“It’s the warden’s own stupid fault,” he says. “Why all the pomp and ceremony, just for an execution? He brings in every available guard, gives them automatic weapons and Kevlar vests as if someone—me, the guy getting the needle—might somehow put together an offensive. Goons everywhere. Then he turns on all the lights and locks down the entire prison. Why exactly? No good reason. Hell, two guards without guns could just as easily walk me down the hall at the appointed hour and strap me onto the table. No big deal. No cause for all this drama. But no, the warden likes his rituals. It’s a big moment for law enforcement and, hell, they gotta make the most out of it. What any fool can see, anyone but the warden, is that he’s dealing with men who live in cages and who hate anybody in a uniform. They’re already looking for trouble, so you crank up the pressure on them and they blow a gasket. Just takes someone like me to facilitate things.”

He sips a cherry cola and nibbles a french fry. He’s got forty minutes.

The door opens again and Assistant Warden Foreman is back, now with three heavily armed warriors. Foreman says, “How you guys doing in here?”

“Swell,” I say.

Nothing from Link.

I say, “Looks like you boys got your hands full out there.”

He says, “Things are hopping. Just wanted to check on the prisoner and make sure everything is okay.”

Link glares at him and says, “This is my last hour. Why can’t I have some peace and quiet? Please, you and your goons just get the hell outta here, okay?”

“We can accommodate you,” Foreman says.

“And take him too,” Link says, pointing at me. “I need to be alone.”

Foreman says, “Well, sorry, Link, but there’s no place for Mr. Rudd to go. The roads are blocked right now. We’re in super lockdown. It’s not safe out there.”

“And for some reason I don’t feel so safe in here,” Link sneers. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Looks like we should postpone the execution,” I say.

“Probably not going to happen,” Foreman says, backing away.

They leave, slamming the door and locking it from the outside.

The governor feels the need to address his people. On the screen we see his troubled face. He’s at a podium with mikes and cameras before him, a politician’s dream. Random questions are hurled at him, and we soon learn that the situation at Big Wheeler is “tense.” There are casualties, even deaths. There are about two hundred inmates “out of their cells,” though none have yet to penetrate the exterior fences of the prison. Several fires are now under control. Yes, it seems as though some of this activity was coordinated from outside the prison, and, no, there is no evidence that Link Scanlon is behind it, not yet anyway. He, the governor, has called in the National Guard, though the state police have things under control. And, oh, by the way, he is denying the final request for a reprieve.

6.

Protocol requires that the condemned man be handcuffed at 9:45 and escorted for his final walk to the death room. There he is strapped to a gurney with six thick leather bands, from his feet to his forehead. While he is being strapped down, a doctor pokes around his arms looking for a suitable vein while a medic of some variety checks his vital signs. Ten feet away, behind glass windows and black curtains, the witnesses wait in two separate rooms, one for the victim, one for the killer.

An IV is inserted and secured with tape. A large clock on the wall allows the unlucky soul to count down his last minutes. At precisely 10:00 p.m., the prison attorney reads the death warrant, and the warden asks the condemned if he has any last words. He can say whatever he wants. It’s recorded and available online. He’ll say a few words, maybe proclaim his innocence again, maybe forgive everyone, maybe beg for forgiveness. When he’s finished, the warden nods to a guy hidden in a nearby room, and the chemicals are released. The condemned begins to float away and his breathing becomes labored. Some twelve minutes later, the doctor pronounces him dead.

Link knows all this. Evidently, he has other plans. I’m just a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.

At 9:30, all electricity at Big Wheeler is cut off—a complete blackout. They would later trace the power failure to a utility pole that got chainsawed in two. The backup generator for Unit Nine—death row—failed to start because its fuel injectors had been vandalized.

At 9:30, we don’t know this. All we know is that the Boom Boom Room is pitch-black. Link jumps to his feet and says, “Get out of the way.” He slides the desk to jam the door. There is a quick flash of light above us, and noise, grunting. A panel in the false ceiling opens up and a voice says, “Link, here.” The flashlight sweeps down and through the room. A rope drops and Link grabs it. “Slow, now,” the voice says, and Link inches upward, literally hanging on for his life. There are sounds up there, grunting and scuffling, but I can’t tell how many men are involved.

Within seconds Link is gone, and if I were not so stunned I would laugh. Then I realize that I’ll probably get shot. I take off my coat and tie and stretch out on the Army cot. Guards kick the door open and burst in with guns and a flood of light.

“Where is he?” one guard barks at me.

I point to the ceiling.

They yell and curse as two of them yank me up and drag me into the hall, where dozens of guards and cops and officials are running around in complete panic.

“He’s gone! He’s gone!” They are yelling. “Check the roof.”

In the hall, and in the midst of an incredible racket, I can hear the thumping of a helicopter. They drag me into a room, then another. In the chaos I hear a guard yell that Link Scanlon has vanished. It takes an hour for the lights to come on. I am eventually arrested by the state police and taken to the nearest county jail. Their initial theory is that I am an accomplice.

7.

The pieces soon come together, and because I am being partially blamed for the escape, I have access to the information. I’m not worried about the charges; they can’t stick.

At 9:30 that night, there were two news helicopters buzzing around the fringes of Big Wheeler. The prison officials and police had warned them to stay away, but they were close by. In a show of muscle, the state police flew in two of its own helicopters to secure the airspace over the prison, and this proved helpful when the trouble started. It also proved distracting. There was a tremendous amount of smoke hanging over the prison as six different fires were blazing at one time. Witnesses said the noise was deafening—four helicopters in the area, dozens of emergency vehicles with sirens, radios squawking, guards and police yelling, guns being shot, fires roaring. On cue, and with impeccable timing, Link’s small black helicopter arrived from nowhere, descended through the clouds of smoke, and snatched him off the roof of Unit Nine. There were witnesses. Several guards and prison employees saw the helicopter as it hovered for a few seconds, dropped a line, then disappeared back into the smoke with two men swinging from the lifeline. A guard in a tower at the unit managed to fire a few shots but hit nothing.

One of the State’s choppers gave chase, but was no match for whatever brand and model Link leased for the night. It was never found; no record of it was ever traced. It flew low to avoid radar; air traffic control did not see it. A farmer sixty miles away from Big Wheeler told authorities he saw a small helicopter land on a county road a mile from his front porch. A car met it, then both disappeared.