Sacrifice (1/1)
Title: Sacrifice (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Genre: Post-episode
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield, LJ Burrows, Lincoln Burrows
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 3,486 words
Rating: PG-15 for bad language
Summary:How far would you go to save the people you love?
Author's Note:Written whilst in the grip of post-Orientacion and SWC-related angst. Contains spoilers for "Sona" and "Orientacion" and my own wild speculation as I fill in the blanks. Contains dialogue taken directly from #301 and therefore obviously not written by myself.
~*~
She’s walking blind, the sun blurring her vision as much as her tears, and she doesn’t notice the approaching car until it swerves to avoid her with a loud screech. She throws up her hand in silent apology, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t stop, can’t rest until she finds a telephone, can’t breathe until she calls Bruce and begs for his help. As she walks, she rubs her hands down the front of her jeans, willing them to stop shaking, wanting to rub off the imprint of a stolen gun from her palm.
She killed a man today. She pulled the trigger on blind instinct, without hesitation, putting a bullet in his heart in order to save an innocent man’s life, but nothing is ever going to change the fact that she killed a man today. She killed him to save the only family she has left, but it was all for nothing. They’re gone, both of them, and the reality of their loss tears through her heart like a jagged-edged knife.
I’m sorry, Miss Tancredi, but the details of Mr Burrows’ death are not yet available to the public. All I can tell you is that the officer in question discharged his firearm in self-defence and that no further details will be released until a thorough inquiry has been held. No, Mr Scofield will not be granted bail. He will be incarcerated pending the date of his trial. No, I cannot tell you when that might be or where he will be held. I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing you can do. I suggest you consider returning home to the States as soon as possible.
Nothing. It was all for nothing.
Behind her a car door slams, then a dark-haired woman with a sultry, hard face is suddenly blocking her way. Sara stares at her, wondering why the other woman is smiling at her as though she and Sara are old friends. “Miss Tancredi?” She’s American, dressed in the most expensive clothes Sara’s seen in days. “You need to come with us.”
Fear trickles through the cracks of her grief. Sara stares at her, then at the two dark-suited men who have come to stand behind her. She looks at their eyes, and her blood turns to ice. Her gaze darts left, then right, but there’s no avenue of escape. There never was, she realises, and anger suddenly rips through her fear. She draws herself up to her full height and looks the other woman in the eye, her voice cold and flat. “I already gave my statement to the police.”
“We’re not the police.” The woman gives her a wolfish smile. “But you already know that, don’t you?” The dark shadows on either side of the woman move toward Sara, and she steps backwards, her shoes slipping on the uneven surface of the road. She keeps her eyes on the woman’s face, surprised by the force of the anger that spills out of her mouth.
“Get the hell away from me.”
A fleeting admiration gleams in the other woman’s eyes. “Feisty. I can see why they liked you.”
A cold wave of nausea roils through Sara’s gut at the oblique reference to Michael and Lincoln, then thick fingers are wrapping themselves around her wrists, the scent of stale sweat filling her nose. She jerks her knee upward, catching the groin of the man on her left, then jabs her elbow deep into the solar plexus to her right, desperation giving her twin gifts of accuracy and luck. Her ears ring with the loud sound of a male grunt, and for a few intoxicating seconds, she thinks she might have made it.
The woman swears vividly, then she’s right in Sara’s face, her oddly pale eyes glittering. “You're not making this any easier, you know. Anyone would think you wanted Mr Scofield dead,” she murmurs in a silky voice, and Sara wrenches her arm free from the clammy fingers around her wrist, white hot fury streaking through her. As though from a distance, she watches her hand fly through the air, her fingernails raking down the other woman’s powdered cheek, hard enough to draw blood.
The impact jolts up her arm and into her heart, then she feels a familiar pinprick - too familiar, she doesn’t want that, not now, not anymore - in her skin, cold needle sliding into her flesh, and the dust and the dirt is suddenly beneath her knees, the air around her buzzing hotly in her ears, disjointed words falling like hailstones in her head.
“Get her in the car.”
~*~
He searches for Sara for an hour after he leaves the police station, then another hour after that, running around in the heat and the dust, desperately trying to find someone who can speak English, let alone someone who saw a tall brunette in a white blouse and jeans. He knows he should head straight to the American Embassy without wasting any more time, but it’s as though Michael is at his shoulder, urging him to keep looking, to find her. But it’s not just for Michael that he needs to find her. The girl has saved his life twice now, and she’s out there, alone, and the thought of something happening to her after everything she’s done for them is not one he wants to contemplate.
