Chapter 23: Execution Day - Part 1
May 11th, 2005. 0600 hours.
The morning count felt different. Heavier. Every inmate standing at their cell door knew what day it was. Execution day.
Lincoln Burrows would die at 2000 hours.
Unless we pulled off the impossible.
I stood at my door, hands behind my back, watching the COs walk the tier. My head still pounded from yesterday's power overuse. Two minutes of Low Presence Zone had left me with a migraine that wouldn't quit and a nosebleed that kept recurring.
Can't use the powers again. Not unless absolutely necessary. One more push might break something permanently.
Across the tier, Michael stood at his door, face carefully neutral. But I could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the bars too tight.
Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours until everything changes.
At 0800, they moved Lincoln to death row holding.
Final preparation. Last meal. Spiritual counsel if he wanted it. The administrative machinery of state-sanctioned murder grinding into motion.
Michael was granted a thirty-minute visit at 0900.
I watched from the common area as Michael walked toward death row, escorted by two guards. His steps were measured, controlled, but his hands shook.
He's terrified. Not of the escape. Of failing. Of watching his brother die.
Thirty minutes later, Michael returned. His face was pale, eyes red.
He walked past me without acknowledgment, heading straight for his cell.
I gave him five minutes, then followed.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael sat on his bunk, head in his hands, trying not to fall apart.
Lincoln had been calm. Too calm. Resigned. Like he'd already accepted death.
"Michael," Lincoln had said. "If this doesn't work—"
"It will work."
"But if it doesn't. If I die tonight. I need you to know—you did everything you could. More than anyone could ask. I'm proud of you, little brother."
Michael had wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him. Wanted to promise with absolute certainty that Lincoln would live.
But he couldn't. Because certainty didn't exist. Not here. Not now.
Footsteps in the corridor. Someone at his cell door.
"Michael?"
Danny's voice. Quiet. Concerned.
Michael didn't look up. "I can't do this."
"Yes, you can."
"What if I fail? What if he dies because I wasn't smart enough?"
Danny entered the cell, sat beside him. "He knows you tried everything. Whatever happens tonight, you gave him hope. That's enough."
"It's not enough. Hope doesn't save him. The escape saves him."
"Then we execute the escape. Like we planned. Like we've prepared for." Danny's hand gripped his shoulder. "You've done everything right, Michael. Every calculation, every contingency, every detail. Lincoln's alive because of you. And tonight, he stays alive because of you."
Michael looked up. "How can you be sure?"
"Because I've watched you work. I've memorized your plan. I've seen how brilliant you are." Danny's voice was firm. "We're going to pull this off. Together."
Michael wanted to believe him.
Fourteen hours.
DANIEL'S POV
At 1100, during yard time, Westmoreland collapsed.
One second he was walking toward the chess tables. The next, he was on the ground, gasping.
Inmates backed away. Guards rushed in.
Dr. Tancredi arrived within minutes. "Get him to the infirmary. Now."
They carried Westmoreland away on a stretcher. His face was gray, lips blue, breathing shallow.
I found Michael in the crowd. Our eyes met.
Catastrophic. Westmoreland needs to be mobile for the escape.
An hour later, I faked a minor injury to get infirmary access. Claimed I'd twisted my ankle during basketball.
Sara examined me with professional efficiency. "It's fine. Just bruised."
"Thanks, Doc. Hey, how's Westmoreland?"
Her expression tightened. "That's confidential patient information."
"Come on. Everyone's worried about him. Just tell me if he's okay."
Sara glanced toward the back room where Westmoreland was resting. "He's stable. But his condition is serious. I recommended he stay overnight for observation."
Overnight. That's a problem.
"Will he be mobile? Can he walk?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because he's old. And fragile. And if something happens tonight during the execution chaos, I want to know if he can get himself to safety."
Sara studied me. Reading the subtext. "He insisted on being discharged by this evening. Against medical advice. He says he has somewhere important to be."
He's coming. Even if it kills him.
"Thanks, Doc."
I left the infirmary and found the crew during afternoon rec time. Gathered them in a corner where cameras didn't reach.
"Westmoreland's dying," I said quietly. "Lung cancer, maybe stage four. He collapsed this morning. He's in the infirmary now but insists on being discharged by tonight."
"Can he make the escape?" C-Note asked.
"He'll try. But he's going to slow us down."
Michael's jaw tightened. "Then we account for it. Move slower. Help him."
"That increases exposure time. Makes us more vulnerable."
"We're not leaving him behind." Michael's voice was final. "He's crew. We all make it or none of us do."
I nodded. "Then we plan for him being our weakest link. C-Note, you and Sucre support him during the tunnel crawl. Abruzzi and I handle point and rear security. Michael leads."
"And T-Bag?" Abruzzi asked.
We all looked at T-Bag, who was watching from twenty feet away, predatory smile on his face.
"T-Bag stays in the middle where we can watch him," I said.
WESTMORELAND'S POV
Charles Westmoreland lay on the infirmary bed, staring at the ceiling, counting his breaths.
Each one hurt. Each one reminded him his body was giving out.
One more night. Just hold on one more night.
Robin's face floated in his memory. His baby girl. Now a grown woman he'd never met.
The money's for you, sweetheart. D.B. Cooper's final gift.
Dr. Tancredi appeared at his bedside. "Mr. Westmoreland, I really think you should stay overnight."
"Can't, Doc. Got somewhere to be."
"Where could possibly be more important than your health?"
Westmoreland smiled. "Freedom."
DANIEL'S POV
At 1400, Haywire found me in the common area.
He appeared suddenly, like he'd materialized from nothing. His eyes were wild, pupils different sizes, hands trembling.
"The patterns," he whispered. "The patterns are screaming today."
I put down my cards. "Charles, you okay?"
"Everything's about to break. All the lines are converging. The spiral reaches its center tonight."
His broken mind sometimes sees true. Listen.
"What do you see?"
"You. Disappearing. Really disappearing. Not tricks. Not games. Real vanishing." His hand grabbed my arm. "But be careful. The man with dead eyes is watching. He sees the patterns too. Different patterns, but he sees."
My blood went cold. "Man with dead eyes?"
"Dead inside. Empty. Watching you. Hunting you." Haywire's grip tightened. "When you disappear, he'll know. He'll follow."
Bellick. Has to be Bellick.
"Thanks, Charles. I'll be careful."
Haywire released me, drifted away, muttering about spirals and convergence.
I filed the warning away carefully.
Bellick will be watching during the escape. Expecting something. We need to account for that.
The afternoon dragged with agonizing slowness.
1500 hours. Five hours until execution.
1600 hours. Four hours.
1700 hours. Three hours.
Every minute felt like an eternity. Every second carried the weight of what was coming.
I maintained my entertainer persona. Performed small card tricks in the common area. Joked with guards. Acted normal while my hands shook and my head pounded.
Michael was in PI work, making final modifications to the bolt hole access. His face was focused, controlled, but I could see the strain.
Sucre paced his cell, praying under his breath.
Abruzzi sharpened an improvised shank on his bunk, slow methodical movements.
C-Note stared at pictures of his family, whispering promises.
T-Bag smiled at everyone, planning violence.
Westmoreland rested in the infirmary, gathering strength for his last flight.
And Lincoln sat in death row holding, writing final letters to his son.
1800 hours. Two hours until execution.
The prison felt electric. Tense. Even inmates not involved in our plan sensed something coming.
Guards were on edge. Bellick walked the tiers constantly, eyes scanning, looking for anything out of place.
Six hours until freedom or death.
No middle ground remained.
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