I keep spraying the fire extinguisher, creating a barrier of foam between us and the attacker. James picks up the fallen knife and faces Pipe Man.
"Last chance," James says. "Walk away."
Pipe Man spits foam and blood. "Walsh doesn't accept failure."
He charges. James sidesteps with surprising agility, considering his wound, and drives the makeshift blade into the man's thigh. Pipe Man screams, dropping to one knee, the pipe clattering to the floor.
James kicks it away, then leans down, his face inches from the injured man's. "Why now? Those watches were years ago."
Pipe Man laughs through his pain. "Revenge is revenge."
Before James can respond, shouts echo from the corridor. More people are coming.
"We need to go," I say, dropping the now-empty fire extinguisher. "Now."
James straightens, grimacing. Fresh blood has soaked through his shirt completely. I grab a pressure bandage from the supply cabinet and press it against his wound.
"Hold this tight," I instruct, then quickly gather essential medical supplies into a small bag. Antibiotics, painkillers, clean bandages, antiseptic.
"There's a service corridor," I tell him, moving to a door at the back of the infirmary. "It leads to the administrative wing. If we're lucky, it's still secure."
James limps to my side, one hand pressing the bandage to his stomach, the other still gripping the bloody knife.
"Why are you helping me?" he asks quietly.
I pause, hand on the door. It's a good question. By all logic, I should be hiding, waiting for the guards to regain control. Not escaping with an inmate I barely know, who's clearly in someone's crosshairs.
"Because you tried to protect me," I answer honestly. "And because I took an oath to preserve life."
His eyes hold mine for a moment, dark and unreadable. Then he nods. "Lead the way, Rebecca."
I push open the door to the service corridor, praying we're making the right choice. The narrow hallway beyond is dimly lit by emergency lights, deserted for now.
"Stay close," I whisper, and step into the unknown, a convicted criminal at my heels and chaos at our backs.
Chapter 3 - Convict
I follow Rebecca into the service corridor, keeping pressure on the bandage over my stitches. Each step sends a fresh wave of pain through my abdomen, but I push it down. Pain is just information, and right now, I have more important things to focus on.
Like why the hell Tiernan Walsh is sending men after me over a couple of watches I lifted years ago.
The service corridor is narrow, lit only by emergency lights that cast everything in an eerie red glow. The riot sounds are muffled back here, but still audible—shouts, crashes, the occasional scream. I've seen prison riots before. They burn hot and fast, usually contained within hours. But that doesn't help us now.
Rebecca moves cautiously ahead of me, her curly hair bouncing slightly with each step. She's scared. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, but she's not panicking. There's a steadiness to her that's rare. Most civilians would be falling apart by now.
"Where does this lead?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Administrative offices first, then eventually to a staff exit on the east side." She glances back at me, concern flashing across her face. "You're still bleeding."
I look down. She's right. Blood is seeping through my fingers where I'm holding the bandage. "I'm fine."
She gives me a look that clearly says she doesn't believe me but keeps moving.
My mind races as we walk. Walsh. I haven't thought about that job in years. It was before my current stint, maybe four years ago. A simple smash and grab. I took two watches worth abouta hundred grand each. Fence told me they belonged to someone dangerous, but I didn't care. A score was a score.
Apparently, Walsh cared. A lot.
But this feels excessive for a couple of watches, even expensive ones. Something else is going on.
