Chapter Text
Alex didn't manage to get a single word out.
Their cars collided with a deafening crash, the shock of impact traveling from his hands and feet straight to his head in a single pulse of physics and adrenaline. Flames erupted across the blue sedan, flooding the dark highway with harsh light. It took Alex several seconds to suppress the animal panic and do everything right, in sequence: stop the car, unbuckle his seatbelt, draw his pistol, kick open the jammed door, and step out.
The stars had aligned at this exact moment—just one week later.
Time was a unique dimension precisely because it was subjective. Alex had long learned to understand it in concrete phases: the rich golden window of the first three days, the intense work of a couple of weeks, and then, if it dragged on—the case going cold and the admission of defeat. One week to catch a fugitive could be considered an official, unqualified success. But what about Alex’s personal definition of success?
A week was too long to find an ordinary man. Seven days was astonishingly fast to catch Michael Scofield. A perfect bullseye between the beautiful ideal and the agonizing wait. Alex was a professional, after all: he knew where to aim. Seven days was enough to make the catch precisely because he knew how to understand. And Alex had gone deep.
How many times had they actually met? How many times had they spoken? Twice—or a hundred? Was it Michael who had appeared first—or had Alex's mind conjured him into this world? Alex wouldn't even be surprised; his worst thoughts had a habit of becoming reality anyway.
But Alex was a professional, nonetheless. He had to think about the worst—that was his job. The more Alex thought, the more he anticipated, the more he controlled; and only the one who controlled could win. Cold control and distance were the foundations of competence.
A pity, then, that it was already irrelevant—Alex should have been pulled off this case yesterday. You couldn’t afford to think about the worst when the worst had become personal. And so, it was a pity that Michael had the audacity to make things personal for Alex.
So, none of that mattered anymore. Competence could go to hell. Alex had been doing his job brilliantly without that damned cold-bloodedness—up to a certain point. More precisely, up to this very moment.
The driver’s-side door of the blue sedan flew open just as Alex planted his feet firmly in a shooting stance and raised his pistol. Michael tumbled heavily out of the car: torso first, hands hitting the asphalt. He was probably regretting now that he hadn’t gotten on that plane—though interceptors were already flying for him, too. Border Patrol was somewhere close. But Alex was closer.
And he was glad: it shouldn’t be the border agents, or the Mexican police, or the prison guards, or even the Bureau who took Michael down—it had to be Alex. Everything was finally in his hands at this moment: the fire, the prey, the control. To hell with cold professionalism. He needed this victory to be personal, and he was a second away from comprehending it and making it final. So that all of this—all of it—would finally be over.
But he didn't get the chance.
"This is the U.S. Border Patrol! Drop your weapon on the ground! Nobody move!"
The deafening sound of the loudspeaker cut through the white noise in Alex's head, while the bright beams of headlights and the red-and-blue flashers of several police vehicles blinded him for an instant. And he found himself back in reality.
"U.S. Border Patrol! Drop your weapon on the ground, now!" Several officers leaped out of their vehicles, raised their pistols, and joined the loudspeaker's shout.
Alex did not lower his gun. His own yell rang out sharply inside his skull, "Special Agent Alexander Mahone, FBI! I am making an arrest!"
"Until your identity is confirmed, weapon on the ground! Drop it, or we will fire!"
With his back to Alex, Michael half-lay on the asphalt beside the burning car. Alex couldn’t even see his face because of the blinding headlights ahead—but he knew the thoughts inside that head well enough.
Time was a unique dimension, and for Michael it was subjective too. For him, the first seconds of understanding and analysis decided everything. Right now, he was living through that situation: in this very moment, he was vulnerable and honest in his fear, which he most certainly had. In some pathetic handful of minutes or seconds, he would pull himself together again and come up with something. One way or another, he would come up with something, and Alex needed to know what before that golden window closed—before the next phase began.
Alex had only moments to see the glint in those eyes and catch the scent of blood. And he missed them.
"We fire on three! One...!"
And what would Alex have done in the next phase?
"Two!"
"Fuck!"
It was over.
Alex dropped his arms from the stance and threw the pistol to the ground. Disappointment and rage washed over him in uneven waves, along with nausea. His body was shaking from the sudden release of tension, his head was spinning, and the headlights blazed too bright in his eyes. No boost, no respite. He already needed to shift gears and keep reacting.
The officers bustled around, surrounding them. Alex swiftly snatched his credentials from his pocket and flipped them open toward one officer, the one moving forward with the most focused expression and a sergeant's insignia.
