Author's Note: I am working towards updating once a week, and I got off to a great start. Work was a little hectic, but I'm hoping to catch up or even *gasp* get ahead of schedule on my days off. Also this story has not been beta-read so until I find another victim, I mean helper, all mistakes are mine. Now last, but not least, I am also posting this story on my livejournal...which I'm still learning to use. If you want to read it there, my livejournal is: .com/.

That is all, now go and read this wonderfully long chapter and don't forget to r&r!

Chapter I

The Distraction

The vinyl seats were held together with duct-tape, had broken springs and were sticky to the touch. The air conditioner only stirred the hot, stale air, and did absolutely nothing for the smell. The windows were barred shut for safety. Frank Jacobs kept his complaints to himself, though. Not that his silence encouraged any of the twenty teenagers from moaning, groaning and cursing. He wasn't surprised, it wasn't like he was taking a group of Eagle Scouts on a camping trip. His boys he would eat Scouts for dinner and have room leftover for dessert. This wasn't a pleasure trip by any stretch of the imagination.

Frank had been working in juvenile corrections and parole for going on fifteen years. It wasn't a job that got easier with time and experience. The kids got younger, more violent and more jaded, and there were more of them every year. The boys with him today were in danger of becoming beyond his help. Gangs, drugs, death: life was hard on the street. He knew he wasn't going to get through to all of them, or even most of them. If he could get through to one, though, the trip would be more than worth it. Ely State Prison wasn't a place most people went voluntarily, but he went four times a year. Every trip he took the boys that were on the brink of going too far. This was his last-ditch effort to save them.

Ritchie Inman, his right hand man, was trying to keep the peace and the driver ignored them completely. They were almost there, Frank checked his watch and his clipboard one more time.

They'd brought twenty kids with them on this trip. The youngest of them was thirteen and the oldest had just turned seventeen. Not a single on of them had to shave, but their rapsheets already rivaled their adult counterparts. He had white, black, Korean, Mexican, Salvadoran, and Chinese boys with difrint gang aligances with plenty to prove. It was a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

A sudden hush fell over the bus when they reached the prison gates. High walls topped with razor wire, guard towers with spot lights and guards armed with semi machine guns made everything suddenly more real. Ely State wasn't juvie and it wasn't county lockup, it was the real hardcore deal. The Prison was a massive square compound whose nucleus was cut in two by the central buildings. The sparse green patches of inmate tended grass stood out sharply against the dirt and dust of the natural desert. The prison looked neither kind nor welcoming; it was an oddity in the bleak and unforgiving landscape that lay only nine miles away from the town it took its name from.

Most of the boys were from the Las Vegas or Carson City metro-areas and were far more used to glittering lights and endless stretches of housing projects. It was the first in a series of shocks that they would have to deal with. The bus rolled through the "business" gates and Frank got ready for the long, grueling day ahead. These boys weren't visitors, and they weren't going to be treated like it. They were about to be stripped, searched, booked and given prison uniforms and identification. They would be given the same treatment and consideration as any other man in the prison. If that wasn't enough, which it usually wasn't, there were some men who were going to lay out exactly what was waiting for them. Those who thought their "boys" on the inside would take up for them were about to get a rude awakening. They all thought they would be sitting safe and sound in a big room listening to lectures and watching videos. They couldn't be any more off base. This wasn't going to be a spectator sport. Their parents, guardians or the state when applicable had agreed that this was their last and best hope.

The bus screeched to a halt at the Ely Prisoner Transfer Center at 10:04 am the teenage thugs, bad boys and gangbangers found that they weren't in Vegas anymore.

The administrative wing, as the hallway of offices and meeting rooms was called, could have been located anywhere: a warehouse, a low-rent office building, or even the back-hallways and service areas of a hotel. The bars on the windows and thick steel doors were more then enough of a reminder that the offices were apart of a prison. The walls were utilarian gray and the floors were poured concrete covered by a cheap carpet. It was a somewhat overwhelming experience, especially for a job interview.