Finally, in desperation, he finds himself returning to the last place they’d all been together, the unexpected ghost of his mother’s voice wafting through his head - if you ever get lost, always come back to the last place you saw me, okay? - as he walks. Somehow it’s easier to think of his dead mother than his brother, once again shouldering the burden of everyone else’s sins.
There are still two police cruisers parked near the jetty, and he keeps his distance, staying in the shadows, fighting a rising sense of panic. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s doing here - Michael is already in the back of a prison van headed for some place called Sona, and Sara would have to be crazy to come back here.
He starts to retrace his steps, warily moving through the thick vegetation, suddenly fighting the hysterical urge to laugh out loud. He’s a free man, but he’s completely alone in Panama with less than fifty American bucks in his pocket and knowing less than ten words of Spanish. The irony would fucking kill him if he’d let it.
Once he hits the main path, he sees a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye, and instantly recognises the long, loping stride. “Hey, kid! Come here!”
The dark-haired boy turns to look at him, ducking his head in recognition, but the grin Lincoln remembers from earlier has vanished. “You’re the brother, right?”
“Right. What’s your name?”
“Chaco.”
Lincoln scans the area, making sure there’s not a uniform in sight. “Have you seen the woman from the boat? The pretty one?”
Chaco shakes his head. “No, senor.” He hesitates, his expression pensive, then lifts his gaze to meet Lincoln’s. “I saw what happened, though. That man was going to shoot you.”
Lincoln rubs his hand over his head, doing his best to push away the steady throbbing that’s taken up residence deep in his temples. He doesn’t ask the kid if he told the police what he’d seen. Chaco’s line of work doesn’t exactly lend itself to being on good terms with the local law enforcement. “My brother’s been arrested.”
Chaco’s face falls, and Lincoln bleakly marvels at Michael’s ability to inspire loyalty and admiration in the most unlikely of candidates. “I’m sorry.” He frowns, then his face brightens. “You could go to the American Embassy!”
On another day, Lincoln might smile. Not today. “Yeah, that did occur to me.” The fading light has him checking his watch with a frown, his other hand going to the pocket holding his wallet. A couple of millions dollars lying in sludge underneath a goddamned jetty, and he’s got forty-eight fucking bucks. The urge to punch something very hard sparks in his blood, making it hard to breathe.
Chaco’s dark eyes follow his hands, his gaze sharpening with an intuitive gleam. “You need money, senor?”
Lincoln looks at him. The kid couldn’t be more than seventeen. He’s the same age as LJ, and Lincoln suddenly sends up a prayer of thanksgiving that his son is safe in Washington, far away from this fucking mess. “Is it that obvious?”
The kid hesitates, his internal struggle playing out on his face, then he slides his hand into his own pocket. “Your brother, he was a generous man.” He draws out a wad of cash, and Lincoln recognises it as the money Michael had given the kid several hours ago. “He paid me twice what we agreed.” He glances around, his shoulders hunched as he turns his body towards Lincoln, sheltering the movements of his hands from any prying eyes. A few seconds later, he’s holding out a small roll of hundred dollar bills, literally pushing it into Lincoln’s hand. “Money opens doors that words cannot, senor.”
Lincoln’s chest tightens as he curls his fist around the cash. “Thanks, man.”
Chaco nods, then steps back, his manner once again that of a cheerful street hustler. “Good luck, senor.” With that, the kid slips away into the fading daylight, and Lincoln is once again alone.
Alone, but no longer as desperate. He’s got money in his pocket and the Embassy in his sights. Maybe Sara is already there, he realises with a jolt, and almost slaps himself in the forehead for not thinking of it sooner. He starts the long walk back into town, the pounding in his head keeping time with the sound of his boots hitting the ground.
Money opens doors that words cannot. Chaco’s words fresh in his mind and Westmoreland’s cash heavy in his pocket, Lincoln takes a deep breath and quickens his pace, because they’ve come too far, and he’s not going to let it all be for nothing.
~*~
“Man, can you believe this bullshit?”
LJ grins at his classmate as they drag books from their lockers. “It’s just an essay.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got basketball tonight, and I’m working with my dad all day tomorrow.” James slams his locket shut. “I don’t have time to take a crap, let alone write five thousand words about civil rights.”