"Agent Alexander Mahone, FBI!" Alex shouted again, cutting through the noise. "I intercepted Michael Scofield, one of the Fox River Eight! This arrest is strictly classified! Any—!"
"Agent Mahone. Acknowledged." The approaching sergeant, his sweaty face glistening in the glare of headlights and fire, studied the credentials closely and lowered his pistol. "We're taking him. Ride with us to the nearest station in Las Cruces. We'll talk on the way," and, instantly losing interest in Alex, he switched on the radio on his shoulder and issued similar orders to his men.
Shaking his head to clear the darkness from his vision, Alex quickly tucked his credentials away, picked up his pistol, and looked around. Two officers had already roughly hauled Michael off the ground, handcuffed him, and were leading him toward a vehicle.
"Sergeant. Impress upon your people that this is an arrest of federal importance. I repeat: strictly classified. Leaking information will jeopardize the capture of the remaining fugitives," Alex growled through clenched teeth as he watched the scene. His breath was catching, but he was used to it. No boost.
"Of course. Let's proceed to the vehicle. The station is already expecting us." Glancing at him and switching off the radio, the sergeant turned and walked away. Alex remained standing where he was.
They had already put Michael in the car.
"I'm riding with him." Alex took a heavy step in that direction.
"Agent." The sergeant caught his shoulder, and Alex barely suppressed the urge to bare his teeth. "Three officers are riding with him. Per protocol, you're riding with me."
Alex's fury flared up alongside another surge of headache.
"The hell's the difference?!" he barked. "Swap out one of the officers!!!"
"Get a hold of yourself, Agent," the sergeant said, firm and indifferent. "We're fifteen minutes away. Bear with it until the station, and then you can do whatever you want with him."
A modicum of cold-bloodedness finally settled into Alex's mind. Jerking his shoulder free of the grip, he ran a palm over his face and headed for the designated vehicle.
It didn't matter. Alex hadn't missed anything. He had already caught Michael—and he would have plenty of chances to keep the momentum going. He ought to be glad.
***
"Chicago is twenty-one hours away. Every minute counts. This man is the key to resolving the case. I caught him personally. And you're seriously telling me I can't ride in the same van with him because he's feeling like crap?!"
"That's correct, Agent Mahone. A special guard will escort the detainee. I'd suggest interrogating him right now, but the medics say he has a concussion. The transport window should be just enough time for him to stabilize. And, honestly, they didn't even recommend that."
Exhaling in irritation, Alex turned away from the sheriff and stared past the cell bars at the far end of the station's long hall. At this late hour, there weren't many civilians around, but the officers bustling about still partially blocked his view.
Half an hour ago, stepping out of the car, Michael had collapsed in a faint, and now, after a brief visit from the medics, he still sat on the bench, huddled against the wall, skillfully playing dead. All of Alex's attempts to catch his eye had failed: as cover, Michael had been given a gray cap with a faded local college logo and a white medical mask, behind which he expertly hid. And there was simply no choice. Talking to him here would have been stupid, and expressing any emotions—even more so. Approaching him was forbidden. All that remained was to watch from a distance and wait for the convoy. And who the hell here was really in a cage?
Michael was resting, while Alex waited and spent an entire damn hour on the phone ensuring the Bureau retained the right to transport him. Of course, he succeeded—but if not for the secrecy he'd initiated, things would have been even worse. The press would already be swarming here; representatives from the Bureau of Prisons and the Department of Corrections would have materialized out of nowhere with their invaluable commentary; someone from the Washington office would have woken up—hell, there wouldn't have been room for anyone but the President herself. Everyone would want to snatch a piece of his success.
So the decision to classify the arrest had been a remarkably fleeting and fortunate one. If only it weren't for this damn malingerer and his theatrics...
Alex ran a hand through his disheveled hair and dropped into a chair beside a prehistoric vending machine. The view of the cell got even worse. His phone rang again—and this time, Alex was almost relieved to see Wheeler's name. He wouldn't have survived another conversation with the brass tonight. His head was still splitting from the impact, but somehow he, unlike America's most celebrated actor, hadn't thought to see the medics.
"Mahone," he snapped, answering the call and lowering his forehead into his palm.
"Congratulations, sir," Wheeler's buoyant voice came through the receiver. "Haven't heard from you in a while. Where are you putting Scofield?"
Alex sighed. "For now, MCC."
"Not our holding cells?"
