Link waits impatiently, his foot tapping on the floor. It seems like every thirty seconds he glances at his watch in the dark, becoming more agitated each time. As the seconds tick by, his hand instinctively fiddles with the symbol around his neck. Even though he knows he's about to do the most dangerous thing he's ever done, his thoughts keep turning back to Ella.

He knew neither of them intended to form any sort of relationship- she was hired by Michael to help them escape, but that night she spent in his cell something much deeper surfaced between them.

Ella scares him- he knows that for sure. The way she can change from the sweet, gentle girl with the cute smile into a lethal psychopath in less than a second, confuses, terrifies and excites him. Is she the girl or the monster? And yet after what she had told him in the infirmary, he can understand all of the things she has done. Link wonders if someone made her into a monster, can he help her change back? Does he want her because she is dangerous? No. Why then? Because of everything- everything she is, everything she has ever done; everything about her that makes her so different. What a cliché. He wants her. If only he could talk to her. The way Ella sees the world is so different, could she ever understand the kiss he had shared with Veronica. Would he get a chance to explain? The alarm on his digital watch calls out in the darkness, interrupting his thoughts and sending his heart racing. He drags the bed away from the wall as quickly and quietly as possible, following Ella's instructions to the letter. He pulls the necklace leather in two and carefully pushes the sticky explosive against the wall. Then flips the bed on its side as far away from the volatile explosive as possible and takes up position behind it for protection. He waits, crouched in what he hopes is safety for the explosive to dry, takes aim and throws the metal symbol at the rubber line that holds the putty to the wall.

In a flash, the darkness lifts and the quiet night becomes thick with sound. His sight blurs as his eyes fight to recover from the sudden, intense blaze of light and all noise is muffled; everything sounds like it is under water. The room becomes overwhelmed by dust, choking the breath in Lincolns' lungs as he struggles to his feet.

Alone in his cell, Michael fidgets with the date dial of his watch. Eight minutes to midnight. In his mind he envisages Link going through the steps, preparing the device, taking shelter, aiming. A vibration in the floor of the cell travels up his legs as the hand on his wristwatch moves to seven minutes to midnight. Right on time. The lights flicker and go out. Michael depresses the date dial sending out a signal, hoping that he and his brother can find their way out of this darkness and into the light.

Westmoreland wakes to the cracking sound of thunder rolling through the prison. He smiles to himself as he turns over, pulling the pillow around his ears for protection, knowing Michael Schofield, his last hope of reaching his daughter in time, is a man of his word.

The walls shudder deep in the bowels of the prison, as dust falls on Sucre's almost bald head. There is no silence now, just a series of explosions, one after another echoing in a deafening tirade down the cold brick corridors, threatening to burst his eardrums. He screams as he prays again, though nothing can be heard but the noise outside. Sucre instinctively covers his ears trying hopelessly to drown out the thunder and waits for the sirens to begin.