"Well, Mister Doakes, you have an excellent resume." Ellen Powers, Assistant Warden, smiled at the man sitting on the other side of her desk. "And a wonderful letter of recommendation. Any corporation would be thrilled to have you. So you've worked at Tangiers, Circus Circus and Mandalay Bay, and now you're applying here."

The forty-something man sighed, "I have a gambling problem, Ms. Powers. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, "A very serious one, and quite frankly I almost lost my wife and daughters because of it. I need this job." He licked his lips, "And I am willing to do whatever you need me to."

A small part of that was, a very small part, was true. Oliver had a gambling problem, a wife and two daughters and a very big problem. He didn't need the low-level accounting job at the prison, though. The job he was already working was going to set everything right again. Then he would just stay away from temptation. No more high-stakes poker games until the crack of dawn, no more high-rollers blackjack or craps marathons. He was getting out of the grave he'd dug and he would be done once and for all.

He licked his lips again, and would swear he could hear his thundering heartbeat echo in the small room. "Despite my little problem, I have a very solid work ethic."

A small smile crossed Powers' face, "Well, Oliver, we're all about second chances here."

This was his second, or was it his third, chance and he couldn't mess it up. It was all business, his business, to keep his family together. He had to do this, he didn't have a choice.

Oliver's smile was wane and his handshake was a little on the clammy side. "I'm sorry, Ellen."

She dropped his hand, "I beg your pardon?"

He looked at the clock mounted on the wall behind her desk. His family could never, ever, know about this. Heather would never forgive him and his daughters, well he had no idea what he would say to them.

"I'm really sorry about this."

He sank his hand into his blazer pocket and tried to think of something else. The plastic box was heavy in his hand, but he brought it out quickly.

Ellen saw the taser, and recognized it immediately as several guards carried similar devices, coming at her. Training that she had hoped she'd never need kicked in and she kicked her legs and sent her chair rolling back and away from the taser. She threw up her arm to deflect it. The self-defense lessons were useless, she'd never learned how to avoid an electric shock. She took the hit to the right side of her chest and it instantly paralyzed her. The pain was overpowering it was like being stabbed with fiery needle. Her muscles jerked and jolted and her stomach lurched. It felt like she was going to throw up, cry and scream all at the same time. She couldn't do anything, though, it hurt too much.

Oliver lowered her to the carpeted floor. "You don't understand, but I'm really sorry."

The woman blinked up at him, confused and in pain. He could see the muscle in her cheek and neck twitch under her skin. Though she looked nothing like any of his three girls, he couldn't help but think of his wife and children.

"You'll be safe here, I promise."

Oliver offered a weak smile to the woman's now closed eyelids. He felt like he was going to vomit. Oliver, Ollie to his friends, wasn't a violent man by nature, he reminded himself for the fifteenth time. He hadn't even spanked Tracy or Mina when they were little.

He didn't have a choice.

He sat down in Ellen's chair and it squeaked in protest. It knew what he had done to it's usual sitter. His nervous laughter at that thought echoed in the small office. He sounded a little crazy.

Oliver opened his portfolio folder back up and slid the thin USB memory stick out of it's little pocket. He almost dropped it because his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Ellen's computer sat on the desk, humming away. She had a cute kitten screen-saver, he hit the mouse to make it go away. The desktop picture, Ellen with a young man in a cap and gown, was no better. He licked his lips again and made himself focus. The cords running out of the back of the tower hooked it to the prison's main server. He plugged the USB into the easy-access slot and watched the computer recognize the device, then opened the file. Windows made everything ridiculously easy.

He looked at his watch, it had been a gift from his wife, and licked his lips again. It was almost time.

Rodney Campbell grunted and threw his shoulder into pushing the heavy cart along the stacks. There were several hundred books in the prison's library and it felt like every single one of them were stacked in the cart. It wouldn't be so damn heavy if the other man on Library detail got off his ass and did something. The Library work detail was the single best and easiest detail you could pull. It had taken Rodney ten years to land the job. The lazy, spoiled, pretty boy sitting at the table had been given the detail on a silver platter six and a half years ago. Six and a half years and Rodney had literally never seen him do anything. It had to be nice to have a rich daddy.

"Hey, Ro-Ro."