"Wheeler, this is Scofield," Alex rubbed his eyes. Sometimes explaining the obvious was like torture. "He'll spend some time in MCC. Solitary. Boredom."
"Understood, sir. We have updates on Tancredi's movements. She was spotted in Gila, New Mexico, close to you."
"Old news," Alex smiled wearily and placed a palm on his knee, which was threatening to start bouncing. "Send Ives down here, have him search."
"Copy that. And what about you, sir? When should we expect—?"
"In twenty-four hours. I'm heading out in Scofield's convoy to Chicago."
"Are you sure you want to escort him personally rather than—?"
"Yes!" Alex barked. How many more times would he be asked that today? "Keep me posted on any developments in the case."
And he hung up.
Michael was sitting sideways to him, and behind the backs of the officers, Alex could see only his shoulders and head. His face was fully concealed by the brim of the cap and the mask, and his tattoos—by the narrow collar and long sleeves of a dirty gray t-shirt. And he was still unreachable.
Why?
No. Everything was under control. Alex had hunted him for seven days—and caught him. There was no race left here: he only had to wait.
Everything was going exactly as it should. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
***
Twenty-three hours on the road passed smoothly—if the torture of pointless waiting could be described that way.
Michael never once stepped out of the van and, according to the escort reports, never said a word. Remarkable composure—or genuine, unfeigned exhaustion. But that couldn't be true. Why would Michael, after so much effort, give in to weakness now?
Something was clearly off, and that was why, unlike him, for the entire trip, all twenty-three hours, Alex kept catching the masked profile through the window of the escort car and, during the rare stops, gave in to his momentary paranoia and approached closer. And through all those twenty-three hours, with every glance and every check, it was still Michael Scofield—and he was still just sleeping, frozen in the same motionless sitting position, showing no signs of any criminal intent. Outwardly. He simply seemed to be on a long, uncomfortable, unpleasant ride home with less-than-ideal company he didn't want to cross paths with for a single extra second.
And each time he turned away from the van, Alex, petty and disgusted with himself, felt cheated. Half a country of pursuit, sleepless nights, insane days. The adrenaline fever from the sound of a voice, the flash of fury—from a glance… And this was his entire reward? Not a word, not a look, not a step out of line. Not a single emotion, not a single reason for gloating.
Not a single reason for gloating. Alex wanted to laugh at him. But it was hard to laugh at a man who accepted defeat with damn dignity, wasn't it? Oh, what Alex wouldn't have given to see his resistance, his collapse, during these endless hours.
And why would Michael accept it so easily? Why? Because he had achieved his original goal and saved his brother? And some setback like Alex was simply worth resigning himself to?
Nonsense. He could have postponed his damn resignation just a little longer—at least for a couple of curses and grievances—just so Alex could also sleep peacefully tonight instead of staring endlessly and uselessly at tinted glass, gulping down disgusting vending-machine coffee, and shuddering with disgust at his own shirt, which he hadn't been able to change for two days. But he would sooner die than buy a t-shirt at a gas station, take off his tie, and lose his reputation in front of another agency. And he would sooner drop dead than miss a single reaction or gesture from Michael.
But nothing was happening—and all he could do was keep himself in check and concentrate on something productive. In some way, at least.
The office called several times with news on the Eight—and, to Alex's displeasure, they only had progress on Franklin, who had fled with his family. Alex wasn't particularly interested in him: hiding from a manhunt with an entire family couldn't end well. Sooner or later, one of them would crack or be found—especially with a sick child. There was silence on the other fugitives, and Alex could already sense the onset of the final, cooling two weeks of this case. After the golden window had passed, the prey in his hands wasn't all that plentiful: only the dead Abruzzi and the alive but useless Apolskis. That said, with Scofield's successful capture, he would certainly find the rest in the tightest possible timeframe.
And on that note, regrettably, thoughts of productivity came to an end again—and Alex went in circles, back around to Michael. He stared out the window again, squeezed his bouncing knee, and thought about the Chicago ahead and the interrogations to come. And this—this, at last—was the truest, most boundless territory for speculation.
Would Michael talk to him? What would he say? How would he say it?
What would make him break? Was he susceptible to pressure? To aggression? To threats and manipulation?
What was his real weakness? The success of the mission or his own failure?
What exactly had he wanted before? What would he pursue now? Had he resigned himself? Or did he want to fight again?
How exactly had he prepared to fight? Did he even have any real cards to play against Alex?
Conscience or pride?
