That pulls a genuine laugh from me, sending a fresh stab of pain through my stomach. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts like hell."
She smiles, a real smile that transforms her face completely. "Sorry."
A crash from somewhere in the building wipes the smile away. We both tense, listening.
"That came from the direction we came from," Rebecca says quietly. "They might be following our trail."
I check the IV bag. Still half full, but we don't have time. I pull the needle from my arm, pressing my thumb over the puncture site.
"Let's move."
Rebecca doesn't argue this time. She quickly packs her supplies, and we make our way to the staff exit corridor.
The exit is just ahead—a heavy metal door with a push bar. Beyond it, freedom. Or at least a chance at it. But as we approach, I notice something that makes my blood run cold.
The alarm panel next to the door is lit up. Active.
"Shit," I mutter. "It's alarmed."
Rebecca's face falls. "It shouldn't be. It's an emergency exit."
"Looks like emergency protocol changed the settings." I examine the panel. "If we push that bar, every alarm in this place goes off. It'll bring guards running, and probably some of Walsh's guys too."
She looks at me, fear and determination battling in her expression. "What do we do?"
I glance back the way we came, then at the door, weighing our options. Walsh's men want me dead. The guards will throw me back in a cell—best case scenario. Neither option appeals.
"We need another way out," I say finally. "Or a distraction."
Rebecca bites her lower lip, thinking. "There's the loading dock where supplies come in. It's on the other side of the building, but it might be less guarded during a riot."
"Lead the way."
We turn back, moving deeper into the administrative wing. My stitches pull with every step, but the IV fluids have helped. I'm steadier now, more alert.
As we pass an office with the door ajar, something catches my eye. I pause, pushing the door wider.
"What is it?" Rebecca asks.
Inside is a small security monitoring station. Multiple screens show different areas of the prison. Most display chaos. Inmatesrunning, fighting, guards in riot gear advancing. But one screen shows the prison parking lot.
"Look," I point.
The screen shows a black SUV parked near the staff entrance, two men in suits standing beside it. They aren't prison staff or police. They're too well-dressed, too calm.
"Walsh's people," I say with certainty. "Waiting for confirmation I'm dead."
Rebecca stares at the screen. "How do you know?"
"Trust me. I know what outside muscle looks like." I study the other screens, forming a mental map. "They've got the front covered. We definitely need the loading dock."
As I turn to leave, another screen catches my attention. It shows a hallway not far from our current position. Three men are moving, checking rooms as they go. One of them is the redheaded man with the shamrock tattoo—Shamrock, as I've been calling him in my head. He's limping but determined, a fresh bandage on his leg where I stabbed him.
"They're hunting us," Rebecca whispers, following my gaze.
"No," I correct her, noting their path. "They're hunting me. You're just collateral." I turn to face her fully. "Rebecca, I need you to listen carefully. This is your chance to save yourself."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"
