Chapter 25: The Break - Part 1
2000 hours. Lincoln Burrows' scheduled execution.
The alarm for the riot blared at 1945—fifteen minutes early, but close enough. B-Block erupted into chaos. Inmates fighting, guards rushing to respond, pepper spray filling the air.
Perfect distraction.
Michael caught my eye across the common area. Nodded once.
Now.
We moved.
The crew assembled at the pre-designated meeting point—the corridor junction between A-Block and the infirmary wing. Michael, Sucre, me. Abruzzi appeared from B-Block, knuckles bloody from the riot.
"Lincoln?" Michael asked.
"Being moved to death chamber now. Three guards, standard transport." Abruzzi checked his watch. "We intercept in ninety seconds."
C-Note joined us, breathing hard. "Bellick's organizing response teams. We've got maybe ten minutes before he realizes we're gone."
"Where's T-Bag?" I asked.
"Here." T-Bag materialized from a side corridor, smile all teeth. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."
I cold-read him instantly: planning something, waiting for the right moment to betray us. Filed it away.
Deal with him later. Focus on Lincoln first.
"Positions," Michael ordered.
We moved down the corridor toward the death chamber transport route. The riot noise echoed behind us—screaming, fighting, guards shouting. Alarms everywhere.
Then I saw them.
Lincoln in restraints, flanked by three guards. Walking toward his death with dignity despite everything.
Michael stepped into the corridor. "Now."
Abruzzi moved first. Two hundred and twenty pounds of mob muscle slamming into the lead guard. They went down in a tangle.
Sucre took the second guard—grabbed his baton arm, twisted, used the guard's own momentum against him.
The third guard reached for his radio. "Code red, we have—"
I grabbed his wrist, redirected his hand away from the radio, swept his legs. He hit the ground hard.
Lincoln stared at us. "Michael, what—"
"We're getting out. All of us. Right now." Michael was already working on Lincoln's restraints with a stolen key. "Trust me."
"Always, little brother."
The restraints fell away. Lincoln rubbed his wrists, free for the first time in months.
Behind us, Pope's voice over the PA system: "Security breach! Lincoln Burrows is missing! Lockdown! Full lockdown!"
Shit. They realized faster than expected.
"Move!" I shouted.
We ran.
POPE'S POV
Warden Henry Pope stood in the control room, watching the monitors in horror.
The riot was planned. The attack on Lincoln's guards was coordinated. This wasn't chaos—it was an escape attempt.
"Who's missing?" he demanded.
The CO checked the roster. "Burrows. Scofield. Miller. Sucre. Abruzzi. T-Bag. C-Note."
Pope's blood ran cold. "Miller too?"
The CO nodded.
Pope thought about the chess games. The magic shows. The intelligent conversations. Daniel Miller had seemed so harmless. So genuine.
He played me. They all played me.
"Full lockdown," Pope ordered. "Nobody gets out. Call in backup from county. Get dogs. Get helicopters if we need them." His voice went hard. "Find them."
DANIEL'S POV
We hit the infirmary at 2003—three minutes behind schedule but still within the window.
Sara was at her desk, reviewing charts. She looked up as we burst in.
"Michael? What's—"
"Sorry, Doc. No time to explain." Michael was already moving to the supply cabinet. Behind it, the bolt hole entrance.
Sara stood, backing toward the phone. "I have to call security."
I stepped between her and the phone. "Don't. Please."
"You're escaping. I have to—"
"Lincoln's innocent. The evidence will prove it. But he'll be dead before anyone finds it." I held her gaze. "We're not asking you to help. Just... don't call for sixty seconds. That's all."
Sara's hand hovered over the phone. Looking at Michael. Looking at Lincoln. Looking at me.
Sixty seconds of decision.
She lowered her hand.
"I didn't see anything," she whispered. "I was in the bathroom. Sixty seconds."
"Thank you."
Michael had the cabinet moved, the bolt hole exposed. A dark opening, two feet by three feet, leading into maintenance tunnels.
"Go," Michael ordered. "Lincoln first, then Sucre, C-Note, me. Danny brings up rear."
T-Bag pushed forward. "I'm going first."
"The hell you are," Abruzzi growled.
"I'm smallest. I'll move fastest. Makes sense for me to lead." T-Bag's smile was poison. "Unless you want to waste time arguing while the guards close in?"
He's positioning himself to run ahead. To get out first and disappear with whatever he can steal.
But he was right—we didn't have time to argue.
"Fine," Michael said. "But you wait at the first junction. Don't move without the group."
"Scout's honor." T-Bag disappeared into the bolt hole.
Lincoln followed. Then Sucre. C-Note. Abruzzi. Michael.
I was last. Behind me, alarms screaming. Footsteps approaching. Bellick's voice: "Check the infirmary!"
I activated Low Presence Zone for just ten seconds. Just enough to obscure the bolt hole entrance from the camera, make the moved cabinet look undisturbed to quick glances.
Five seconds.