The damn guy had been pretending to be an enigma for far too long—but in private, within four walls, Alex would strip that thick, prickly hide off him anyway. No one could scent blood as well as he could. He would find any tiny splinter, pry it up, and get down to the flesh. Even if it came later than he wanted—worse than he wanted—he would endure it. The hunt was already over; the table was being set. And Alex didn't have to devour raw meat: he could wait for dinner.
He could convince himself of that. He hadn't missed anything.
And somewhere around the twenty-third hour of this endless journey, Alex was once again convinced of his own superior instinct.
The convoy stopped, and a dozen officers finally spilled out of their vehicles in front of the entrance to the Metropolitan Correctional Center. The exhausted Alex found solace in small things at that moment: he was arguing on the phone with the Center's director, insisting on heightened security measures for the isolation unit. He stepped out of the car with monstrous relief and pain throughout his whole body, but his eyes were still clear and never lost sight of the target for a second.
Michael was led out of the van opposite him, and this was the exact moment he chose to finally catch Alex's gaze. His hooded light eyes flashed in the shadow of the cap's brim with strange satisfaction. The mask hid his face, but Alex was certain he had smirked.
The unintelligible, irritated voice of the MCC director droned in the receiver, but Alex lost the thread of the conversation. Michael collapsed in a faint again—right into the guards' arms.
Of course. It was all so obvious. This smartass was calm because he had already figured out what to do, and now he was simply using every chance he got to get under Alex's skin. And he was doing a splendid job of it.
Instead of an interrogation room, he had sent Alex home to sleep. Pure, undisguised virtue.
***
But nothing could stop the momentum anymore. Six hours later, at home, Alex was woken by a phone call.
"Mahone."
The work never stopped. In sickness and in health. There was never any room for a reset. And there never would be.
The clock already read eight in the morning. Alex tried to remember when he had last eaten.
"Sir. Sorry to call so early. Special Agent Haley phoned from Washington: he's demanding an urgent interrogation of Scofield."
Alex rubbed his aching eyes and gave a dry laugh.
"The guy's lying unconscious in the MCC infirmary. HQ wants me to break in there and bring him around with my own hands?"
"MCC reported that Scofield has already regained consciousness, they called an hour ag—"
"An hour?!" Alex's eyes flew open and he sat up so abruptly his vision went dark. "And you needed a kick from HQ? Why didn't the night shift call me before you clocked in?!"
"Sorry, sir... Maybe I should go instead of—"
"No!" Alex barked straight into the receiver. "Have them prep an interrogation room immediately and bring Scofield there. Has he asked for a lawyer?"
"No, sir."
Alex hung up and rose quickly from the bed. From his house to MCC was a twenty-minute drive, and with the siren—five...
But, having taken the first step, Alex clutched his head and reined himself in. He needed to pay attention to the balance of power, not the first lure dangled in front of him. Arriving for the interrogation no earlier than in an hour was the right move: letting Michael marinate in the interrogation room would do him good.
No earlier. An additional buffer was a benefit. And that was why it was so difficult for Alex to justify his own haste to himself.
Prolonged periods of workaholism were nothing new to him and, in truth, had always been more the purpose of his life than some unpleasant consequence of it. Alex did everything to ensure his own operational capacity—he always reacted as quickly and efficiently as possible—and that was precisely why forcing the nuclear reactor to slow down was so incredibly difficult.
Alex made himself spend time on getting ready. He took a long shower and cleaned himself up, barely registering his fatigue because of the nervous hum. In a fit of concern for his future self, he threw a pile of shirts into the washing machine and watched the drum for half the cycle as he contemplated the astonishing and utterly absurd fact that Michael had no lawyer (unrealistic, and therefore, intriguing). He even cooked himself breakfast and coffee and sat with them in the kitchen for the final, excruciating quarter of an hour. He wasn't hungry at all—at least, not for food.
Fifty minutes had passed since Wheeler's call when Alex finally permitted himself to leave the house. And after the very first step out the door, he realized that the one who had been left to marinate was not Michael at all. Consequently, ten minutes later, his car entered the MCC multi-story parking structure slightly faster than was acceptable.
Another twenty minutes and a ton of formalities later, he was already waiting for the elevator to head straight to the floor with the interview rooms. He had almost managed to forget that it was nine in the morning—rush hour. The elevator arrived completely packed, and Alex stepped back with irritation, letting the prison staff pass. In the crowd, stopping at every floor, Alex finally reached his destination one hour and thirty minutes after Wheeler's call. On the tenth floor, another guard glanced at his credentials and opened the way, the heavy gate finally sliding aside with a loud alarm beep.
