Shamrock is smarter, waiting for his opening. When I turn to him, he feints left then slashes right. Another cut, deeper this time, across my stomach. The blade drags through skin, fat, and into muscle. Blood soaks my prison-issued shirt immediately, spreading in a dark crimson stain from just below my ribs to my left hip.
"Fuck!" I kick him hard in the knee, feeling it give way beneath my foot. He goes down screaming.
But the damage is done. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the warm wetness spreading. Too much blood. The cut is deep and long, at least eight inches. I can feel something inside trying to push out—intestines maybe. The thought makes me dizzy.
"You're dead, Thompson," Shamrock wheezes from the floor. "Boss sends his regards."
I have no idea who "boss" is or what I've done to deserve this. Last job I pulled before getting locked up was a solo gig, no Irish connections at all. But now isn't the time to ask questions.
I step over him, out into the chaotic corridor. Guards and inmates are fighting everywhere. Alarms blare. The sprinkler system activates, raining down water that mixes with blood on the floor.
I need medical help or I'm going to bleed out. The infirmary is on the other side of the building, past two security checkpoints that are probably overrun by now.
With one hand pressed to my wound, trying to hold everything in place, I make my way through the madness. Each step sends waves of fire across my abdomen. Inmates too busy fighting or escaping barely notice me. A guard lies unconscious near the first checkpoint. I grab his radio, hoping to call for help, but it's been smashed.
My vision starts to blur around the edges as I push through to the administrative wing. The blood loss is getting serious. Between my fingers, I can feel the slick, warm edges of the wound pulsing with each heartbeat. I stumble, catching myself against the wall, leaving a crimson handprint.
Three days. I was three fucking days from freedom.
The infirmary door is closed but unlocked. I shoulder it open, nearly falling as I step inside.
"Help," I manage to call out, but my voice sounds distant to my own ears.
The room appears empty at first. Then movement from behind a desk. A woman rises slowly, fear etched on her face. The nurse… I've seen her before during mandatory health checks. Young. Curvy. Pretty in a soft way, with wild curly hair half-escaped from its ponytail. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, bloodied and swaying.
"Please," I say, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I'm not here to hurt you."
She hesitates, frozen in place. I can't blame her. I'm six-two, covered in tattoos and now blood, looking like every nightmare she's probably had about working in a prison.
"I need help," I add, and then my legs give out. I slide down the doorframe to the floor, leaving a trail of blood.
That seems to snap her into action. Professional instinct overrides fear, and she rushes forward.
"Lie back," she instructs, her voice steadier than I expected. Her hands, small but confident, move to my wound. "I need to see how bad it is."
I comply, gritting my teeth as she peels my soaked shirt away from the gash.
"This is deep," she says, already reaching for supplies. "The blade went through the external oblique muscle. You're lucky it didn't hit any organs." Her fingers probe gently at the edges where I can see fatty tissue poking through. "This needs multiple layers of stitches."
"Go for it. I can take it."
She works quickly, cleaning the wound. "This is going to hurt."
She's not wrong. The antiseptic burns like fire, especially when it hits the deeper part of the cut. I hiss but don't move.
"Hold still," she says, threading a needle. No time for an anesthetic in the middle of a riot. "Why aren't you out there with the others?"
I laugh, which sends fresh pain shooting through my abdomen. "I get out in three days. I'm not risking that for whatever this shit is."
Understanding crosses her face as she begins stitching. Her hands are remarkably steady.
"Then why are you bleeding?"
"Apparently, someone doesn't want me to make it to those three days." I grimace as the needle punctures my skin. "No idea who or why. Haven't made any Irish enemies that I know of."
Chapter 2 – Rebecca
I work on the stitches, deep ones first to close the muscle layer, then a second row for the fatty tissue, and finally the skin itself. He's lucky. The blade missed his organs but sliced clean through his external oblique. With proper care, he'll heal, but right now he's in serious danger from blood loss.