The pain spiked immediately. My vision went white at the edges.
Seven seconds.
Blood from my nose, dripping onto the floor.
Ten seconds.
I dropped the field and dove into the bolt hole just as the infirmary door burst open.
BELLICK'S POV
Brad Bellick stormed into the infirmary, six guards behind him.
"Where are they?"
Dr. Tancredi looked up from her desk, face carefully neutral. "Where are who?"
"The escapees! Miller and his crew!"
"I haven't seen anyone. I was in the bathroom when the alarms started."
Bellick didn't believe her. Scanned the room. Everything looked normal. Supplies in place. Cabinets undisturbed.
But something felt wrong.
He walked to the supply cabinet. Studied it. Looked behind it.
"Boss," one of the guards called. "Found something."
Blood drops on the floor. Fresh. Leading toward... nowhere.
Bellick pulled the cabinet away from the wall.
The bolt hole.
"Son of a bitch." He grabbed his radio. "All units, they're in the maintenance tunnels. Get dogs. Get every available man. We're going in."
DANIEL'S POV
The tunnels were darkness and dripping water and the smell of rust.
Michael led with a flashlight, following the route tattooed on his body. I followed the route in my mind palace—every turn, every pipe, every junction.
The space was claustrophobic. Three feet high, maybe four feet wide. We crawled on hands and knees through water and filth.
"How far?" Lincoln asked.
"Quarter mile to the junction," Michael said. "Then another half mile to the exterior wall."
Behind us, echoing through the pipes: barking.
Dogs.
"They're in the tunnels," C-Note said. "Moving fast."
"Faster than us," Sucre added.
Ahead of us, T-Bag was pulling away. Moving quicker, not helping anyone, just racing toward freedom.
"T-Bag!" Michael shouted. "Wait at the junction!"
"Sure thing, Pretty!" But he kept moving.
He's going to run. The moment he hits open air, he's gone.
Problem for later. Right now, survival.
We crawled for fifteen minutes. Pipes everywhere, some hot enough to burn skin. Water dripping from ceiling. The darkness pressing in.
Behind us, the dogs getting closer.
"They're gaining," C-Note said.
I made a decision.
"Keep going. I'll slow them down."
"Danny, no—" Michael started.
"I can mask our scent. Buy us three minutes. Go."
I waited until they'd moved ahead thirty feet. Then I activated Low Presence Zone.
The field spread backward through the tunnel. Not making myself invisible—making our scent trail invisible. Confusing the dogs' sense of smell, creating false trails, redirecting their attention.
Thirty seconds.
The headache was immediate and brutal. Worse than anything before.
One minute.
Blood poured from my nose. I could taste copper. My vision blurred.
Two minutes.
The world started to feel distant. Unreal. Like I was fading from existence.
Behind me, the dogs stopped. Confused. Whining. The scent trail had vanished.
Three minutes.
I dropped the field and collapsed.
Hands grabbing me. Lincoln. "Danny! Come on, kid, stay with us!"
"M'fine," I slurred. "Bought... time..."
"You're bleeding everywhere."
"S'normal. Go. Keep... moving."
Lincoln hauled me up, half-carried me forward. My legs barely worked. Vision swimming.
But the dogs were lost. Three minutes of confusion before they found the scent again.
Three minutes we desperately needed.
We reached the junction at 2035.
Michael checked his mental map. "This way. Toward the south wall."
But when we turned the corner, we found Westmoreland.
He'd collapsed against the tunnel wall, blood staining his lips, breathing shallow.
"Charles!" C-Note dropped beside him.
Westmoreland's eyes opened. Unfocused. Dying.
"Can't... go further," he whispered. "Lung's... collapsed."
"We'll carry you," Lincoln said.
"No. Too... slow. They'll catch... everyone."
Michael knelt beside him. "We're not leaving you."
"Have to." Westmoreland coughed blood. "My money... Utah. Tooele. Coordinates... 40.5525°N, 112.3045°W. Buried... twenty feet down." His hand grabbed Michael's. "Give it... to Robin. My daughter. Tell her... I never forgot."
"Charles—"
"Go. Please. Don't let... my death... be for nothing."
His eyes closed. His breathing stopped.
Silence in the tunnel except for dripping water and distant barking.
C-Note bowed his head. Sucre crossed himself.
I reached out, closed Westmoreland's eyes.
"I promise," I whispered. "Robin will know. She'll get the money. She'll know you loved her."
"We can't just leave him here," Sucre said, voice breaking.
"We have to." Michael stood, face hard. "He died buying us time. We waste that, we disrespect his sacrifice."
Behind us, the dogs found the scent again. Barking intensified.
"Move," Lincoln ordered. "Now."
We left Westmoreland's body in the tunnel. Left D.B. Cooper's final resting place in a maintenance corridor beneath Fox River.
Left our first casualty behind.
I felt his death like a physical weight. But we kept moving.
Because stopping meant dying.
And Westmoreland hadn't died so we could quit.
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