He blew a snort of air out of his nose, he hated that name. It wasn't a big enough annoyance, though, to start an argument. Scottie Shelton was another pain in the ass. The man was perpetually "working on his appeal" so he got to spend plenty of time in the library. Scottie and Dudley-Do-Nothing often spent the entire shift running their mouths.

He looked up from the chest high shelf he'd been working on, "Yeah?"

Scottie leaned against one of the concrete pillars, "I'm bored. Do you have anything good? No faggy magicians or gay paintings or ass-spelunking cowboys, just something good to read, ya know. "

Rodney just looked at him.

"Fine, I'll just look myself." He shouldered by Rodney, and started to rifle through the cart. The guard at the door watched, but did nothing. No one would believe him if he said anything. A couple of pampered white boys picking on the two-hundred and eight-five pound black ex-d-line tackle? It sounded ridiculous even to him and he was living it.

He sighed, "What are you looking for?" He'd been in the library for enough years to find any book at any given time in his sleep.

Scottie finally pulled up an old, dog-eared hardback, Edible Plants of the Mojave Desert, "This'll work."

That was funny, Rodney thought as he shelved the next couple of books in the Ts, he had never figured Scottie as an outdoorsmen. Unless you counted the occasional softball game in the yard, which Rodney didn't. The man was pasty, balding and was, generally, a waste of space. Still, any man who liked to read couldn't be all bad.

"If you like that," He rambled off almost automatically, "I think I have a couple of desert hunting and trapping guides over on the shelf."

"I've never really been into hunting, Ro Ro, well, except," He flipped through the book' pages, "do you have a copy of The Most Dangerous Game?"

Rodney frowned, why did that sound familiar? "I don't thin-"

His voice went hoarse and then completely out, right in the middle of a syllable. Scott's movement was almost a blur and the crude hand-made knife was just sharp enough to be effective. Rodney looked down at his stomach. It was such a little piece of white plastic, he couldn't believe it hurt so much. He also realized that the knife had been hidden inside of the book. How had he missed that? The knife had been hidden inside one of his books. God, what kind of nightmare was this? It was such a little cut though, surely it wouldn't be too bad. Blood spurted out of his gut and coated his clothes, fingers, hands and forearms. Rodney looked over towards the desk, and hoped to see help coming. The Guard was gone and while the desk was occupied, Scott's best buddy was kicked back. His feet were propped up on the counter and he was casually reading a magazine.

Scott pulled his shiv up, tearing through clothe, skin and flesh, until it came out completely. The sudden gush of extra blood made Rodney crumple to his knees.

He realized, in a rush of nausea and horror, that he had been gutted.

Scott stood over him, knife in hand. "It's nothing personal, Ro Ro, it's just the Boss's orders."

He moved again, arm flying fast and sure, and Rodney's glasses flew off his face and hit the bottom of the bookshelf with a crack. The make-shift knife obliterated his left eye and stuck in the socket like a nail in a tire. Blood and fluid poured down Rodney's face like tears. He blinked his good eye, trying to bring the world back into focus. He wasn't exactly sure what had just happened or who was screaming.

The library that he knew so well was out of focus. The strait spines of the perfectly organized and alphabetized books around him began to merge into a blurry mass of shifting color. He half crawled, half rolled until his fever-hot and sticky with blood cheek touched the cool concrete wall. He collapsed against the wall and tried to call out for help. He could barely whisper. Blood was filling up his hands and dripping down to the floor despite his best efforts to hold it in his gut. His face hurt, his eye was gone and the entire room was spinning.

Death, Rodney decided, was a bad-ass trip. It felt like a potent mix of acid and absinthe. The pain, nausea and disorientation spun in his head like a red and black cyclone and rolled through his body like a bittersweet fog. Tears leaked out of his good eye and he was afraid. He didn't want to die alone. He didn't deserve that, no one deserved that.

He took his right hand off his stomach, not that it mattered, and reached up the wall. He knew the library better then any other man in Ely. He knew every inch of space and every book that was contained in it. He also knew exactly where the fire alarm was. His fingers, slick with blood, found the lever easily. His last act was to pull it down with all of his remaining strength. He didn't hear the shrill tone of the alarm. Instead he heard his own last breathe echo in his head. A mere minute later the sprinkler system came on, and showered the room and the entire prison with luke-warm water. The books in the library were ruined, but the man who had cared for them did nothing to protect them. The water sprayed down on Rodney Campbell's body, but the lifer was far beyond such small inconveniences as that.