LJ looks at him. “You’re working with your dad every Saturday now?”
James grunts as he loads books into his backpack. “Yeah. Hardware store’s busy at the moment, and a couple of his usual guys are on vacation. It sucks.”
Shouldering his own backpack, LJ knows that working in his dad’s store is a privilege he’ll probably never experience. “You’ll live,” he says flatly, trying not to think of the fact that he hasn’t heard from his father in over a week. He knows his dad is still alive - Jane wouldn’t lie to him about that - but that doesn’t make his silence sting any less.
The black SUV is waiting outside the school gates, just like it is every afternoon. As he glimpses the driver, he stops, frowning. Being careful to stay out of sight, he pulls his cell phone out of his backpack and turns it on. There’s one new text message - it’s from Jane, telling him simply that Rawlins will be collecting him this afternoon. There’s no further explanation, but that’s not unusual. She doesn’t like to waste words, and her text messages are no less abrupt.
Rawlins gets out of the car as LJ gets closer, wearing the usual undercover bodyguard uniform of crappy polo shirt and tailored pants. LJ gives him a half-hearted wave. He can’t believe Jane’s subjected him to a whole thirty minutes alone with this guy. He’s as boring as batshit. “Where’s Jane?”
“She’s been detained, sorry.” Rawlins smiles at him. “You’ll have to put up with me this afternoon, LJ.”
“It’s Matthew.”
The man frowns. “What?”
LJ scowls as he brushes past the newest member of Jane’s seemingly endless arsenal of bodyguards. “The name’s Matthew, remember?” It’s bad enough he has to use a fake name. He shouldn’t have to remind the hired goons who he’s pretending to be.
“Matthew, right. Sorry.”
It’s not until the SUV has pulled away from the school, that LJ realises that they’re not alone in the car. By the time the shadow has risen from its hiding place in the backseat, it’s too late. There’s a heavy hand gripping his shoulder, the barrel of a gun digging into the back of his head. Mute with shock, LJ looks at Rawlins, sitting behind the wheel, but the older man only smiles. “Sorry, Matthew, but there’s been a change of plans.”
LJ feels the blood drain from his face, his stomach heaving as though he’s about to be sick. Jane. Jane doesn’t know about Rawlins. Oh, fuck, Jane. What if they’ve - Unable to finish the thought, he glares at the man to whom Jane had entrusted his life, picturing his dad smashing his nose right through to the other side of his head. “My name’s LJ Burrows, dickhead.”
~*~
He’d once read a horror story in which one hour on Earth equalled one year in Hell. After twenty-four hours in Sona, he’s ready to believe it. In his worst nightmares, in every dark childhood terror, there was never anything that could have prepared him for this. No, he corrects himself hazily, that’s not quite true. Michael can remember ancient nightmares in which familiar faces would appear in all the wrong places, sneering and mocking, taunting him with their secret knowledge of his heart and soul. It seems that nightmares can come true after all.
He slips through the press of reeking human traffic, avoiding the avid gazes of those inmates desperate enough to be impressed by his so-called victory. He especially avoids the gaze of the man who has just saved his life, the thought of having to thank him for doing so sticking like a burr in his throat. A life for life, he thinks, then he remembers his father’s dying breath, hot against his face, and he knows that it’s not enough.
Ignoring the pleading look from the half-naked man who had once made his life at Fox River a misery - Christ, what he’d give to be back inside those walls instead of this stinking hole - he seeks out what refuge he can find in his cell. Alone, he finds himself once again reaching for the paper bird in his back pocket, sliding his fingertips over its smooth, familiar lines. He’d made it aboard the freighter that had brought them to Panama, finding a tiny amount of solace in the thought that he would somehow send it to Sara once they’d arrived, once he’d found out where she was.
I don’t know where she is, man.
Michael closes his eyes, the first time he’s let himself do so in hours, Lincoln’s words echoing in his head. Grief tears at his insides, hollowing him out as he presses the paper crane between his hands, one palm almost bruising the other, as if trying to bury the gift once meant for Sara beneath his skin.
