THE WARDEN’S DEADLY MISTAKE: WHAT THE NEW INMATE WAS HIDING

The heavy steel doors of the laundry room blew inward with a deafening CRASH.

Thick gray smoke poured into the humid room. Through the haze, three men in tactical gear stepped inside, assault rifles raised. They weren't prison guards. They wore matte black armor with no insignia. Sterling’s private mercenaries.

“Take no prisoners,” the lead merc barked.

Vincent didn't hesitate. He grabbed a heavy metal steam iron from a pressing station and hurled it with lethal precision. It struck the lead mercenary square in the helmet, dropping him instantly.

Vincent dove behind a row of industrial washing machines, dragging Elias with him. Gunfire erupted, shredding the canvas laundry carts and ricocheting off the concrete walls.

“Stay down!” Vincent roared over the noise.

He flanked the remaining two mercenaries, moving silently through the thick steam. He grabbed a heavy wrench from a maintenance toolbox and dropped from the top of a washer, neutralizing the second merc with a brutal strike to the collarbone. He disarmed the third, sweeping his legs and pressing the stolen pistol to the back of the man's neck.

The room fell silent, save for the hiss of broken steam pipes.

Vincent hauled Elias to his feet. “Grab their gear. Vests and helmets. We’re walking out of here as them.”

As they stripped the unconscious mercenaries, the door at the far end of the laundry room swung open.

A female corrections officer stood in the doorway, her service weapon drawn and trembling in her hands.

“Drop it!” Officer Davis yelled, her eyes darting between the downed men and Vincent.

Vincent slowly raised his hands, holding Maya’s crayon drawing.

“Officer Davis,” Vincent said calmly. “I don't want to hurt you. Look at the paper.”

Davis kept her gun leveled but glanced at the drawing. Her breath hitched.

“Where did you get that?” Davis asked, her voice cracking.

“You know what this is,” Vincent realized, taking a slow step forward.

“I know the safehouse on Miller’s Ridge,” Davis admitted, lowering her gun by a fraction of an inch. “The Warden ordered me to deliver groceries there twice a week. I saw the little girl. She drew that picture.”

Answer one, open two. Davis confirmed Maya was alive and nearby, but if a low-level guard knew the location, the safehouse was dangerously exposed.

“You have to help us get out of here,” Elias pleaded, stepping out from behind the washing machines.

Officer Davis froze. She stared at Elias, her eyes widening in absolute shock.

“Elias?” she breathed.

“Sarah?” Elias gasped, dropping the tactical vest he was holding.

Vincent looked between them.

Reversal. Officer Davis wasn't just a random guard caught in the crossfire. She was Elias’s estranged sister. The sister who had changed her name years ago to escape her family’s criminal ties.

“You told me he was in a federal facility,” Davis whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

“I lied to keep you safe,” Elias said, stepping toward her. “Sarah, they took my boy. They took his daughter. We have to stop them.”

Davis looked at the security monitors on the wall. Her face hardened with a fierce, protective resolve.

“We have a bigger problem,” Davis said, tapping the screen.

Vincent looked at the monitor.

The live feed showed the front gates of Blackridge Penitentiary. Four armored SUVs were ramming through the security barriers. Dozens of heavily armed mercenaries were pouring into the prison courtyard.

“They aren't here for a rescue,” Davis said grimly. “Sterling ordered a full cleanse. They’re going to slaughter everyone in this block to make sure you two don't walk out.”

“We need the armory keys,” Vincent said, his eyes darkening.