Tyler Goodsong and Dustin Johnson had spent the morning patrolling the halls and had supervised breakfast. They rotated to the yard's watchtower at ten and were already more then ready for lunch.

Both men scanned for trouble, eyes constantly moving.

"So Jenna wants us to go to some couple's retreat with her church next weekend."

Dustin actually turned to look at his co-worker and best friend, "You're kidding."

"No," Tyler grumbled, "she's already packed-for both of us."

Dustin let out a curse, "But I got us tickets on the fifty-yard line! We'll practically be able to hear Sanford screaming at Omar Clayton! It's the BYU Game, man. The Rebels are going to stomp those Mormons into the turf."

It was September and the college season was still young, but Dustin and Tyler were already looking forward to rooting for the Rebels at a bowl game.

Tyler shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Dustin was a great guy, his best friend, but he had become a little clingy since his marriage had hit the skids. Tyler's marriage was less then a year old and Jenna was quickly growing tired of sharing him with his friend. "I know, but it's important to her, you know. Besides she's still pretty pissed about what happened last month." He didn't have to clarify exactly what event he was talking to, Dustin knew he'd been way out of line.

"Ouch, okay so that was sort of my bad."

Puking all over their new deck and in the pristine pool had definitely been Dustin's bad. The fact that he'd done so in front of Jenna's parents, sister, and pastor hadn't helped matters at all.

"So yeah, I think I'm going to go to this retreat thing. Maybe it'll get me back into her good graces in time for play-offs."

Whatever it was that Dustin was about to say never made t out of his lips. The alarms starting going off. Their reaction was fast and automatic, Tyler grabbed the tear gas cartridges and launcher from their racks on the tower wall and Dustin grabbed the walkie-talkie off of his heavy leather belt.

"This is Tower Two, what's going on? We don't have anything in the yard." The only answer was static.

"What the hell is going on, is it another damn system check?" Tyler picked up the hardline phone and quickly slammed it down again, "I don't even have a dial tone."

Then bellow them, all hell broke loose. As soon as the alarm blared, men started attacking each other. It was like a bad action movie, all elbow jabs, dirty shots and guttural screams.

"Son of a bitch!"

Then there was the echoing blast of an automatic rifle. Tyler and Dustin looked at each other in disbelief. The guards in Tower 1 were firing their weapons, their live weapons, down into the yard. It was going to, literally, be a bloodbath. Dustin froze in place for a moment. Beside him Tyler fired one of the gas canisters down into the crowd.

"Dude."

Tyler loaded another canister, "Not now."

"Ty, look." Dustin tugged him around and Tyler followed his pointed finger.

"Holy shit!"

"Oh man!"

One of the boys, Daniel Cho didn't know his name, from the group waved him over. Five of them were crouched down behind one of the concrete benches. "Man, you're bleeding, man."

Daniel looked down at his orange jumpsuit and was surprised to see blood splattered across it. "It's not mine." He had never been so incredibly afraid in his entire life. "It's not my blood." He crouched down with the other boys, "It's not my mine." There was gas, people shooting, men beating each other, it was everywhere. The screams were the worst, this wasn't how it was in his hood. Hell, movies and video games didn't even get like this. This was fucking war, and he just wanted to go home.

Another boy, a black kid with cornrows and a scar across his cheek looked up, "Christ, look at that!"

Daniel couldn't even think about looking up and seeing more blood and dead people.

"Those are helicopters! Oh God, they're like here to rescue us!"

The black kid jumped up and started waving his arms, "WE'RE OVER HERE!"

Daniel didn't know what the helicopters, two of them, were doing. "Are you sure they're here for us?" Panic rose up in his throat, if the choppers started shooting, they were all dead.

"Holy crap is that Officer Inman?"

Daniel looked up, hoping against hope that it was the big burly adult. He almost cried tears of joy when he saw that it was.