They’ve been through so much. The thought that it might have all been for nothing is unbearable. One more day, Lincoln had said. As soon as he’s transferred, he can start helping Lincoln in his efforts to find her. Tomorrow, as soon as he’s transferred, they will find her. For a few moments, he’d had almost everything, everything he’d wanted ever since he’d first stepped foot in Fox River. It had taken less than the space of a dying heartbeat for it to be snatched away. Now, he has a paper bird and the memory of a passionate kiss of desperation, the ghost of a dream realised too late.
His thoughts are not easy company, and it’s a relief when he hears his name being called over the loudspeaker. He doesn’t even care if it’s yet another wannabe Company shill. Anything is better than sitting in his cell thinking about everything he’s lost.
He waits at the end of the visitation pen, watching his brother as he strides across the open field. Even from this distance, he looks tired. Anxious. Gripping the mesh fence, Michael greets him quietly, even though there’s no one around to hear them. “Hey.” Michael waits for him to speak, but Lincoln merely looks at him, his eyes strangely hollow. “How we coming with the transfer?”
Lincoln’s sweating profusely, even though the sun’s not as hot as it was yesterday, and as soon as he speaks, Michael knows why. “There are some people that want you to break someone out of there.”
Michael lets out a shaky breath, the hot air swallowing up his sigh. “Yeah, I know. Some guy already approached me.” He looks at Lincoln, knowing he’ll understand. “I said ‘no thank you’.”
His brother looks down at the dirt at his feet, then up at him, his expression unnaturally stiff. “You gotta stay.”
Michael stares at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
A muscle twitches in Lincoln’s jaw. “His name’s James Whistler.”
“No.” The word falls out of his mouth before he even has time to form the thought. “No, no, no, Linc.” He gives his brother a pleading look, the mere thought of trying to plan, to run, already sapping his strength. “I can’t do that again.”
Lincoln’s throat works as he swallows. “Michael-” Shaking his head, he pulls an unfamiliar cell phone out of his pocket, holding it up so he can see the video screen. Michael stares at it, his hands falling away from the wire fence as shock washes coldly over him, making him shiver despite the heat. It takes a split-second for his mind to process what he’s seeing, and then he’s knows he’s looking at Sara.
She’s sitting slumped in a wooden chair, the dark tangle of her hair hanging over her face. The image is frozen in time for a heartbeat, then it starts to move, and he sees LJ’s face, sees LJ holding up a newspaper with today’s date, hears a disembodied voice shouting at LJ to talk.
“Dad.” LJ’s voice is thick with tears. “Dad. I’m so sorry. They got me and Sara.”
Michael feels his knees sway beneath him, his face growing hot, his back becoming slick with sweat. No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
“Please, do what they want.” LJ’s voice slices through the hot air once more, his eyes filled with panic. “Dad, please.”
The image freezes on his nephew’s face, but Michael can still see the curve of Sara’s back. He remembers the smooth feel of that white shirt beneath his hands, the softness of her hair against his palms, and he wants to fall to his knees and weep. The screen goes black, but Michael can’t bring himself to look away. Fighting the urge to reach out and touch the screen through the fence, he instead curls his fingers through the wire mesh, gripping it so tightly that it cuts into his skin.
His brother’s voice seems to come from a long way away. “You got a week to find this Whistler guy and get him out of there.” Lincoln clears his throat, but it does nothing to disguise the pain in his voice. “Otherwise they, uh, Sara and LJ- ” He hesitates again, but it doesn’t matter, because Michael already knows what he’s going to say. “They both die.”
Mute with horror, Michael lifts his head to stare at his brother, silently pleading with him to tell him that this isn’t real, that it’s nothing more than a sick joke. But the darkness in his brother’s eyes tells him that this is all very real, and that he has one week to work a miracle or they lose everything.
“I’m sorry, man, but there was nothing I could do.” Lincoln’s eyes are glittering with anger and frustration, and Michael's heart feels as though it's being torn in two. “You gotta do this, Michael.”
Michael closes his eyes, thinking of Lincoln’s face after he’d last spoken to his son, supposedly tucked away safe in Washington. He thinks of Sara’s face after she’d pulled the trigger, the soft warmth of her pressed against him as she whispered desperate words of love. He thinks of his father, buried in some God-forsaken backwater. He thinks of all their sacrifice and pain and grief, of their suffering for the greater good, and anger starts to burn deep inside him, his exhaustion falling away as adrenalin begins to hum beneath his skin. His palm pressed flat against the paper crane in his pocket, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Tell me everything you know,” he says quietly, knowing there’s no other way, that they’ve come too far, and that there’s always something that can be done.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Genre: Post-episode
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield, LJ Burrows, Lincoln Burrows
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 3,486 words
Rating: PG-15 for bad language
Summary:How far would you go to save the people you love?
