Randal walked toward the sentry lying on the stone floor. The Special’s bare feet were sore from running, but having a bone sticking out of his limp forearm and attempting a prison escape armed only with a guard’s side-handled baton, sore feet didn’t rank very high.

“Don’t move!” a man’s voice behind Randal shouted.

The Special ignored the command and took off running. Guards cursed behind him and struggled to follow.

He turned a corner and stopped dead. Thirty feet down the corridor, a squad of soldiers were bunkered down behind a large stack of sandbags, firearms at the ready.