"Oh, no," TJ whispered.

"What?" Millar asked, looking from one agent to the other.

"Pell set the whole thing up himself," she said.

"Why?" Sandoval asked.

"Because he couldn't escape from Capitola." That facility, like Pelican Bay in the north of the state, was a high-tech superprison. "But he could from here."

Kathryn Dance lunged for the phone.

In a special holding cell-segregated from the other prisoners-Daniel Pell studied his cage and the corridor beyond, leading to the courthouse.

To all appearances he was calm but his heart was in turmoil. The woman cop interviewing him had spooked him badly, with her calm green eyes behind those black-framed glasses, her unwavering voice. He hadn't expected somebody to get inside his mind so deeply or so fast. It was like she could read his thoughts.

Kathryn Dance…

Pell turned back to Baxter, the guard, outside the cage. He was a decent hack, not like Pell's escort from Capitola, who was a burly man, black and hard as ebony, now sitting silently at the far door, watching everything.

"What I was saying," Pell now continued his conversation with Baxter. "Jesus helped me. I was up to three packs a day. And He took time outta His busy schedule to help me. I quit pretty much cold."

"Could use some of that help," the hack confided.

"I'll tell you," Pell confided, "smoking was harder to say good-bye to than the booze."

"Tried the patch, thing you put on your arm. Wasn't so good. Maybe I'll pray for help tomorrow. The wife and I pray every morning."

Pell wasn't surprised. He'd seen his lapel pin. It was in the shape of a fish. "Good for you."

"I lost my car keys last week and we prayed for an hour. Jesus told me where they were. Now, Daniel, here's a thought: You'll be down here on trial days. You want, we could pray together."

"'Preciate that."

Baxter's phone rang.

An instant later an alarm brayed, painful to the ears. "The hell's going on?"

The Capitola escort leapt to his feet.

Just as a huge ball of fire filled the parking lot. The window in the back of the cell was barred but open, and a wad of flame shot through it. Black, greasy smoke streamed into the room. Pell dropped to the floor. He curled up into a ball. "My dear Lord."

Baxter was frozen, staring at the boiling flames, engulfing the entire lot behind the courthouse. He grabbed the phone but the line must've been dead. He lifted his walkie-talkie and reported the fire. Daniel Pell lowered his head and began to mutter the Lord's Prayer.

"Yo, Pell!"

The con opened his eyes.

The massive Capitola escort stood nearby, holding a Taser. He tossed leg shackles to Pell. "Put ' em on. We're going down that corridor, out the front door and into the van. You're-" More flames streamed into the cell. The three men cringed. Another car's gas tank had exploded. "You're going to stay right beside me. You understand?"

"Yeah, sure. Let's go! Please!" He ratcheted on the shackles good and tight.

Sweating, his voice cracking, Baxter said, "Whatta you think it is? Terrorists?"

The Capitola escort ignored the panicked hack, eyes on Pell. "If you don't do 'xactly what I say you'll get fifty thousand volts up your ass." He pointed the Taser toward the prisoner. "And if it ain't convenient to carry you I will leave you to burn to death. Understand?"

"Yessir. Let's go. Please. I don't want you or Mr. Baxter getting hurt 'causa me. I'll do whatever you want."

"Open it," the escort barked to Baxter, who hit a button. With a buzz, the door eased outward. The three men started down the corridor, through another security door and then along a dim corridor, filling with smoke. The alarm was braying.

But, wait, Pell thought. It was a second alarm-the first had sounded before the explosions outside. Had someone figured out what he was going to do?

Kathryn Dance…

Just as they passed a fire door Pell glanced back. Thick smoke was filling the corridor around them. He cried to Baxter, "No, it's too late. The whole building's going to go! Let's get out of here."

"He's right." Baxter reached toward the alarm bar of the exit.

The Capitola escort, perfectly calm, said firmly, "No. Out the front door to the prison van."

"You're crazy!" Pell snapped. "For the love of God. We'll die." He shoved the fire door open.

The men were hit with a blast of fierce heat, smoke and sparks. Outside a wall of fire consumed cars and shrubbery and trash cans. Pell dropped to his knees, covering his face. He screamed, "My eyes…It hurts!"

"Pell, goddamn it-" The escort stepped forward, lifting the Taser.

"Put that down. He's not going anywhere," Baxter said angrily. "He's hurt."

"I can't see," Pell moaned. "Somebody help me!"

Baxter turned toward him, bent down.

"Don't!" the escort shouted.

Then the county hack staggered backward, a bewildered expression on his face, as Pell repeatedly shoved a filleting knife into his belly and chest. Bleeding in cascades, Baxter fell to his knees, trying for the pepper spray. Pell grabbed his shoulders and spun him around as the huge escort fired the Taser. It discharged but the probes went wide.

Pell shoved Baxter aside and leapt at the escort, the useless Taser falling to the floor.

The big man froze, staring at the knife. Pell's blue eyes studied his sweaty black face.

"Don't do it, Daniel."

Pell moved in.

The escort's massive fists balled up.

No point in talking. Those who were in control didn't need to humiliate or threaten or quip. Pell charged forward, dodging the man's blows, and struck him hard a dozen times, the knife edge facing out and extending downward from the bottom of his clenched right hand. Punching was the most effective way to use a knife against a strong opponent willing to fight back.

His face contorting, the escort fell to his side, kicking. He gripped his chest and throat. A moment later he stopped moving. Pell grabbed the keys and undid the restraints.

Baxter was crawling away, still trying to get his Mace out of his holster with blood-slicked fingers. His eyes grew wide as Pell approached. "Please. Don't do anything to me. I was just doing my job. We're both good Christians! I treated you kind. I-"

Pell grabbed him by the hair. He was tempted to say, You wasted God's time praying for your car keys?

But you never humiliated or threatened or quipped. Pell bent down and efficiently cut his throat.

When Baxter was dead, Pell stepped to the door again. He covered his eyes and grabbed the metallic fireproof bag, where he'd gotten the knife, just outside the door.

He was reaching inside again when he felt the gun muzzle at his neck.

"Don't move."

Pell froze.

"Drop the knife."

A moment's debate. The gun was steady; Pell sensed that whoever held it was ready to pull the trigger. His hissed a sigh. The knife clattered to the floor. He glanced at the man, a young Latino plainclothes officer, eyes on Pell, holding a radio.

"This's Juan Millar. Kathryn, you there?"

"Go ahead," the woman's voice clattered.

Kathryn…

"I'm eleven-nine-nine, immediate assistance, at the fire door, ground floor, just outside the lockup. I've got two guards down. Hurt bad. Nine-four-five, requesting ambulance. Repeat, I'm eleven-nine-"

At that moment the gas tank of the car nearest the door exploded; a flare of orange flame shot through the doorway.

The officer ducked.

Pell didn't. His beard flared, flames licked his cheek, but he stood his ground.

Hold fast…