Author's Note:Written whilst in the grip of post-Orientacion and SWC-related angst. Contains spoilers for "Sona" and "Orientacion" and my own wild speculation as I fill in the blanks. Contains dialogue taken directly from #301 and therefore obviously not written by myself.
~*~
She’s walking blind, the sun blurring her vision as much as her tears, and she doesn’t notice the approaching car until it swerves to avoid her with a loud screech. She throws up her hand in silent apology, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t stop, can’t rest until she finds a telephone, can’t breathe until she calls Bruce and begs for his help. As she walks, she rubs her hands down the front of her jeans, willing them to stop shaking, wanting to rub off the imprint of a stolen gun from her palm.
She killed a man today. She pulled the trigger on blind instinct, without hesitation, putting a bullet in his heart in order to save an innocent man’s life, but nothing is ever going to change the fact that she killed a man today. She killed him to save the only family she has left, but it was all for nothing. They’re gone, both of them, and the reality of their loss tears through her heart like a jagged-edged knife.
I’m sorry, Miss Tancredi, but the details of Mr Burrows’ death are not yet available to the public. All I can tell you is that the officer in question discharged his firearm in self-defence and that no further details will be released until a thorough inquiry has been held. No, Mr Scofield will not be granted bail. He will be incarcerated pending the date of his trial. No, I cannot tell you when that might be or where he will be held. I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing you can do. I suggest you consider returning home to the States as soon as possible.
Nothing. It was all for nothing.
Behind her a car door slams, then a dark-haired woman with a sultry, hard face is suddenly blocking her way. Sara stares at her, wondering why the other woman is smiling at her as though she and Sara are old friends. “Miss Tancredi?” She’s American, dressed in the most expensive clothes Sara’s seen in days. “You need to come with us.”
Fear trickles through the cracks of her grief. Sara stares at her, then at the two dark-suited men who have come to stand behind her. She looks at their eyes, and her blood turns to ice. Her gaze darts left, then right, but there’s no avenue of escape. There never was, she realises, and anger suddenly rips through her fear. She draws herself up to her full height and looks the other woman in the eye, her voice cold and flat. “I already gave my statement to the police.”
“We’re not the police.” The woman gives her a wolfish smile. “But you already know that, don’t you?” The dark shadows on either side of the woman move toward Sara, and she steps backwards, her shoes slipping on the uneven surface of the road. She keeps her eyes on the woman’s face, surprised by the force of the anger that spills out of her mouth.
“Get the hell away from me.”
A fleeting admiration gleams in the other woman’s eyes. “Feisty. I can see why they liked you.”
A cold wave of nausea roils through Sara’s gut at the oblique reference to Michael and Lincoln, then thick fingers are wrapping themselves around her wrists, the scent of stale sweat filling her nose. She jerks her knee upward, catching the groin of the man on her left, then jabs her elbow deep into the solar plexus to her right, desperation giving her twin gifts of accuracy and luck. Her ears ring with the loud sound of a male grunt, and for a few intoxicating seconds, she thinks she might have made it.
The woman swears vividly, then she’s right in Sara’s face, her oddly pale eyes glittering. “You're not making this any easier, you know. Anyone would think you wanted Mr Scofield dead,” she murmurs in a silky voice, and Sara wrenches her arm free from the clammy fingers around her wrist, white hot fury streaking through her. As though from a distance, she watches her hand fly through the air, her fingernails raking down the other woman’s powdered cheek, hard enough to draw blood.
The impact jolts up her arm and into her heart, then she feels a familiar pinprick - too familiar, she doesn’t want that, not now, not anymore - in her skin, cold needle sliding into her flesh, and the dust and the dirt is suddenly beneath her knees, the air around her buzzing hotly in her ears, disjointed words falling like hailstones in her head.
“Get her in the car.”
~*~
He searches for Sara for an hour after he leaves the police station, then another hour after that, running around in the heat and the dust, desperately trying to find someone who can speak English, let alone someone who saw a tall brunette in a white blouse and jeans. He knows he should head straight to the American Embassy without wasting any more time, but it’s as though Michael is at his shoulder, urging him to keep looking, to find her. But it’s not just for Michael that he needs to find her. The girl has saved his life twice now, and she’s out there, alone, and the thought of something happening to her after everything she’s done for them is not one he wants to contemplate.
