Chapter 21: The Final Day - Part 1
May 10th. Twenty-four hours until Lincoln Burrows' execution.
The morning count finished at 0630. I stood at my cell door, hands behind my back, watching Bellick walk the tier with his clipboard. His eyes lingered on every cell longer than usual.
Something was wrong.
"Attention all inmates," Bellick's voice crackled over the PA system at 0700. "Random cell inspections starting today. All cellblocks. No exceptions."
My stomach dropped.
Michael's tools—the makeshift drill bits, the chemical compounds, the rope fibers—were all hidden in his cell wall cavity. If Bellick found them, the escape was over before it started.
I found Michael in the chow hall ten minutes later. His face was pale, hands clenched around his breakfast tray.
"We're dead," he whispered.
"Not yet." My mind was already racing through options. "I can create a distraction. Big enough to pull every guard away from the cellblocks."
"How?"
"Trust me."
At 1000 hours, I walked into the yard and started setting up.
Cards. Coins. A makeshift stage area near the basketball court. I'd asked Pope's permission the day before—told him I wanted to do a special performance before Lincoln's execution, help ease tensions.
Pope had agreed. Thought it was humanitarian.
It was survival.
By 1030, I had a crowd. Fifty inmates, growing by the minute. Guards watching from the perimeter—Bellick among them, curious despite his suspicion.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, voice carrying across the yard. "Today I'm going to perform something special. Something impossible."
I started with cards. Complex shuffles, forces, reveals that made the crowd gasp. Built the energy, pulled more people in.
Guards were watching now. All of them. Even the ones supposed to be doing inspections.
Good. Keep watching.
At 1045, I escalated. Coin tricks that seemed to defy physics. Making objects appear and disappear. The crowd was eating it up, shouting for more.
And in A-Block, Sucre was moving.
I'd timed it perfectly. Bellick was in the yard watching my performance. The inspection team was distracted. Sucre had a three-minute window to access Michael's cell, relocate the tools to the backup hiding spot in the chapel wall.
But three minutes wasn't enough.
I activated Low Presence Zone.
The field spread out, encompassing the performance area. Not making myself invisible—making everyone forget to look away from me. Hyperfocused attention. Every guard, every inmate, locked on my performance while their peripheral awareness dulled.
One minute.
I performed an elaborate trick with three coins and a cup. The crowd roared. Guards leaned forward, trying to catch the secret.
In the background, Sucre moved through the blind spot between camera zones.
Two minutes.
The headache started building. Worse than before. Like someone driving spikes through my temples. But I kept performing, kept smiling, kept the field active.
Sucre reached the chapel. Tools hidden. Moving back.
Three minutes.
The field was straining. My vision blurred at the edges. Blood trickled from my nose—I wiped it away quickly, made it part of the performance. "Magic always costs something!"
The crowd laughed.
Four minutes.
Sucre was clear. Back in position. Safe.
I dropped the field.
The pain exploded. My knees buckled. I caught myself on the makeshift table, played it off as dramatic flourish.
"Thank you! You've been a wonderful audience!"
Applause. Cheers. Guards clapping.
Bellick was studying me, eyes narrow. But he couldn't prove anything.
I stumbled toward the bathroom, vision swimming. Made it inside, collapsed against the wall.
Blood from my nose. Pounding head. The taste of copper.
Two minutes. New record. And it nearly killed me.
But the tools were safe.
SUCRE'S POV
Fernando Sucre pressed his back against the chapel wall, breathing hard, heart hammering.
He'd done it. Relocated all of Michael's tools—the drill bits hidden in a hollowed-out prayer book, the chemicals tucked behind the altar cross, the rope coiled inside a vent shaft.
Three minutes while Danny performed miracles in the yard. Three minutes while every guard watched the magic show.
How does he do that? How does he make everyone look exactly where he wants?
Sucre didn't know. Didn't care. It worked.
He slipped back to his cell just as the guards resumed inspections.
When Bellick reached Cell 40, he found nothing. Just two inmates and standard prison issue.
"Lucky," Bellick muttered, moving on.
Sucre exhaled for what felt like the first time in an hour.
Thank you, God. Thank you, Danny.
DANIEL'S POV
At 1300, they brought Lincoln out for execution preparation processing.
Standard procedure. Final measurements for the restraints. Medical check. Psychological evaluation. Last rites if he wanted them.
The crew had a brief window while he was being transported. I found him in the corridor between cellblocks, two guards escorting him.
"Lincoln."
He stopped. The guards didn't object—I was harmless, just the magician saying goodbye.
"Tomorrow night," I said quietly. "Be ready to move when Michael signals."
Lincoln's jaw tightened. "If this doesn't work—"
"It will."
"But if it doesn't—"
"Then you fought till the end. You didn't give up. That matters." I met his eyes. "Your son will know you never stopped trying."
Lincoln's voice went rough. "Take care of my brother if—"
"I will. But I won't need to. Because this is going to work."
He clasped my shoulder. His hand was shaking. "Thank you, Danny. For everything."