"Second interview room, Agent Mahone."
Grimacing, Alex stepped forward into the last corridor. Everything was against him.
The second interview room was used for carefully documented interrogations: it was equipped with cameras, microphones, and a dedicated observation room. Alex had definitely not ordered Michael to be put in this room.
But—to hell with it. Alex could turn off the surveillance. He was at the finish line.
Alex felt nothing but hunger as he pressed his electronic pass to the observation room lock. The door finally opened—but instead of an empty room, he saw an extra figure in the semi-darkness beside the monitors. A migraine pulsed through his temples—Wheeler? Someone else from the team?—but his eyes quickly adjusted. Just some random MCC employee, judging by the uniform, sitting there.
"What are you doing here?" Alex ground out with the last of his strength.
"Agent Mahone!" The girl turned from the monitor and jumped up from her chair. "Secretary Casey. I've been assigned to take the protocol for the interrogation, sir."
Alex clenched his teeth to hold back a grimace. He had not ordered the interrogation to be put on protocol. And—technical staff? He had endured enough headaches talking with the prosecutor in order to be left alone here. And after so much torment, this was still going to be sitting right here?
How many more rules, people, orders, or goddamn forces of nature would delay him?
"That won't be necessary, miss." Alex rubbed his forehead pointedly and waved a hand toward the exit. "Leave immediately. This was not coordinated with the Bureau."
"Oh?" The girl's slight shoulders flinched, and she clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm sorry, but... the assignment came from my superiors. May I clarify before I go?"
"Make it quick."
Casey hastily grabbed the intercom receiver and began babbling something. Alex had no strength left to ponder the absurd circumstance of her presence here—he finally stepped deeper into the dark room and dropped his documents onto the narrow table in front of the large glass screen set in the wall. Beyond it lay the only source of light—the interview room.
And Alex had waited for the table to be set, after all. There, was he.
Michael sat directly before him, separated only by a one-way screen and a dozen feet. The hideously orange MCC jumpsuit stood out starkly against the brightly lit white walls of the interview room. The cuffs on Michael's wrists were chained to the tabletop. But he wasn't sickly pale, frightened, impatient, or drowsy—he looked absolutely normal.
Assessing inmates before interrogation was a crucial component of a psychological portrait: a criminal's behavior during prolonged waiting could predict a great deal. Ostentatious ease and fearlessness; stiffness and nervousness; impatience and restlessness—any reaction spoke volumes. But Michael stood out, exactly as he had during the arrest. His posture was not rigid, but neatly relaxed: his palms lay on the table, one atop the other, his legs were bent at the knees and set a small distance apart, his back rested against the chair, his neck was straight, his chin slightly tilted, his gaze fixed on the tabletop.
If not for the surroundings, he would have blended perfectly into some airport waiting-lounge café or even a university lecture hall. He looked diligent, harmless, unreadable, and—to Alex's disappointment—ordinary.
Though Michael Scofield was many things—ordinary was obviously not one of them. What a stupid game that was.
"Sir?" A voice distracted Alex, and he reluctantly shifted a questioning glance toward Casey. She was holding the intercom out to him. "It's for you."
Alex snatched the receiver and turned away from her, covertly rolling his eyes and running a hand over his face.
"Mahone."
"Agent, hello. I'm Assistant to Director Grant." A female voice with a service-industry intonation came through the line. Damn administration. "Your colleague called and relayed that the interrogation would require technical support for rapid transcription, which is why Miss Casey is with you. Is there a problem with that?"
"I see," Alex forced politeness through clenched teeth. "Who called you? Usually, in such cases, we bring our own person."
"I'm afraid I don't recall the name. There's a fax from your office with an official request on the director's desk. He's in a meeting at the moment. Are you prepared to wait?"
An official request? Had someone on Alex's team gotten a case of initiative up their ass? Or was it an order from above?...
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. Canceling the order would require additional legwork.
"I'll look into it later."
"Excellent."
Alex hung up and turned back to Casey, sweeping a quick glance over her, not without a touch of disdain. She looked to be around twenty-five, and if harmlessness and pity could be given a physical form, it would be her. A pebble stuck in his shoe.
"I'll expect a full transcript from you immediately upon conclusion of the interrogation," Alex said.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir," Casey responded.
A day's delay, an accidental witness, full surveillance—what could possibly make this meeting any better?
Pressing his lips together and exhaling tightly through his nose, Alex turned back to the screen. In the few minutes his gaze had been averted, Michael had shifted the position of his hands and loosely interlaced his thin fingers.
