"Someone will find you soon," I tell him, pocketing his keys and radio. "Sorry about this."
Rebecca gives him one last apologetic look, then we're moving again, following his directions toward the stairwell.
"You didn't hurt him," she observes quietly as we descend the stairs.
"I'm not a monster, Rebecca. Just a thief who got caught."
"A thief with people trying very hard to kill him."
"Yeah, well, apparently I stole from the wrong person."
We reach the basement level, pushing through a heavy door into a dimly lit corridor. Signs point toward 'Receiving & Shipping' to the right.
The basement is quieter, the sounds of the riot muffled by concrete and distance. Our footsteps echo slightly as we move.
"Almost there," Rebecca murmurs.
We turn a final corner and see the loading dock ahead—a large open area with high ceilings and roll-up doors for delivery trucks. It's deserted, just as Officer Miller said.
One of the smaller doors is slightly ajar, daylight visible through the crack. Freedom, just yards away.
I grab Rebecca's hand, squeezing it once. "Ready?"
She nods, her eyes meeting mine with determination. "Ready."
We move toward the door together, hope rising with each step. But as we reach it, the radio I took from Officer Miller crackles to life.
"Miller, report your position." A sharp voice cuts through the silence. "We have three inmates heading your way, possibly armed. One with a shamrock neck tattoo. Considered extremely dangerous."
Rebecca and I freeze, staring at the radio. If they don't get a response, they'll know something's wrong.
I press the transmit button. "Miller here," I say, trying to disguise my voice. "All clear in the administrative wing. Moving to assist in C block."
A pause, then: "Negative, Miller. Return to your post by the staff exit. Walsh's men are specifically headed that way."
Rebecca's eyes widen. Walsh's men. The guard knows them by name.
"Copy that," I respond, then click off the radio.
"The guards know about Walsh," Rebecca whispers. "They're working with him?"
"Some of them, maybe." I push open the door wider, checking outside. The loading area seems clear. "Money talks, especially to underpaid prison guards."
We step outside into the late afternoon sun. The loading area is a concrete pad with a chain-link fence surrounding it. Beyond that, a staff parking lot, then woods.
Freedom. So close.
A shout from inside the building destroys the moment. They've found Officer Miller.
"Run," I tell Rebecca, gripping her hand tighter. "Now!"
We sprint across the concrete pad toward the fence. My wound screams in protest, fresh blood soaking the bandage, but adrenaline keeps me moving.
The fence is high, topped with barbed wire. A gate stands to one side, padlocked and heavy-duty. I pull out Officer Miller's keys, frantically trying them in the lock as shouts grow closer behind us.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, trying key after key.
"Thompson!" Rebecca's voice is urgent. She points toward the building.