The Parole Officer was half-carrying one of their group. Daniel knew him, they went to the same school. Kevin was a white boy who sold hard drugs out of his locker at South Vegas High. He was holding a white-gone-yellow tee-shirt to his bleeding side and looked as scared as Daniel felt.

Officer Inman eased Kevin onto the ground, "You kids stay down. We're gonna be alright, one of those 'copters is coming from the military base. They're gonna get this under control and we're all going to go home." He looked at the seven of them one by one and settled on Daniel, "Danny Boy, I need you to watch Kevin while I signal our location. Just keep pressure on his shirt here. He's bleeding pretty bad and needs your help." Daniel nodded numbly, and did as he was told. He didn't like Kevin, they ran with different crews. At school or on the street he would have punched him rather then say hello. Now he just didn't want the other boy to die. Please God, he didn't want him to die.

Daniel and the other boys crouched on the ground and watched their Parole Officer. The man stood up, and unbuttoned and tore off the black and olive vest that identified him as a corrections officer. Underneath that he'd was wearing a plain white polo shirt with sweat stains underneath the arms. The only jewelry he wore was a St. Christopher's medal and it gleamed in the sun like a beacon.

Daniel watched in awe as the man climbed up on top of the concrete table. Inman started to wave the clothe above his head, like a flag, in long flowing arcs. It would be impossible not to see the black against the dusty concrete, orange uniforms and red blood.

Daniel could clearly see the helicopters now, two of them, coming their way. Beside him, Kevin let out a shaky breathe, "We're going to be okay guys."

Daniel didn't move his hand away from the bloody tee-shirt, but he squinted at the approaching helicopters. They had to see Inman, they just had to. The copters came close enough for Daniel to feel the wump-wump-wump of the spinning blades reverberate in his chest. One was actually landing, and the other hovered far above and to the side of it. They were safe!

Two men ran to the first helicopter then it took off. The helicopter started rising up in the air and it just left them all there.

"NO!"

He wanted to stand up and scream at them, he wanted to run towards the copter, but he kept his hand firmly over Kevin's bloody shirt.

"They left us!"

Inman turned, "There's another one, they're coming for us, boys. Don't worry, we'll get out of this."

He was right, Daniel assured himself. Of course the other copter was for them.

Another round of the seemingly endless gunfire started and they all ducked behind the table. The shots were close. Bits of concrete cut them as it flew around them. Daniel heard the groan and the thump and smelled the blood. Tears rose up in his eyes and he pressed on Kevin's shirt even harder. It didn't matter, Inman was dead, he just knew the man was dead, and they were all going to join him very soon.

He wanted to go home, he wanted his mom, but most of all he didn't want to die.

The orange-suited man all but leapt into her helicopter. Despite his clumsy and dangerous jump into the cabin, Paula Richards sat in the pilot's seat, cool and collected, "Are you Scott Shelton?" She hoped he wasn't, because if the blood on his clothes were any indication the man was dying or had killed recently.

The blood-smeared man nodded, and looked over his shoulder at the mess he'd just fought through. "That's me, now let's get out of here, Lady." A quick string of gunshots punctuated his statement.

She scowled behind her tinted glasses, no one had said anything about gunshots. "We're waiting for one more." She and her partner, who had already landed and picked up his package, were maintaining radio silence for this operation but her hand still drifted towards the radio microphone. She didn't like waiting in a war zone.

"Listen, Doll," She turned her head to look at her passenger. "We don't have to wait. We can take your cut from this and get out of here. Just take off and we will head south to freaking Tijuana. Just take off and get us the hell out of here!"

"Strap in!" She never left a man behind, never.

Off to the left there was a knot of men fighting the guards and each other. They were striking anything they could reach as hard as they could with whatever they could lay their hands on. It was a bad situation, and the brawlers were yet another complication that had suddenly cropped up during this supposedly easy job. There had to be fifty men trying to kill each other and they were less then one hundred yards from her craft and person. She didn't like that at all. She was surprised that they hadn't rushed the heli yet. Still, Matt had made his run with no problem. She had only been on the ground for ninety seconds and planned to lift off and ninety more.