"How long has he been waiting?"
"At this point, about forty-five minutes, sir."
"Notice anything unusual?"
"No, sir. He hasn't done anything strange. Just sat like that the whole time, staring at the table."
"And have you been watching him for all forty-five minutes, miss?" Alex cast a mocking glance at the girl.
"No, of course not... I was setting up the equipment." Casey dipped her head, hiding her face behind her disheveled bangs, and sat down at the control panel. "Ready to begin at any moment, sir."
Alex gave a short hum.
"Start it up."
He snatched the case folder from the table and strode out of the observation room. A couple of seconds later, his fingers with the pass card hovered over the electronic lock of the interview room.
This was the last door. He had to pull himself together. There was no more room here—ever—for personal vindictiveness.
He should be extremely careful. Despite their positions, Michael's arsenal was still considerable—and Alex still hadn't decided how to best counter it. All he could do was rely on his sapper's instinct.
Strange, though, that he still hadn't found a single mine in his path.
The lock clicked. Alex pushed down on the handle and opened the door.
Michael's gaze met him the moment he stepped inside. If Alex were just a little more susceptible to paranoia, he would have seriously thought that eyes like his could conceal some sort of telepathic ability. But Alex was a realist and knew that behind that perceptive, slightly sullen look lay nothing more dangerous than ordinary anger. And, in any case, there was nothing reprehensible in Alex's thoughts—only an ordinary man's reaction to that very same anger and a direct insult. Defense and counterattack.
Let him stare all he wants, the damn upstart.
"Hello, Michael." Alex took three measured steps to the table, pulled out the free chair, sat down, and laid the folder on the table. "At last, we can talk in a calm setting."
Alex caught his gaze again—and Michael, as if playing banal cat and mouse, immediately broke contact and turned his eyes away toward the wall to his right with deliberate slowness.
"Hi, Alex," his voice was soft and indifferent.
"How are they treating you at MCC?"
"How's the weather?"
Alex smiled at the note of irritation in his voice.
"Beautiful."
Michael was very close: only a couple of feet of cold steel table separated them. In the bright lighting, Alex noticed several details on his face: small, fresh scratches, a split and swollen lower lip, a band-aid on his eyebrow. Compared to the police photo taken a month and a half ago, today's Michael had noticeably lost weight and grown haggard: his cheeks had hollowed, the circles under his eyes had darkened, his skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor. And even despite that, at this moment he could easily pass for a young student who had foolishly acted out, but by no means for the actual Michael Scofield. Not even his tattoos were visible.
Was this really him?
Perhaps people truly did find it hard to identify him—to match a face like that with anything illegal. And Michael had always used every resource available to him—including, of course, his appearance.
"Haven't you looked at the photographs enough yet?" Michael asked tonelessly, not returning the gaze. "See something new?"
"Yes," Alex placed his folded hands in front of him. "My success."
That, finally, made Michael grimace, and Alex smiled. The delayed, faded thrill of victory finally stirred inside him.
Note. Pressuring his pride did work after all.
"What's it like—not being the smartest person in the room?"
Michael, still studying the blank wall, shrugged. However much he tried to feign detachment, Alex could see its deliberateness—and that was gratifying.
"Not as interesting as I'd imagined. I'd rather not be here."
"Where, then?" Alex tilted his head. He hadn't expected a serious answer, which made it all the more intriguing.
"I miss my wife," Michael replied, unexpectedly. "Mid-June is a week away. We have so many memories around this time."
There was wistfulness in his voice, but when he caught Alex's gaze with his own again, there was only intransigence in his eyes.
And here, Alex suddenly felt all the heavily accumulated confidence drain out of him, replaced by cold shock. His hands tightened on the table.
The threat wasn't hard to parse. Wife meant his meeting with Pam. Mid-June was Shales' murder.
Obviously, it was only for the sake of this threat that Michael had agreed to an interrogation without a lawyer. He knew about everything: the protocol, the surveillance, Alex's lack of professionalism. The transparency of the interrogation allowed him to reveal all the facts to the investigation—the very ones Alex could not make public. If Michael opened his mouth and said even a word—not even about Shales—just about the meeting with Pam, Alex would be immediately pulled off the case due to damn personal involvement. This was exactly what Alex should have thought through more carefully earlier.
There was the damn mine—and Alex froze, foot planted on it, while Michael continued, innocently fidgeting his fingers on the table. His gaze, directed somewhere at Alex's face but past his eyes, remained cold.
