag's suspicious. We're not—"
"We're ahead of schedule on infrastructure," I interrupted. "The bolt hole is accessible enough. Tools can be improvised. Abruzzi will cooperate because he needs Fibonacci. C-Note won't interfere—I'll make sure of it. T-Bag is isolated and paranoid."
"That's a lot of variables."
"Every plan has variables. That's why we adapt." I sat down across from him. "We knew this was coming. The execution date wasn't a surprise. Just a deadline."
"A deadline that ends with my brother dead if we fail."
"Then we don't fail."
Michael looked at me, searching for certainty I wasn't sure I felt.
"Can we really do this, Danny? In one week?"
I thought about everything we'd built. The crew. The tools. The intelligence. The connections. The contingencies.
"Yes," I said. "We can do this."
LINCOLN'S POV
Lincoln Burrows lay on his bunk in death row, staring at the ceiling.
One week.
Seven days until the state murdered him for a crime he didn't commit.
He thought about LJ. About Michael. About Veronica fighting for him from the outside.
About the magician kid who'd promised to help them both escape.
One week.
Lincoln closed his eyes and prayed for the first time in years.
DANIEL'S POV
The crew met that night in the maintenance shed. Michael, Sucre, me. Abruzzi sent word he'd join tomorrow after we gave him Fibonacci's partial coordinates.
"One week," Michael said. "Can we make it?"
Sucre looked terrified but determined. "For Maricruz? I'll make it work."
I pulled out the mental timeline I'd been organizing. "If we stay focused and nothing unexpected happens, yes. We accelerate the final prep. Get the tools in place. Confirm transportation. Brief everyone on timing."
"Something unexpected always happens," Michael said.
"Then we handle it. Like we've handled everything else."
From across the prison yard, through the shed window, I saw T-Bag watching our location. His crew was gone. He was alone. But his eyes were sharp, calculating.
He knows something's happening. He's waiting for his moment.
Abruzzi was in the distance, talking to his crew. Planning. Coordinating.
C-Note walked past, hands in pockets, observing everything.
The pieces were all moving. The timeline was accelerating. The pressure was building.
One week until Lincoln died.
One week to pull off the impossible.
My hands shuffled cards in my pockets, muscle memory keeping rhythm.
We can do this. We have to do this.
Because failure means Lincoln dies.
And I didn't come this far to watch an innocent man executed.
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