They walked out together, side by side, onto the open road. The rain plastered Michael's hair to his forehead. Lincoln's jacket hung open, empty of weapons, empty of fight. The marshals swarmed them—knees on backs, cuffs clicking shut—but neither brother resisted.
The SUVs were three hundred yards away now. Flashlights cut through the rain. A voice over a loudspeaker: "This is the U.S. Marshals Service. Come out with your hands visible."
"What?"
And somewhere in the back of the cruiser, Michael Scofield smiled.
Lincoln grabbed Michael by the shoulders, turning him so they stood face to face. "Then we stop running."
Lincoln looked at him—really looked. The way he used to when they were kids and Michael had a fever, trying to decide if it was serious enough to call someone. "Then we move. Now."
"I hear everything," Michael said. His ribs ached. The wound on his forearm, where he'd cut through a chain-link fence two nights ago, had started to seep through the makeshift bandage. "They're sweeping grid by grid. We have maybe twenty minutes before K-9 units get here."
"You hear that?" Lincoln whispered.