Summary: Sucre is hurt, so Michael and Lincoln abduct a doctor, adding to their list of felonies. Rated T for violence, language. It's not any worse than the actual show, so...

Note: The italics are a flashback. I only started watching Prison Break recently, so there may be some inaccuracies, and for those, I apologize. I am also very aware that this is not at all how the events following Bolshoi Booze transpired, which leads us to the…

…Disclaimer: I don't own Prison Break.

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"He's bleedin' pretty bad, Mike." Lincoln said, pressing a rag against Sucre's back.

Sucre made to stand. "It ain't nothin', man." He insisted, as Lincoln forced him back down.

"Take deep breaths. Relax." Lincoln ordered.

Sucre forced a laugh. "If you were me, would you be relaxed?" There was a pause, as

Sucre took several deep, shaky breaths. Lincoln stood, and walked over to where Michael stood, starring at the men who laid lifelessly.

"So many…" The younger brother murmured. "So many… for what?"

"Michael!" Lincoln snapped, grabbing Michael's arm. "Sucre needs a doctor, now."

Michael turned his head towards Lincoln slightly. "Sara." He whispered. "We get Sara, and she can help Sucre."

"He needs a doctor now, Michael!"

"Guys, guys, how am I supposed to relax with you two fightin' like this?" Sucre asked, interrupting their argument. Both brothers were silent. "Now," Sucre continued, "call Sara, Michael. See where she is."

Lincoln glanced at Sucre, then at his brother. Michael slid his cell phone into his hand, and dialed the familiar number.

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After Mahone had stumbled across them just after Bolshoi Booze, Michael, Lincoln, and Sucre had decided that the agent probably knew or guessed that they would attempt to fly out of the country. And if the agent had known about Bolshoi Booze, it wasn't a big jump to consider that Mahone knew all about the plane as well. From the makeshift grave, the trio had driven somberly west for several hours, finally stopping in a small town for gas and food a little after nine at night. Michael remained outside, filling the tank, while Sucre and Lincoln and Sucre went inside to pay and buy the food.

"You boys from around here?" The middle-aged clerk asked, scanning their purchases.

"Not really." Lincoln replied, when Sucre didn't.

"What'cha doin' in a place like this, then?" The man inquired. Sucre shrugged, and the clerk fell temporarily silent. "Cash or credit?" He asked a moment later.

"Cash." Lincoln answered, placing a twenty on the counter.

The clerk picked it up, and pressed several buttons on the register. He frowned, and pressed the keys again. "Devil machine's actin' up again." The clerk smiled reassuringly. "Ernie!" He shouted. To them, he said, "Don't worry; Ernie'll get you your change."

While they waited, Lincoln glanced around, trying not to appear as anxious as he felt. He wished that they had gotten a little closer to their destination before being forced to stop. Lincoln knew that they would drive through the night. Michael remained confident that missing the plane was a minor setback, that they could cross the border on the ground and then continue with Michael's plan, but only if they kept moving. Lincoln glanced at a stack of newspapers, curious to see what was going on in the world. That was one of the disadvantages of being on the run; he didn't exactly have time to do anything but protect himself and LJ and Michael. Sucre too, but the Puerto Rican didn't need anyone to look out for him; he could take care of himself. Michael, on the other hand, was a completely different story. It was a good thing that Michael was usually a normal, law-abiding citizen, because he made a terrible criminal. Lincoln considered this for a moment, before concluding that this was because Michael, unlike say T-Bags, had a conscious.

Lincoln's eyes grew wide as his gaze settled on a paper flyer that was taped to the wall. 'Fox River 8 Still At Large!' The flyer read. Beneath the heading were pictures and descriptions of himself, along with all the other escapees. Lincoln glanced anxiously at the clerk, who was calling for Ernie again.

"You know what, the change doesn't matter." Lincoln said, deciding that he and Sucre needed to get out of there as soon as they could without arising suspicion.

The clerk glanced up. "Oh, don't you worry, it'll just be a moment. Ernie probably just dozed off again. Ernie!"

"Yeah man. It'll just be a minute." Sucre repeated to Lincoln, giving him a questioning look. Lincoln tilted his head slightly towards the flyer. Sucre looked at it, seeming uneasy. The clerk, perceiving their sudden anxiety, followed Sucre's gaze.

"Oh, don't you worry 'bout them. They won't make it this far south…" The clerk trailed off, looking back at the men. "Oh my… ERNIE!"

As one, Sucre and Lincoln turned and strode quickly towards the exit. "Oh no you don't!" The clerk shouted after them. "ERNIE!"

Someone tackled Lincoln, knocking the wind out of him. He struggled to breathe for a few seconds, before series of quick punches knocked into him. The beating subsided as man slammed into Lincoln's assailant. Lincoln quickly climbed to his feet to see Michael rolling on the ground with a man who was presumably Ernie. Seeing that Michael seemed to have him under control, Lincoln turned to Sucre, who was wrestling with the clerk. Sucre knocked him back over the counter with a forceful blow, and he and Lincoln turned their attention to Michael, who was now on the receiving end of the beating. Michael yelped as a fist encountered his stomach. Lincoln's blood boiled; it was his job to protect his younger brother! Something in the man snapped, and he pulled his gun out of his belt, and fired once, twice into Ernie's back. Ernie fell gracelessly to the ground, bleeding rapidly onto the filthy tiles.

Lincoln lowered his weapon, assessing the damage to Michael. The younger brother didn't appear to have suffered any serious damage, so Lincoln helped him to his feet. Lincoln raised the gun again when Sucre screamed. He fired three times in quick succession at the clerk, who was standing next to Sucre now, digging a knife into the Latin man's back. The clerk collapsed against the counter, blood pouring out of a bullet's entry wound in his head.

Lincoln leapt over a stack of soda to reach Sucre. He and Michael lowered Sucre carefully to the ground, despite his protests. "I'm fine, hombres! Let me go!" Sucre said. Lincoln reached out, to remove the knife, but Michael's hand stopped him.

Michael shook his head. "You're never supposed to remove the object. If the knife hit an artery or vein, it's keeping him from bleeding out. The knife could be keeping him alive." Lincoln glanced at him, before nodding. It made sense. He stooped down to examine Sucre's wound. Michael turned to where the clerk's corpse was positioned haphazardly against the register counter, biting his lip. "He didn't deserve to die." Michael whispered.

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"Sara, it's me." Michael said. "If you're there, if you can hear this, it's very important for you to answer." He paused, waiting. Lincoln sighed, and moved down an aisle, searching for bandages. "Sara, are you there? Sara, I-" Michael stopped suddenly, and snapped his phone shut. "She didn't answer."

"There was a sign, for a hospital, about twenty minutes back." Lincoln suggested. "He's stabbed pretty good, Mike, he needs stitches at least."

Michael stared at nothing in particular, trying to decide what to do. "None of us can go in a hospital." He commented, a moment later.

Lincoln nodded. "No."

"We'd have to take someone with us, for a bit."

"Yeah."

"I don't like this."

"We have to do what we have to do, Michael."

"I know."

"Help me carry him to the car." Lincoln instructed, carefully lifting Sucre's shoulders.

"Please don't drop me!" Sucre moaned.

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