"Besides, I used to volunteer a lot at animal shelters in the summer. I can't look indifferently at abandoned animals in cages. It's sad to think they no longer have a person who could help them." He paused, wetting his lips. "So, yeah. I'd rather not be here."
An animal in a cage. Alex in Gila.
Alex let out a nervous, humorless laugh.
A ridiculous metaphor. What could it even mean? Was Michael hinting that Alex would lose everything if he didn't accept some kind of offer? And he had the audacity to speak of it as help?
"Oh, I'm familiar with your charitable work. I'm sure the children and the puppies absolutely adored you."
An animal, was it?
Alex suppressed the urge to lean across the table and sink his teeth into Michael's throat. He needed to think of a response—and fast. He had one single chance to parry the threat. And the strategy had to be chosen correctly.
Michael smiled bashfully. Falsely.
"I hope so."
Conscience or pride?
So far, all of Alex's threats directed at Michael's own life and pride had failed to elicit a sufficient response. It wasn't enough to provoke or apply pressure. But there was another side.
Well, the circle had closed again. If Michael was getting personal—Alex had every right to do the same. He could play dirty too.
Alex leaned slightly forward, and the smile vanished from his next words.
"If you like watching free animals, I'd recommend a Mexican safari. Just you, hunters with big guns, the desert, and the game. Those guys are excellent at finding birds that have strayed from the flock, and sometimes, with the authorities' permission, they can even shoot to kill. Right in mid-flight. Quite a sight."
It was an absolute bluff: the Bureau had no intention of killing Sucre. After crossing the Mexican border, he had become Mexico's problem. Besides, the plane had already been shot down—Alex was waiting for the report from across the border.
But Michael didn't need to know that. Nor did he need to know that Alex had no intention of killing anyone else without necessity. Although, his understanding of necessity was elastic—and that, Michael definitely knew.
And—bingo.
Michael's eyes widened slightly, and a sharp intake of breath betrayed his surprise. The micro-reaction was more than enough for Alex to draw his conclusions. No psychopathy—just idiotic self-sacrifice. It was almost boring.
But Alex smiled anyway: the exchange of threats had been like a welcoming handshake. They had successfully neutralized each other, demonstrating the presence of nuclear weapons. All that remained was cold war and espionage.
"I don't like hunting," Michael replied carefully.
"It all depends on your taste. There are different routes."
Michael exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair. His hands laced neatly together in a lock, mimicking Alex's gesture by some strange coincidence. He looked down at the table again, his face shutting down .
Clearly, Michael had not been ready to talk even before this polite conversation—and now he had withdrawn completely. There were plenty of ways for him to cut this interrogation short, but so far he hadn't. Alex could guess why: Michael needed to find out exactly what the investigation wanted and what concessions it was prepared to make.
To his regret, Alex was in no mood to oblige. As long as Michael hadn't started stonewalling, he could squeeze every last drop out of the remaining time.
"Well, it's been a lovely chat, but we need to get to the point. I'll read out the charges proposed by the prosecutor. This is going to be a ridiculously long list." Alex clicked his tongue and opened the folder in front of him. "Let's go in chronological order."
He needed a deep breath for the speech that followed: "The same armed robbery: five years. Multiple counts of destruction of government property: three years and a fine of fifty thousand dollars. Threats, kidnapping, and bodily harm to three law enforcement officers: twenty years. Five years for escaping a correctional facility, plus three years for each accomplice, of whom there were originally nine—another twenty-one years. Multiple counts of resisting arrest: three years. Grand theft auto of at least two vehicles with aggravating factors: ten years. Desecration of a burial site: a fine of one thousand dollars. Document forgery: five years. Robbery, burglary, attempted aid in the escape of Burrows Jr.: seven years. Fraud: one year and a fine of ten thousand dollars. Hostage-taking by prior conspiracy: twenty years."
Alex paused, closed the folder, and raised his eyes from the papers to Michael. "In total, ninety-one years of incarceration and fines amounting to sixty-one thousand dollars. Add that to your age, and you'll get out approximately... never." Alex watched Michael press his lips together. All that remained was to provoke a reaction. "All for your brother–the–murderer. Somewhere along the line you took a wrong turn, hm?"
"Lincoln isn't–" Michael started sharply, but immediately recognized the provocation and restored his calm tone. "Lincoln is innocent. His case was fabricated. Let those words remain in the interrogation record. Maybe someday someone reasonable enough will look at his case again."
Someone reasonable enough?
