Chapter 19: The Cell Block Incident
May 7th. Four days until Lincoln's execution.
The fight started at 1430 during afternoon rec time. Two inmates—one white supremacist, one Latin King—got into it over a card game. Accusations of cheating. Posturing. Threats.
Then fists.
Within thirty seconds, the entire common area erupted.
Inmates picked sides. Old grudges surfaced. The COs reached for batons but were outnumbered twenty to one.
"LOCKDOWN! LOCKDOWN!" Bellick's voice over the PA system.
But the cell doors were open. Inmates were already out. Complete chaos.
I was near the wall when it started, watching the whole thing unfold. Cold reading the body language, the positioning, the way certain inmates had positioned themselves before the first punch was thrown.
This wasn't spontaneous. Someone organized this.
Michael found me in the chaos. "We can use this cover to access areas normally watched."
"Yeah, but this wasn't random. Someone planned it. Be careful."
"Planned by who?"
"Don't know. But organized riots mean organized goals." I scanned the room. "Could be gang politics. Could be a distraction for something else."
Sucre appeared at Michael's elbow, breathing hard. "What do we do?"
"We use it," Michael decided. "Abruzzi's coordinating with his people. Westmoreland's securing the yard exit. We move now while the guards are distracted."
We pushed through the chaos. Fights everywhere. Guards trying to establish control. Pepper spray in the air making everyone's eyes water.
Michael led us toward the restricted corridor—the one that connected to the PI maintenance area. The one with the bolt hole access.
We were halfway there when I felt it.
Eyes on my back. Predatory. Calculating.
I turned.
T-Bag was following us, staying thirty feet back, using the chaos as cover.
Shit.
"We're being watched," I said quietly.
Michael didn't look back. "Who?"
"T-Bag. He's tracking us."
"Can you lose him?"
"Maybe. Give me thirty seconds."
I led them down a side corridor, turned a corner, activated Low Presence Zone.
The field spread out. Fifteen seconds. Just enough.
We pressed against the wall while T-Bag rounded the corner, looking for us. His eyes swept past without recognition. Confusion on his face.
"Where the hell—"
The headache started building. Pressure. Pain.
Twenty seconds.
T-Bag moved down the corridor, searching. We stayed frozen.
Twenty-five seconds.
He was getting farther away. Almost clear.
Thirty seconds.
I dropped the field.
The pain spiked. I bit down on my tongue to keep from crying out. Tasted copper.
Michael grabbed my arm. "You okay?"
"Fine. Move."
We got to the maintenance access. Michael quickly checked the bolt hole—making sure nothing had been disturbed since his last PI shift. Everything intact.
"Two more days," Michael whispered. "We just need two more days and this becomes our escape route."
Behind us, T-Bag's voice echoed through the corridors. "I know you're here somewhere, magician!"
T-BAG'S POV
Theodore Bagwell stood in the empty corridor, breathing hard, mind racing.
They'd been there. He'd seen them—Scofield, the spic, the magician. Moving with purpose through a riot while everyone else fought randomly.
Then they'd vanished. Completely. One second visible, the next gone like smoke.
The ghost. The fucking ghost is real.
T-Bag's hands shook. He'd thought it was pranks, tricks, smoke and mirrors. But you couldn't fake complete disappearance in an empty hallway.
Magic. Real magic. Or something else.
Whatever Scofield was planning, it was big. Big enough to risk moving during a riot. Big enough to need the magician's impossible skills.
I want in. I need in.
T-Bag smiled slowly.
And now I have leverage.
DANIEL'S POV
The riot was suppressed by 1600. Guards in full gear, pepper spray everywhere, batons swinging. Inmates subdued and locked down.
Bellick's voice over the PA: "Total lockdown. Twenty-four hours. Nobody leaves their cells."
I lay on my bunk, head pounding, listening to Raul breathe above me. The Low Presence Zone had cost me. Thirty seconds shouldn't have hurt this much, but I'd been overusing my powers all week.
Need to recover. Can't afford to be weakened now.
Across the tier, I heard Michael and Sucre talking quietly.
"He knows," Michael said. "T-Bag knows we're planning something."
"How much does he know?"
"Enough to be dangerous."
At 1800, during dinner tray delivery, T-Bag found a way.
He caught the attention of the CO delivering food, whispered something. Money changed hands—commissary vouchers, favors owed, whatever currency worked in here.
Five minutes later, T-Bag was standing outside my cell.
"We need to talk, magician."
I sat up. "About what?"
"About the fact that you've been playing games with me for weeks. About the fact that I just watched you disappear in an empty hallway. About the fact that you, Scofield, and your little crew are planning something big."
"You're paranoid."
"Am I?" T-Bag's smile was all teeth. "Then explain how three people vanish from a corridor with no exits. Explain why you're all moving toward restricted areas during a riot. Explain why the timeline matches Lincoln Burrows' execution."
My mind raced. Deny everything? He had no proof. But he also had enough circumstantial evidence to make Bellick investigate.
Different approach.
"You can know," I said quietly, "or you can profit. Choose."
T-Bag's eyebrows raised. "Profit?"
"When this goes down, you can either be on the inside or watching from solitary. What's it worth to you to keep quiet?"
"What's it worth for you to keep me quiet?"
"A seat at the table. When we move, you move with us. You follow the plan, you follow the rules, and you get out."
T-Bag considered this. "And if I don't agree?"
"Then you tell Bellick your theories. He investigates. Maybe he finds something, maybe he doesn't. But either way, you're still in Fox River when Lincoln gets executed. You're still in Fox River for the rest of your sentence. You're still trapped."
I let that sink in.
"Or you play ball. Keep your mouth shut. Do what you're told. And in four days, you're free."
T-Bag's smile widened. "I can work with that."
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael paced his cell, fury and frustration warring in his chest.
T-Bag. Theodore fucking Bagwell. Child molester. Serial killer. The last person on Earth Michael wanted on his escape crew.
But they had no choice.
"He knows," Michael said to Sucre. "If we don't bring him in, he turns us in."
"Can we trust him?"
"No. But we can manage him. Give him just enough information to feel included, not enough to sabotage us."
"And Danny's okay with this?"
Michael thought about Daniel's calm response to T-Bag's blackmail. The way he'd negotiated terms without flinching.
"Danny's always three steps ahead. If he thinks we can manage T-Bag, we probably can."
"You put a lot of faith in him, man."
"He's earned it." Michael stopped pacing. "We move in four days. T-Bag gets to come, but he follows our rules. The moment he steps out of line, we leave him behind."
"He won't like that."
"He doesn't have to like it. He just has to comply."
Above them, the lockdown announcement repeated. Twenty-four hours in cells. Twenty-four hours to plan, to prepare, to figure out how to manage a psychopath in their escape crew.
Four days until Lincoln died.
Four days until they broke out.
We can do this. We have to do this.
DANIEL'S POV
That night, lying in darkness with my head throbbing, I organized everything in my mind palace.
The crew was now six: Michael, Lincoln, Sucre, Abruzzi, Westmoreland, and T-Bag.
Six variables. Six sets of motivations. Six people who could betray each other at any moment.
This is going to be a disaster.
But it was also the only option. T-Bag had forced his way in. Excluding him meant discovery.
My hands shuffled cards in the darkness, muscle memory keeping rhythm despite the pain.
Four days.
Everything came down to four days.
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