Callahan was huddled in a cavern near the Pacific Ocean when the Feds closed in. There were still shreds of human flesh under his fingernails when the serial killer surrendered to the inevitable capture. They could put him behind bars, he vowed as they dragged him down the narrow path toward the waiting cars, but he would escape. And then they'd be sorry. He lashed out at the nearest officer, landing a crippling blow on his kneecap. The remaining men knocked him to the ground and bound him foot and hand to ensure his cooperation.
He was sentenced to a lonely prison for the criminally insane; his only companions the wardens and fellow madmen. Over the next seventeen years, Callahan spent every spare second planning his escape. He studied every weakness in the prison system. He knew every guards movements. He spent several years contriving to get a ground-floor cell so he could dig his way out. That plan nearly succeeded, until he reached bedrock a few feet below the cell floor. With every failed plan, his anger grew. He would escape this wretched cell if it killed him.
