Author's Note: This is my first attempt at a fanfic of any kind. This chapter's kind of...short, but they get longer. Don't worry.
Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own any of these characters. Prison Break and all related elements, characters, and indicia are copyright Paul Scheuring, 20th Century Fox Television, Adelstein-Parouse Productions, and Original Television.
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Sucre had glanced down just in time to see C-Note's chest be ripped open by the slug, sending him slamming into the ladder before toppling backwards onto the catwalk. For a moment, he froze in terror, and then realized he would be next in line.
The top of the ladder placed the four remaining men inside another concrete tunnel, longer than the first. With hunched backs, they all ran through the pipe, keeping their heads low to avoid knocking it on the cement, splashing in the murky puddles.
The putrid stench finally faded into a welcoming breeze of cold air, and the return of wailing sirens, farther away than when they'd ducked into the first tunnel. They burst through the opening and found themselves in an algae-covered ditch, the banks a good six feet high, slanting upwards.
Michael was in the lead, his eyes darting in every direction, searching frantically for his next move. Sucre was indeed his friend, but he couldn't risk his own life, and more importantly, his brother's, for anything. He knew Bellick would be emerging from the pipe in about a minute, so acting fast was mandatory, as usual. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember his contingency plan. It had worked so far, minus the unfortunate incident with C-Note, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Yet another death rested on Michael's shoulders because of his determination to clear his brother's name.
His eyes scanned the area, finally seeing a bush that triggered his memory.
He ran over to it and rummaged inside, pulling out a small black garbage bag. He tore it open and pulled out a small .38 caliber pistol, seriously regretting what had to be done now.
"Abruzzi, come here," he said, no longer needing to shout, the helicopter having lost their trail. He breathed in a deep breath and released it slowly, handing the gun to the ex-mob boss. "There's one shot in there. We need to hide on either side of that pipe, and wait for Bellick to come out, and then you need to…" His voice trailed off as he shut his eyes momentarily. "Make it count," he said flatly, as he directed Sucre to wait with Abruzzi on one side, while he took Lincoln to the other. They had barely made their cover when they heard the man's footsteps pounding on the cement, his breath coming in short, rugged gasps, the beam of his flashlight dancing around.
Abruzzi grasped the pistol and held it close to his chest, anticipating Bellick's appearance. When he finally rushed out of the pipe, Abruzzi was grateful that he had run a good six or seven feet out. He aimed the gun carefully before taking a step forward.
The algae-covered leaves made a sickening squish, and Bellick whirled around just as Abruzzi fired a shot right under the Officer's left eye.
Bellick's legs crumbled beneath him as he fell backwards, his weight making an even more disgusting sound as he fell on the moist ground. Abruzzi held the barrel of the pistol to his nose, inhaling the smoke, letting a smile cross his face.
Sucre's eyes were wide with horror, with a slight hint of excitement as Michael and Lincoln came into view.
"Wipe the gun, get rid of it," Michael said flatly, obviously feeling remorse would what had just happened. After all, it was his fault. He stepped over to the Captain's body and removed his .9-millimeter, his handcuffs, and police radio. Nothing else was of value. Abruzzi leaned down, reaching for the shotgun, but he found Michael's newly acquired piece aimed at him. "Leave it, John," he said coldly, not wanting any confrontation. Abruzzi backed away and held his hands up defensively.
"Alright, Fish, your call," he said, a little too politely for Michael's liking.
He walked back to the bush and pulled out five backpacks, handing one to each of the men, keeping two for more himself.
"Westmoreland's," he muttered to himself as he stuffed the scanner and cuffs into his pack, followed by Westmoreland's, which he had to fold up to make it fit. The others were peering inside of their sacks, humored looks on their faces.
"How'd you do all of this, Scofield?" Sucre asked with a mischievous grin.
"I had to have a contingency plan, in case I couldn't get Abruzzi to cooperate." His tone was a dull, almost monotone sound as a myriad of thoughts raced through his mind. Shaking them free, he pulled himself together.
"It looked like he was the only one close to us, on foot. We should have a little more breathing room now. A chopper will probably be around soon, checking for a sign of him. We need to get him into that pipe, and then get out of here. We're almost ten miles away from Fox River now, but that's not far enough. In about three hours, we should be safe, if we keep up a decent pace. Let's do this."
They all lifted up a different part of Bellick's body, and scooted over, setting him down a little ways inside the pipe. Michael went back and retrieved the shotgun, placing it on the Officer's chest, casting another glance at Abruzzi, a warning to leave it alone.
Michael had got his point across, because everyone slung their backpacks over their shoulders and starting jogging through the night, knowing that time was the most precious thing they could hope to have right now.
The ground squished under their feet, and it would've been enough to turn a stomach if they hadn't been breathing so hard. Michael had guessed that their attempts at throwing off the K-9 dogs had worked; he couldn't hear any barking or shouting, only crickets and owls in the night.
Twenty minutes into their run, everyone was beyond winded, and Michael decided it was time to change.
"Alright," he said to everyone when they had stopped, all of them leaning their back against the slanted ditch. "We need to get out of these clothes. We're far enough, dogs can't follow our scent, and our new clothes smell like a thrift store." They all started to strip out of their clothes, to the bare minimums, and then redressed with the garments in their bags. "Keep the other outfit," Michael said, almost as an afterthought.
All of them were clad in either faded dark jeans or slacks, and assorted short sleeves worn under their new long sleeves, except for Lincoln, who had them reversed. They all sported caps with names of places none of them had heard of, but it was alright. Now they looked like normal, lower class people.
Michael shrugged back into his backpack and clapped his hands together. "Let's go, we're losing nighttime." Just like that, they were back to a brisk jog through the muddy ditch.
