Chapter 6 - THE BREAKOUT
The midnight shift at Cook County Jail was notoriously understaffed, but even by local standards, the commotion that began at 1:15 AM was unprecedented.
I was lying on the thin, lumpy mattress of my cell, staring up at the water-stained concrete ceiling, when the emergency klaxons began to blare.
WEE-WOO. WEE-WOO.
Red emergency strobe lights flashed rhythmically against the bars, casting long, bloody shadows across the cell block. Across the corridor, the other inmates began shouting and pounding on their doors.
"What's happening?!" the woman with the scar yelled, shaking the iron bars. "Are we getting bombed?!"
The main security gate at the end of the hall didn't just open—it blew inward with a dull, muffled thoom that rattled my teeth. A localized thermal charge had cleanly sheared the electronic locking mechanism off the steel frame.
Through the drifting smoke stepped three men in black tactical gear.
They weren't county deputies. Their movements were too precise, too silent, too terrifyingly efficient. They moved down the row of cells like ghosts, ignoring the screaming inmates until they reached Cell 412.
My cell.
The lead operator stepped up to the digital keypad, punched a six-digit override code, and the heavy pneumatic door hissed open.
"Isabella Vance?" the man asked, his voice muffled behind a black tactical balaclava.
I scrambled back against the concrete wall, raising my hands. "I'm Isabella! Who are you?!"
"Get on your feet," the operator commanded, grabbing my arm with a grip of solid iron. "The Boss wants a word."
"The Boss? Adrian Valente?!" I struggled against his grip as he hauled me out of the cell into the hallway. "I'm not going anywhere near him! He slapped me! He locked me in a basement!"
"Mr. Valente isn't at the estate," the operator said, his voice dropping into a flat, professional register as he slapped a pair of civilian clothes and a heavy winter coat over my shoulders. "Change into those. Now. We have three minutes before the National Guard responds to the silent alarm."
"I'm not changing in the middle of a prison riot!" I protested, even as I frantically pulled the coarse orange jumpsuit off and shoved my arms into the warm wool sweater and dark jeans they had provided.
"Move," another operator barked, tossing a pair of sturdy hiking boots at my feet.
Within ninety seconds, I was being hustled down a service stairwell that smelled of burning copper and sulfur, past two unconscious jail guards tied securely to a steam pipe with heavy zip-ties, and straight out into a subterranean delivery bay.
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An armored black Mercedes Sprinter van sat idling with its side doors wide open.
As I was shoved inside onto a leather bench seat, the vehicle squealed its tires and launched out of the underground garage into the freezing Chicago sleet, leaving the sirens of Cook County far behind in the rain.