Finally, in desperation, he finds himself returning to the last place they’d all been together, the unexpected ghost of his mother’s voice wafting through his head - if you ever get lost, always come back to the last place you saw me, okay? - as he walks. Somehow it’s easier to think of his dead mother than his brother, once again shouldering the burden of everyone else’s sins.
There are still two police cruisers parked near the jetty, and he keeps his distance, staying in the shadows, fighting a rising sense of panic. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s doing here - Michael is already in the back of a prison van headed for some place called Sona, and Sara would have to be crazy to come back here.
He starts to retrace his steps, warily moving through the thick vegetation, suddenly fighting the hysterical urge to laugh out loud. He’s a free man, but he’s completely alone in Panama with less than fifty American bucks in his pocket and knowing less than ten words of Spanish. The irony would fucking kill him if he’d let it.
Once he hits the main path, he sees a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye, and instantly recognises the long, loping stride. “Hey, kid! Come here!”
The dark-haired boy turns to look at him, ducking his head in recognition, but the grin Lincoln remembers from earlier has vanished. “You’re the brother, right?”
“Right. What’s your name?”
“Chaco.”
Lincoln scans the area, making sure there’s not a uniform in sight. “Have you seen the woman from the boat? The pretty one?”
Chaco shakes his head. “No, senor.” He hesitates, his expression pensive, then lifts his gaze to meet Lincoln’s. “I saw what happened, though. That man was going to shoot you.”
Lincoln rubs his hand over his head, doing his best to push away the steady throbbing that’s taken up residence deep in his temples. He doesn’t ask the kid if he told the police what he’d seen. Chaco’s line of work doesn’t exactly lend itself to being on good terms with the local law enforcement. “My brother’s been arrested.”
Chaco’s face falls, and Lincoln bleakly marvels at Michael’s ability to inspire loyalty and admiration in the most unlikely of candidates. “I’m sorry.” He frowns, then his face brightens. “You could go to the American Embassy!”
On another day, Lincoln might smile. Not today. “Yeah, that did occur to me.” The fading light has him checking his watch with a frown, his other hand going to the pocket holding his wallet. A couple of millions dollars lying in sludge underneath a goddamned jetty, and he’s got forty-eight fucking bucks. The urge to punch something very hard sparks in his blood, making it hard to breathe.
Chaco’s dark eyes follow his hands, his gaze sharpening with an intuitive gleam. “You need money, senor?”
Lincoln looks at him. The kid couldn’t be more than seventeen. He’s the same age as LJ, and Lincoln suddenly sends up a prayer of thanksgiving that his son is safe in Washington, far away from this fucking mess. “Is it that obvious?”
The kid hesitates, his internal struggle playing out on his face, then he slides his hand into his own pocket. “Your brother, he was a generous man.” He draws out a wad of cash, and Lincoln recognises it as the money Michael had given the kid several hours ago. “He paid me twice what we agreed.” He glances around, his shoulders hunched as he turns his body towards Lincoln, sheltering the movements of his hands from any prying eyes. A few seconds later, he’s holding out a small roll of hundred dollar bills, literally pushing it into Lincoln’s hand. “Money opens doors that words cannot, senor.”
Lincoln’s chest tightens as he curls his fist around the cash. “Thanks, man.”
Chaco nods, then steps back, his manner once again that of a cheerful street hustler. “Good luck, senor.” With that, the kid slips away into the fading daylight, and Lincoln is once again alone.
Alone, but no longer as desperate. He’s got money in his pocket and the Embassy in his sights. Maybe Sara is already there, he realises with a jolt, and almost slaps himself in the forehead for not thinking of it sooner. He starts the long walk back into town, the pounding in his head keeping time with the sound of his boots hitting the ground.
Money opens doors that words cannot. Chaco’s words fresh in his mind and Westmoreland’s cash heavy in his pocket, Lincoln takes a deep breath and quickens his pace, because they’ve come too far, and he’s not going to let it all be for nothing.
~*~
“Man, can you believe this bullshit?”
LJ grins at his classmate as they drag books from their lockers. “It’s just an essay.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got basketball tonight, and I’m working with my dad all day tomorrow.” James slams his locket shut. “I don’t have time to take a crap, let alone write five thousand words about civil rights.”