"Come on!"

Paula bit her dry bottom lip and eyed the wild mob that was coming far too close to them. She had learned a long time ago to never underestimate the power of mob violence. She dropped her right hand to the Desert Eagle strapped to her thigh. The large gun had been a gift from a friend and had gotten her out of several sticky situations. It was perpetually locked, loaded and ready for action. Action was coming closer and closer to her so she popped the strap on her holster.

Where was her other pick-up? She had been told he'd been dressed in civvies. How the hell she wasn't able to see a business suit in an ocean of orange was beyond her. He had one more minute before she left him. She gripped the stick hard and pushed the guilt down. He wasn't a prisoner, apparently, and they would sort it all out later. If she kept waiting the whole thing would be blown and then where would this grandiose plan be?

"Um, Lady we got problems, like twenty or thirty of them running at us. GET US IN THE AIR, BITCH!" She snapped her head around and felt her stomach plummet. The mob had switched its attention to her heli.

She froze for a minute, not sure what country and continent she was on.

"HEY!"

She drew her pistol with a rock-steady hand and fired twice, at the closest cons, and knew she'd killed them without looking. The twin explosions of gunfire sounded over the thunder of the turning rotors and she rested the gun on her lap. She wasn't sure she wouldn't need it again. The air smelled of cordite, sweat and hydraulic fluid.

Her other rider was out of time, and out of luck.

"Hold on!"

The man she had picked up didn't waste time, "Gladly!"

The helicopter was a civilian make, a rental used mostly for Grand Canyon tours, and was more nimble then what she was used to. The controls responded to her slightest twitch.

"Lets go!" Scott's voice cracked like a terrified teenage boy. "Get us out of here!"

They were going up, but she had to take her time because of the nearby buildings and fences.

"They're not fucking happy out there!"

That much, Paula fumed, was obvious. The shots had further enraged the mob and they were trying to get onto the helicopter by grabbing onto the skids. It was throwing the small craft's balance off. A bead of sweat slid down her temple underneath the flight helmet. She had to stabilize the craft before going any higher. They were locked in a shaky hover at about ten feet off the ground and the mob didn't want to let them go. They were climbing on top of each other to reach the heli. It wasn't looking good.

Now she was officially nervous. Paula clenched her jaw and started to pull up further. She had to shake off the extra weight or they would never get out. She thought about her gun, but even if she fired the entire clip and killed with every shot she doubted it would be enough. She needed altitude more then bullets.

The heli started to rise again, smooth and fast, and for a moment she thought they were in the clear. Then the craft dipped right, and she knew that they still had company. The heli shook and shuddered and she had to fight the stick to keep them airborne.

There were a least five men trying to hitch a ride and the craft was only built for one pilot and three passengers. She had to shake them or they were going down, hard. Men clinging to a 'copter's undercarriage worked wonderfully in movies, but in real-life it was putting them all in very serious danger. They were only thirty-five feet in the air, and she couldn't get them any higher without crashing.

"We've got company!"

She looked over her shoulder and watched two hands-worth of fingers appear on the cabin's deck

"Give me your gun or something!"

She would have handed it to him, but she needed both hands on the stick. She didn't even have time to tell him that, though. Fingers lead to hands and in seconds there was another person inside the craft, a crazed prisoner with what looked like a homemade knife in his hand.

"Take care of him!" Her voice tore out of her throat and it sounded as desperate as she felt. They were only one error from spinning out of control and dying.

She couldn't look behind to see what was happening, but the motion transferred well enough to have the craft bobbing and weaving in the air. She didn't have control, it was all she could do to keep them a few feet above a fiery death.

The two men hit the back of her seat and she was thrown forward against her harness. The nose tilted down dangerously and the tail swung hard and fast to the left. She pulled the craft into a barely controlled one-hundred and eighty degree turn and winced when she heard the copter's metal skin scrape against the razor wire fence.

"Jesus, stop it you're going to kill us all!"

This lightweight craft wasn't built for so much cabin movement and it definitely wasn't up for a brawl. It was a miracle, and her skills, that they were still in the air. Her heart hammered hard against her chest and her blood roared in her ears, her hands tingled from the pressure of her grip.