Getting under Michael's skin had turned out to be easy—too easy. If Alex had already pushed him to insults this quickly.
"I've looked at his case, Michael. Not only is half the evidence lost, but the appeals filed by your 'family attorney' were repeatedly denied even when they still existed. And now, it seems, she's fled in disgrace altogether."
"Veronica was murdered. So was Savrinn," Michael lowered his chin further. "They got too close. There are people in power behind this case."
Alex couldn't have cared less what stood behind Michael's arguments—given his obvious attachment to his brother, it looked more than anything like self-deception. Alex had seen enough similar cases of denial of a loved one's guilt not to take them seriously.
"Well, even if that were the case, in the absence of new evidence or a significant witness, there's nothing we can do for that case." Alex spread his hands briefly, then pointedly opened another folder in front of him. "Let's talk instead about those who can still be saved. For example, your beloved, Sara Tancredi. They're prepared to bring charges against her on two counts, and the sentence could be up to fifteen years."
"You haven't even found her yet," Michael turned toward the wall.
Alex permitted himself a short laugh.
"Exactly, Michael. The system can be impatient: the longer Sara keeps hiding, the worse it will be for her. That's resisting arrest, as you well know." Alex planted his elbows on the table and raised his clasped hands to his chin. "I'll catch her soon. There's no one left on the outside smarter than you, and I've already caught you. Besides, I'm inclined to think our doctor won't be able to resign herself to life on the run. It's not for nothing that she left you in Gila. You were there with her, weren't you?"
Of course he was—and Alex had been there too.
The brief but loaded look Michael shot him in response again stirred echoes of the former thrill. This upstart wasn't impenetrable at all—Alex just had to hold his ground.
"It's a shame to see a lovers' quarrel after such a romantic story," he shook his head. "You know what I want. Just help me find her, and I'll make sure her sudden disappearance from house arrest doesn't affect the sentence."
This time, Michael didn't react at all and simply stared at his hands on the table.
"Think it over carefully, Michael. I, like the system, am not especially patient."
Alex counted out twenty seconds of silence before continuing. In any case, Sara didn't particularly interest him and was more of a hook for Michael's emotions. Alex needed to keep up the pressure. The process was so routine it would have become boring if anyone else were sitting across from him.
"No? Well then, let's set the doctor aside and move on to the next candidates. Only this time, we won't be saving them—we'll be saving from them."
Alex opened two more folders, this time with photographs.
"Charles Patoshik and Theodore Bagwell. One—a murderer and schizophrenic. The other—a murderer and psychopath. Both free only thanks to your heroism." Alex began carefully laying out photographs of victims on the table. "Since the escape, Bagwell has already killed one man and severely maimed another. A veterinarian and a driver. One wife is now a widow, and one daughter is an orphan while her father lies in a coma."
The sight of Michael's fingers, clenched to whiteness and trembling, was enough for Alex to press on mercilessly.
"I'm not even asking for help catching your brother, Sucre, or Franklin. Out of all of them, I only need these two from you." Another lie. Alex planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward. Right now, he could spout any nonsense, because guilt was already seeping through Michael's face along with cold sweat. "In fact, I said something similar to that kid, Apolskis, to get him to cooperate. I have to admit, that wasn't entirely justified in his case." He tilted his head, studying the thin crease between Michael's brows. "You, on the other hand, are the sole true culprit in unleashing this brutality. You're a little religious, aren't you, Michael? If there's even a drop of atonement in you, you must understand your duty to help us catch them in order to prevent further evil." Alex lowered his voice. "I know you're not capable of simply doing nothing, Michael."
And he fell silent at the perfect moment.
Michael's gaze darted across the photographs for a long ten seconds before he squeezed his eyes shut in pain and turned his chin away…
And he couldn't even imagine how much this reaction delighted Alex.
"I can give you time to think and a closer look, if you like."
One last move in the game. Alex slid several photographs closer to his opponent—and Michael's hands immediately jerked away from them as if from something foul. The chains rattled and pulled taut.
"No. I don't need that." His voice wavered, barely perceptibly.
Alex could hardly contain his bloodthirsty elation.
There was no need to offer better deals if Michael was ready to settle for so little—merely the cleansing of his own conscience. Had Alex really been lucky enough to meet not a demon, but an angel?
He would pluck every last one of those pretty feathers.
"Help me catch them, Michael. We can do it together. Save everyone."
Michael opened his eyes. His pressed lips parted a little again.
Triumph flooded through Alex.
"I demand a phone call and a lawyer."