Chapter 24: Execution Day - Part 2
1500 hours. Five hours until execution.
T-Bag cornered me in the library.
"Magic man. We need to talk."
I kept reading, not looking up. "About what?"
"About that D.B. Cooper money everyone whispers about. About what happens after we get out." He leaned against the table. "What if I decide I want more than just escape?"
I finally looked up. Cold reading instantly: testing boundaries, looking for leverage, planning betrayal.
"Then you get left in a hole in the ground where no one will find you."
T-Bag's smile widened. "That a threat?"
"That's a promise. Test me."
We stared at each other. His eyes were empty. Predatory. But underneath, calculation. He was measuring whether I'd actually follow through.
I let him see the answer in my face.
Yes. I would. Without hesitation.
"You're serious," he said slowly.
"Completely. You want out? Follow the plan. The moment you deviate, the moment you threaten anyone in this crew, you're done." I stood, stepping closer. "And T-Bag? I know seventeen ways to kill someone with improvised prison materials. Want me to demonstrate?"
He backed down. First time I'd ever seen him genuinely intimidated.
"Message received, magician."
"Good. Now get out of my sight."
He left.
I sat back down, hands shaking. Not from fear. From the certainty that I'd meant every word.
When did I become capable of threatening murder?
When the stakes became life and death.
ABRUZZI'S POV
At 1600, John Abruzzi's cell phone—smuggled, hidden, worth more than gold in here—buzzed.
Text message from his outside contact: All set. Van at extraction point. Route clear. Waiting.
Abruzzi deleted the message and hid the phone again.
Four hours until freedom. Four hours until Fibonacci.
He found Scofield in the PI work area.
"Transportation confirmed," Abruzzi said quietly. "Everything's ready."
"Good. And Fibonacci?"
Abruzzi's smiled showed teeth. "You promised coordinates before we leave."
Michael pulled out a small piece of paper, folded tight. "Fibonacci's location. But this information is three days old. He'll have moved by now. You'll need to track him."
"That wasn't the deal."
"It's the deal you're getting. Accurate information, just delayed." Michael's eyes were hard. "After tonight, we're square. But you betray me, you betray this crew, and I'll make sure Fibonacci knows you're coming."
Abruzzi processed that. Weighed his options. Decided.
"After tonight, we're square," he agreed. "But cross me, Pretty, and I'll kill you myself."
They didn't shake hands. Didn't need to. The threat was mutual and understood.
DANIEL'S POV
At 1700, Manche emerged from solitary.
Three days of isolation, three days of stewing in suspicion. He walked into the common area scanning faces, looking for patterns.
His eyes landed on our crew. We weren't meeting—too obvious. But we were all present. All tense. All watching the clock.
Manche's rat instincts kicked in.
He approached Bellick within five minutes.
I was thirty feet away, but I could read the body language. Manche leaning in, whispering urgently. Bellick's posture shifting from bored to alert. Questions being asked. Manche gesturing toward us.
Shit.
I found Michael immediately. "Manche just snitched to Bellick. Something's happening tonight, he said. Bellick's going to increase security."
Michael's face went pale. "How much does Manche know?"
"Nothing concrete. But enough to make Bellick paranoid. We need to adjust timing."
"How?"
"Wait three extra minutes after riot starts. Let guards settle into their increased positions. Then we move during the confusion."
"That cuts into our window."
"It's that or walk into a trap."
Michael nodded. "Spread the word. Three-minute delay."
BELLICK'S POV
Brad Bellick listened to Manche's rambling suspicions and felt vindication.
"Scofield's crew is too tense," Manche said. "Too coordinated. Something's happening tonight. During the execution, I bet. When everyone's distracted."
"What exactly do you think is happening?"
"I don't know. But they're planning something. I can feel it."
Bellick could too. Had felt it for days. Weeks.
"Okay. Here's what we do. Double guard presence during the execution. I want eyes on Scofield, Miller, and their whole crew. Anybody makes a wrong move, we lock them down immediately."
"You think they're really planning something?"
"I know they are. And tonight, I'm going to prove it."
DANIEL'S POV
1900 hours. One hour until execution.
The prison atmosphere was electric. Tension so thick you could taste it. Even uninvolved inmates felt it—something was coming, something big.
I made my final rounds. Checked positioning. Confirmed everyone knew the adjusted timing.
Michael was in his cell, making final checks on tools hidden in the PI area. His hands were steady despite everything.
Sucre was vomiting in the bathroom. Nerves. Fear. Anticipation.
C-Note triple-checked his mental map of exit routes, whispering to himself.
Abruzzi sat on his bunk sharpening his shank, methodical and calm.
T-Bag smiled at everyone, planning betrayals.
Westmoreland was discharged from the infirmary at 1830, insisting he was fine despite barely being able to walk.
And Lincoln was being prepared for execution. Strapped into the chair. Electrodes attached. Final prayers offered.
I returned to my cell at 1900 and tested my powers one last time.
Low Presence Zone. Just thirty seconds. Just to see if it was still there.
The field activated. The world grew heavy, forgetful.
Twenty seconds.
The headache spiked. Immediate. Brutal. Blood trickled from my nose.
Twenty-five seconds.
My vision blurred. The field wanted to collapse.
Thirty seconds.
I dropped it.
The pain was crippling. I gripped my bunk, forcing myself not to cry out. Blood dripped onto the floor.
The power's there. But one more use might kill me.
Better save it for when there's no other choice.
I cleaned the blood, composed myself, waited.
Raul returned to the cell, oblivious. "You okay, man? You look pale."
"Fine. Just thinking about Lincoln. About the execution."
"Yeah. Rough night."
You have no idea.
At 1930, they began moving Lincoln toward the death chamber.
I watched through my cell bars as the procession passed. Lincoln in restraints, walking with dignity despite everything. Guards on either side. Warden Pope leading the way, face solemn.
Michael was at his cell door too, watching. Our eyes met.
Thirty minutes. Then we move.
Lincoln looked up as he passed. Caught my eye. Gave the tiniest nod.
See you on the outside, big man.
Then he was gone. Disappearing toward his scheduled death.
The cell doors clanged open for final rec time before lockdown. Inmates flooded into common areas.
The crew assembled subtly. No obvious meeting. Just positioning. Ready.
1945 hours. Fifteen minutes until execution.
Somewhere in B-Block, Abruzzi's people started the riot. Shouting. Fighting. Guards rushing to respond.
Alarms blaring.
Chaos beginning.
1955 hours. Five minutes until execution.
The prison was in controlled panic. Guards everywhere, trying to manage the riot, maintain security, prepare for the execution.
All eyes splitting focus.
Perfect conditions for escape.
Or perfect conditions for disaster.
2000 hours.
Lincoln Burrows' scheduled execution.
Michael's eyes met mine across the common area.
Now or never.
I nodded.
Let's make the impossible happen.
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