LJ looks at him. “You’re working with your dad every Saturday now?”
James grunts as he loads books into his backpack. “Yeah. Hardware store’s busy at the moment, and a couple of his usual guys are on vacation. It sucks.”
Shouldering his own backpack, LJ knows that working in his dad’s store is a privilege he’ll probably never experience. “You’ll live,” he says flatly, trying not to think of the fact that he hasn’t heard from his father in over a week. He knows his dad is still alive - Jane wouldn’t lie to him about that - but that doesn’t make his silence sting any less.
The black SUV is waiting outside the school gates, just like it is every afternoon. As he glimpses the driver, he stops, frowning. Being careful to stay out of sight, he pulls his cell phone out of his backpack and turns it on. There’s one new text message - it’s from Jane, telling him simply that Rawlins will be collecting him this afternoon. There’s no further explanation, but that’s not unusual. She doesn’t like to waste words, and her text messages are no less abrupt.
Rawlins gets out of the car as LJ gets closer, wearing the usual undercover bodyguard uniform of crappy polo shirt and tailored pants. LJ gives him a half-hearted wave. He can’t believe Jane’s subjected him to a whole thirty minutes alone with this guy. He’s as boring as batshit. “Where’s Jane?”
“She’s been detained, sorry.” Rawlins smiles at him. “You’ll have to put up with me this afternoon, LJ.”
“It’s Matthew.”
The man frowns. “What?”
LJ scowls as he brushes past the newest member of Jane’s seemingly endless arsenal of bodyguards. “The name’s Matthew, remember?” It’s bad enough he has to use a fake name. He shouldn’t have to remind the hired goons who he’s pretending to be.
“Matthew, right. Sorry.”
It’s not until the SUV has pulled away from the school, that LJ realises that they’re not alone in the car. By the time the shadow has risen from its hiding place in the backseat, it’s too late. There’s a heavy hand gripping his shoulder, the barrel of a gun digging into the back of his head. Mute with shock, LJ looks at Rawlins, sitting behind the wheel, but the older man only smiles. “Sorry, Matthew, but there’s been a change of plans.”
LJ feels the blood drain from his face, his stomach heaving as though he’s about to be sick. Jane. Jane doesn’t know about Rawlins. Oh, fuck, Jane. What if they’ve - Unable to finish the thought, he glares at the man to whom Jane had entrusted his life, picturing his dad smashing his nose right through to the other side of his head. “My name’s LJ Burrows, dickhead.”
~*~
He’d once read a horror story in which one hour on Earth equalled one year in Hell. After twenty-four hours in Sona, he’s ready to believe it. In his worst nightmares, in every dark childhood terror, there was never anything that could have prepared him for this. No, he corrects himself hazily, that’s not quite true. Michael can remember ancient nightmares in which familiar faces would appear in all the wrong places, sneering and mocking, taunting him with their secret knowledge of his heart and soul. It seems that nightmares can come true after all.
He slips through the press of reeking human traffic, avoiding the avid gazes of those inmates desperate enough to be impressed by his so-called victory. He especially avoids the gaze of the man who has just saved his life, the thought of having to thank him for doing so sticking like a burr in his throat. A life for life, he thinks, then he remembers his father’s dying breath, hot against his face, and he knows that it’s not enough.
Ignoring the pleading look from the half-naked man who had once made his life at Fox River a misery - Christ, what he’d give to be back inside those walls instead of this stinking hole - he seeks out what refuge he can find in his cell. Alone, he finds himself once again reaching for the paper bird in his back pocket, sliding his fingertips over its smooth, familiar lines. He’d made it aboard the freighter that had brought them to Panama, finding a tiny amount of solace in the thought that he would somehow send it to Sara once they’d arrived, once he’d found out where she was.
I don’t know where she is, man.
Michael closes his eyes, the first time he’s let himself do so in hours, Lincoln’s words echoing in his head. Grief tears at his insides, hollowing him out as he presses the paper crane between his hands, one palm almost bruising the other, as if trying to bury the gift once meant for Sara beneath his skin.
They’ve been through so much. The thought that it might have all been for nothing is unbearable. One more day, Lincoln had said. As soon as he’s transferred, he can start helping Lincoln in his efforts to find her. Tomorrow, as soon as he’s transferred, they will find her. For a few moments, he’d had almost everything, everything he’d wanted ever since he’d first stepped foot in Fox River. It had taken less than the space of a dying heartbeat for it to be snatched away. Now, he has a paper bird and the memory of a passionate kiss of desperation, the ghost of a dream realised too late.
