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 about a 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.
Rebecca stops suddenly, raising a hand. I halt behind her, listening. Footsteps ahead, coming our way.
She looks around, then points to a door on our right labeled "Maintenance." Without a word, we slip inside, closing the door quietly behind us.
The closet is tiny, barely big enough for cleaning supplies and the two of us. Our bodies press together in the darkness, her back against my chest. I can feel her heart racing, smell the faint scent of something fruity in her hair.
"Sorry," she whispers, trying to create space where there is none.
"Don't be." I keep my voice low, my mouth close to her ear. "You're doing great."
The footsteps grow louder, passing directly outside our hiding place. Multiple people, moving quickly. Guards, maybe, trying to regain control. Or more inmates, looking for escape routes. Either way, we're better off unseen.
Rebecca's breathing is shallow, controlled. She's trying hard not to make noise. I rest my free hand on her shoulder, a small gesture of reassurance. She doesn't pull away.
As the footsteps fade, pain slices through me again, more intense this time. I clench my jaw to keep from making a sound, but a small grunt escapes anyway.
Rebecca turns in the tight space, her face now inches from mine. Even in the darkness, I can make out her features—wide eyes, full lips pressed with concern.
"Let me check your wound," she whispers.
"Not here. Keep moving while we can."
She hesitates, then nods. We wait another minute to be sure the corridor is clear, then slip back out.
The administrative wing is just ahead. Through a small window in a door, I can see desks, computers, normalcy that seems surreal compared to the chaos in the cell blocks. But it's empty. Everyone evacuated when the riot started.
Rebecca tries the door. Locked.
"Shit," she mutters.
I gently move her aside. "Allow me."
I pull out the shank I took from Walsh's man, examining the lock. Standard issue, nothing fancy. I've picked worse with less.
"Turn around," I tell her.
"Why?"
"Plausible deniability. If anyone asks, you didn't see me do this."
She hesitates, then turns her back. Smart woman.
I work the makeshift blade into the lock, feeling for the pins. My hands are slippery with blood, making it harder, but after a moment, I feel the satisfying click. The door swings open.
"How did you...?" She trails off, shaking her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know."
We enter the administrative area, moving quickly between desks. Through windows on the far side, I can see the prison yard. Guards are regrouping, riot gear on. They'll retake the prison block by block. Standard procedure.
"Staff exit is this way," Rebecca says, leading me toward another corridor.
My vision swims suddenly, the room tilting. I grab the edge of a desk to steady myself.
"Thompson?" Rebecca is at my side instantly, her arm sliding around my waist to support me.
"Just dizzy," I manage. "Blood loss."
"We need to stop and treat you properly."
"No time."
"There's time if I say there is." Her voice is firm. "You're no good to either of us unconscious."
She guides me to a chair, forcing me to sit. My body betrays me by complying, too weak to argue. Rebecca kneels before me, lifting my blood-soaked shirt to examine the stitches.
"Some have torn," she says, opening her bag of medical supplies. "I need to redo them and get some fluids into you."
I watch as she works efficiently, her fingers gentle but sure. There's something almost mesmerizing about the way she focuses completely on the task, worry lines appearing between her brows.
"Why are you a prison nurse?" I ask, partly to distract myself from the pain as she redoes the stitches, partly out of genuine curiosity.
Her hands pause for just a moment. "My father died in prison. Preventable illness, but no one cared enough to treat him properly." She resumes her work. "I thought maybe I could prevent that happening to someone else."
"Noble."
"Not really. Just human." She ties off a stitch. "What about you? What got you in here?"
"Armed robbery. Got sloppy, got caught."
"And the watches you mentioned? The ones this Walsh person is after you for?"
I consider lying, but what's the point now? "High-end timepieces."
"And that's worth trying to kill you over?"
"Apparently." I wince as she tightens a stitch. "But it doesn't add up. Walsh is Irish mob connected. They don't typically hold grudges this long over property crimes. Something else is going on."
She finishes the stitching and tapes a fresh bandage over the wound. Then she pulls out an IV bag from her medical supplies.
"You need fluids," she explains, already searching for a vein in my arm.
"Where'd you get that?"
"I grabbed essentials before we left. Hold still."
The needle slides into my vein with ease. She hangs the IV bag from a desk lamp and sits back on her heels.
"Ten minutes," she says. "Then we move."
I nod, feeling the cool sensation of the fluids entering my system. Already my head feels clearer.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "You didn't have to do any of this."
Rebecca meets my eyes. "Yes, I did."
For a moment, neither of us speaks. There's something happening between us, something I can't define but can definitely feel. Chemistry, maybe, or just the intensity of shared danger. Either way, it's dangerous.
"So," she says finally, "three days until release. What were your plans?"
"My brother's waiting for me. He's got a place lined up, job prospects." I shrug. "Fresh start."
"What's your brother's name?"
I nod. "Dice. He rides with a motorcycle club called the Outlaw Order. They've got connections everywhere."
"Outlaw Order," she repeats. "Sounds..."
"Dangerous?" I supply with a half-smile.
"I was going to say 'dramatic.'"
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. Inmates running, 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.