When she had them somewhat stable again she grabbed the gun off of her lap, "SIT DOWN!"

The bastard lunged at her, his eyes wide and shining with crazed bloodlust. Battle-craze, she had seen it before and instantly knew she was dead. She squeezed the trigger but it wasn't fast enough to prevent the two-hundred pound man from tackling her. She registered the hit and the sharp pain in her neck at almost the exact time. Scott pulled him off, but the damage was done. Bright red arterial blood spurted out of her throat and coated the cabin, the windshield and Scott himself. She clasped her free hand to her throat to stop the bleeding, but knew it was a futile effort. Her vision was already fading to gray and her fingers were slipping off the stick.

Her gun hit the deck with the heavy clunk of metal on metal. She could hear the distant sound of someone praying and felt like laughing. Praying wasn't about to save their asses now.

Time slowed down and she could feel the 'copter buck and start to spin and roll. She didn't have enough strength left in her hand to grip the controls. She could see the ground rushing up to meet them through the blood spattered windshield and her narrowing vision.

The last thing she saw was a man running across the dusty concrete in a business suit waving his arms.

Reed Callahan was being pulled through the riot by the arm by a man he barely knew. It was like he'd walked into a scene from Grand Theft Auto or Halo. Guys were duking it out everywhere. The mess-hall had been crazy and all he'd been doing was trying to hide. The man who'd found him under one of the bolted down tables hadn't threatened him, but had told him that they were "getting out of here". That had been enough for Reed. No one had been brave or stupid enough to mess with Trevino. The man had a reputation that was above reproach. Reed had heard that the Mexican Mafia, one of the most powerful forces in Ely, feared him. You didn't tell someone like that no and live. Reed wanted to live, he really really wanted to live.

"Where are we going?!" Reed had to scream because the hallways were full of noise: the alarms going off, the grunts, growls and grumbles of packs of men fighting, and the rush of water hitting concrete. The sprinklers were going and had drenched everything. The concrete floors were shower-slick and prison-issued shoes didn't have much in the way of grip. He was in a constant state of almost falling over his own feet.

"You'll know when we get there."

It suddenly dawned on him, Trevino wasn't talking about getting out of the wing or even the prison building, he was talking about escaping. Well that was just in-freaking-sane.

"You mean, are you talking about escaping?! That's a felony!" The minute it spilled out of his mouth he knew exactly how stupid it sounded.

Trevino stopped dead in his tracks, one leg planted on each side of a man whose throat had been sliced. He glared at Reed, his black eyes sharp, sober and serious. "You have debts, and if you follow me they will be erased or you can stay here and end up-"He looked down at the dead man that he was all but standing on, "like him."

Reed didn't have a choice, he had to go on.

The path to the exercise yard was surprisingly empty compared to the main corridors and the cafeteria. It was over, the worst was over. Reed let out a breathe and the big man felt a little better about everything. Then they stepped outside.

It was Hell, it had to be Hell. He stood in the doorway and watched a helicopter, a real live helicopter, crash into the ground and one of the guard towers. The explosion was bright orange and yellow and the heat it threw off hit his body like a shockwave. Metal chunks flew all across the yard and one man was unfortunate enough to be caught in the chopper's large spinning blades. He was torn apart and the blood hit the crumbling concrete and block that was a quickly disintegrating guard tower with a loud splatter. There were screams and moans and the air smelled of gasoline and what had to be burning flesh.

He was going to throw up.

"Oh God, there were people in there, there were people!"

If Trevino heard him, he didn't seem to care.

Convicts ran towards the fence and for a second Reed thought that they were going to help whoever was trapped in the chopper wreckage. They hit the fence in force and it fell in a clatter that Reed only barely heard over the violent fire.

"We go."

Some men, only a few, were running strait into the desert, others were headed towards the parking lots to steal cars, and Reed heard one man screaming about the bus. They were actually escaping. Escaping from prison, it was just like a movie. He was in a movie, a real life movie. Oh God.