His thoughts are not easy company, and it’s a relief when he hears his name being called over the loudspeaker. He doesn’t even care if it’s yet another wannabe Company shill. Anything is better than sitting in his cell thinking about everything he’s lost.
He waits at the end of the visitation pen, watching his brother as he strides across the open field. Even from this distance, he looks tired. Anxious. Gripping the mesh fence, Michael greets him quietly, even though there’s no one around to hear them. “Hey.” Michael waits for him to speak, but Lincoln merely looks at him, his eyes strangely hollow. “How we coming with the transfer?”
Lincoln’s sweating profusely, even though the sun’s not as hot as it was yesterday, and as soon as he speaks, Michael knows why. “There are some people that want you to break someone out of there.”
Michael lets out a shaky breath, the hot air swallowing up his sigh. “Yeah, I know. Some guy already approached me.” He looks at Lincoln, knowing he’ll understand. “I said ‘no thank you’.”
His brother looks down at the dirt at his feet, then up at him, his expression unnaturally stiff. “You gotta stay.”
Michael stares at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
A muscle twitches in Lincoln’s jaw. “His name’s James Whistler.”
“No.” The word falls out of his mouth before he even has time to form the thought. “No, no, no, Linc.” He gives his brother a pleading look, the mere thought of trying to plan, to run, already sapping his strength. “I can’t do that again.”
Lincoln’s throat works as he swallows. “Michael-” Shaking his head, he pulls an unfamiliar cell phone out of his pocket, holding it up so he can see the video screen. Michael stares at it, his hands falling away from the wire fence as shock washes coldly over him, making him shiver despite the heat. It takes a split-second for his mind to process what he’s seeing, and then he’s knows he’s looking at Sara.
She’s sitting slumped in a wooden chair, the dark tangle of her hair hanging over her face. The image is frozen in time for a heartbeat, then it starts to move, and he sees LJ’s face, sees LJ holding up a newspaper with today’s date, hears a disembodied voice shouting at LJ to talk.
“Dad.” LJ’s voice is thick with tears. “Dad. I’m so sorry. They got me and Sara.”
Michael feels his knees sway beneath him, his face growing hot, his back becoming slick with sweat. No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
“Please, do what they want.” LJ’s voice slices through the hot air once more, his eyes filled with panic. “Dad, please.”
The image freezes on his nephew’s face, but Michael can still see the curve of Sara’s back. He remembers the smooth feel of that white shirt beneath his hands, the softness of her hair against his palms, and he wants to fall to his knees and weep. The screen goes black, but Michael can’t bring himself to look away. Fighting the urge to reach out and touch the screen through the fence, he instead curls his fingers through the wire mesh, gripping it so tightly that it cuts into his skin.
His brother’s voice seems to come from a long way away. “You got a week to find this Whistler guy and get him out of there.” Lincoln clears his throat, but it does nothing to disguise the pain in his voice. “Otherwise they, uh, Sara and LJ- ” He hesitates again, but it doesn’t matter, because Michael already knows what he’s going to say. “They both die.”
Mute with horror, Michael lifts his head to stare at his brother, silently pleading with him to tell him that this isn’t real, that it’s nothing more than a sick joke. But the darkness in his brother’s eyes tells him that this is all very real, and that he has one week to work a miracle or they lose everything.
“I’m sorry, man, but there was nothing I could do.” Lincoln’s eyes are glittering with anger and frustration, and Michael's heart feels as though it's being torn in two. “You gotta do this, Michael.”
Michael closes his eyes, thinking of Lincoln’s face after he’d last spoken to his son, supposedly tucked away safe in Washington. He thinks of Sara’s face after she’d pulled the trigger, the soft warmth of her pressed against him as she whispered desperate words of love. He thinks of his father, buried in some God-forsaken backwater. He thinks of all their sacrifice and pain and grief, of their suffering for the greater good, and anger starts to burn deep inside him, his exhaustion falling away as adrenalin begins to hum beneath his skin. His palm pressed flat against the paper crane in his pocket, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Tell me everything you know,” he says quietly, knowing there’s no other way, that they’ve come too far, and that there’s always something that can be done.
~*~