"Thank Michael. This is his plan. I'm just helping execute it."
"No. You're the reason it might actually work. You're the one who sees everything, prevents problems before they happen, keeps us all alive." Lincoln's eyes were wet. "Thank you."
The guards pulled him away. I watched him disappear down the corridor.
Twenty-four hours. Then he's either free or dead.
At 1500, the emergency message came through.
Mail call. Letter from Veronica, marked urgent.
I opened it in my cell.
Danny,
I found it. Everything. Documents proving the conspiracy. Names, dates, money trails. Vice President Reynolds, Secret Service operatives, Company infrastructure. All of it.
But they know. Kellerman approached me again this morning. Said I should "reconsider my investigation for my own safety." He knows I have the evidence.
I'm going underground. Staying with a friend they can't trace. Tomorrow I have one final meeting with a federal judge—if I can get this evidence in front of someone outside their control, it might be enough.
But Danny, if they find me before then...
Be careful tomorrow. Whatever you're planning, be smart. I need you alive.
V
I read it three times, committing every word to memory.
She's in danger. Real danger. And tomorrow when we escape, the Company will panic. They'll hunt everyone connected to Lincoln.
Including Veronica.
I pulled out paper and wrote fast.
Veronica,
Stay hidden. When we move tomorrow, they'll be distracted. Every Company resource will focus on recapture. Use that window. Get the evidence to your judge. Expose everything.
After this is over, I'm coming to find you. We're going to have that conversation. The one about dinner and existing outside of all this chaos.
Stay alive. I've got plans that require you in them.
Danny
I sealed it, sent it with the evening mail.
Tomorrow. Everything happens tomorrow.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael sat in his cell at 1600, reviewing his mental checklist.
Tools: relocated and safe. Crew: briefed and ready. Transportation: confirmed by Abruzzi. Timeline: execution at 2000 hours, riot cover at 1945, escape window at 2000-2015. Route: infirmary to bolt hole to utility tunnels to exterior wall.
Everything was ready.
But the margin for error was zero.
One guard in the wrong place. One inmate snitching at the wrong time. One tool breaking at the wrong moment.
Any of it could doom them all.
"You okay, man?" Sucre asked from the top bunk.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About tomorrow?"
"About everything."
Sucre was quiet for a moment. "We're really doing this, huh? Breaking out of Fox River. Saving your brother. Going on the run."
"Yeah."
"Cool." A pause. "Also terrifying."
"Also terrifying," Michael agreed.
DANIEL'S POV
That afternoon, I found Westmoreland in the yard. He was sitting alone, staring at nothing.
"You okay, Charles?"
He looked up. His face was gray, skin stretched tight over bone. "Getting old, kid. Getting tired."
"One more day. Then you're free. Then you find Robin."
"If I make it that long." He coughed—wet, painful. "This body's giving out."
"Then let's make sure your last act is a good one. D.B. Cooper's final flight." I sat beside him. "Robin deserves to know her father loved her. That you never forgot."
Westmoreland smiled weakly. "You're a good kid, Danny. Don't let this place make you hard."
"Too late for that."
"No. Not yet. You still care. I can see it. The way you protect Michael, help Sucre, even tolerate T-Bag." He gripped my arm. "Don't lose that. Promise me."
"I promise."
"Good." He released me. "Now get out of here. Go make sure everything's ready for tomorrow."
I left him there, staring at the sky, probably thinking about his daughter.
One more day, Charles. Just hold on one more day.
T-BAG'S POV
Theodore Bagwell watched the magician walk away from Westmoreland, smile spreading across his face.
Tomorrow. Freedom tomorrow.
And once they were out, once they were clear of the prison, T-Bag would make his move.
The magician thought he could control him. Scofield thought he could give orders.
Fools. All fools.
T-Bag would take what he wanted. The Cooper money. His freedom. Maybe even some payback for all those humiliations.
One more day playing nice. Then the real Theodore Bagwell comes out to play.
DANIEL'S POV
As afternoon shifted toward evening, I lay in my cell with the worst headache of my life.
Two minutes of Low Presence Zone had broken something inside me. The power was there, stronger than ever, but the cost was escalating.
Can't use it again. Not until I've recovered. Not unless there's absolutely no choice.
Above me, Raul snored. Across the prison, seven men prepared for the most dangerous night of their lives.
Michael reviewing calculations. Lincoln writing final letters. Sucre praying for Maricruz. Abruzzi sharpening weapons. C-Note looking at family pictures. T-Bag planning betrayals. Westmoreland remembering his daughter.
And me, lying in darkness with blood crusting under my nose and my head trying to split open, organizing everything one final time in my mind palace.
Tomorrow. Execution day. Escape day.
Everything or nothing.
My hands found the cards automatically. Started shuffling despite the pain.
Muscle memory. Rhythm. Preparation.
Tomorrow would be chaos. Would be violence. Would be the culmination of everything we'd built.
We can do this.
We have to do this.
Because twenty-four hours from now, we're either free or we're dead.
No middle ground remained.
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