He didn't belong here! He looked around, and tried to stop the panic attack he could feel coming on. The part of the fence closest to the asphalt parking lot was still standing, mostly. Trevino slid through torn section and looked at Reed. He was much heavier then Trevino and eyed the gap warily. Trevino said nothing, he just glared. Reed understood why the Mexican Mafia feared the man, he was terrifying. He turned sideways and started to push himself through the chain link fence's gap. The metal cut his arms and tore at his body and legs through the orange fabric of his jumpsuit. He was shocked that he fit through the gap at all, he wasn't exactly a lightweight. Not that he had time to celebrate the achievement since he was escaping from prison and all. The worst had to be over, though, they were in the parking lot, after all.

One of the other guys who had slipped through the gap in the fence looked over at him with a big smile on his face. "It's just like TV, huh Fatty?"

Reed smiled a little. Fatty was practically a compliment compared to most of the names that he'd been called lately. "Yeah, I guess it is."

The other man, wasn't his name something like John or Jack something that definitely started with a J, laughed as they jogged towards the full parking lot. "Next stop Vegas, Fatty. I'm gonna hit a liquor store, grab a whore and buy some ice and spend the next year drinkin', smokin', and fu-"

John or Jack or Josh's chest exploded in a spray of red. It hit the side of Reed's face with a spray of gore. His ears buzzed with white noise and he wiped the blood off his cheek with his fingers. It was warm, thick, and on his hands. He should have been horrified, but he felt incredibly numb. He had another man's blood on him. He had a dead man's blood on his face.

"Get down!"

The voice, Trevino's, snapped him out of his momentary shock. Reed dropped to his knees and covered his head and neck with his arms like he' practiced so very many times in grammar school. Gunshots, he could hear them again, echoed through the parking lot. What was worse? He could hear bullets hitting metal and pavement. No, they weren't hitting, they cut through steel and concrete like it was nothing.

"Holy crap-" He looked up momentarily, "they're shooting at us!"

Trevino was just ahead of him, crawling on his belly like a soldier. That, Reed realized, was a far better strategy then simply ducking and covering. It was what they did in movies, after all. Watching it and doing it, Reed found, were two different things. Especially, he groaned, if you were three hundred pounds. Everything was easier for skinny people. It wasn't easy, but he pulled himself with his arms and scooted with his legs. He was moving at a snail's pace across the bubbling hot asphalt of the pitted and cracked parking lot, but he was moving.

After what seemed like hours, the gunshots tapered off and became more erratic and spaced out. Maybe they had run out of bullets, or given up, or both. He didn't care why, he was just happy to get off of his belly.

"Well now we know what bacon feels like, but I never actually wanted to know. You know what's half funny, it's like when we were kids and they would flash-fry an egg on the sidewa-"

Trevino stared at him, sweat pouting down his face. "If you say one more word I will cut your tongue out." That was when Reed noticed that the other man was bleeding.

"You're shot!"

Trevino glared at him, "One more fucking word."

Reed closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked together with a snap.

Trevino opened the door of a blue car and eased into the driver's seat.

Reed's eyes went wide, it was visiting day, and they couldn't just steal someone's car! There were women and kids inside. He glanced at Trevino, but decided that his words would fall on deaf ears, and then he would get his tongue cut out. He really liked his tongue. He stayed quiet and got into the passenger side seat.

Trevino started the car with the keys that someone had left in the switch.

Who would be dumb enough to leave their car unlocked with the keys in it in a prison parking lot? It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard of. Then Reed looked back, as they were driving away from the compound at sixty miles an hour, and saw the devastation. The wall was in ruins, a pillar of black smoke stood out against the beige building and the blue sky. Okay, maybe it wasn't the craziest thing he'd seen.

Cold air poured out of the vents and Reed instantly perked up, "Hey, air-conditioning, sweet!"

Beside him, Trevino rolled his eyes, and wished he had picked someone else as an accomplice. Especially since he'd been shot. He continued to bite down on the inside of his cheek, unwilling to show weakness. He would have to find a doctor as soon as he could. The bullet was still in his side and blood was pouring from the wound.

It was not the worst injury he'd ever had, but it was nothing to ignore.

"Do you think I could listen to the radio?"

If he survived this, he was going to make sure the idiot beside him did not.