At nine o’clock exactly, blinds would be raised at two different windows, one to the outside world, letting in the new day’s light, and one to the observation room so that those present might witness the death. The warden, by then, would be in the execution chamber, and would offer X a chance for final words. Jason had no idea what X might say, only that he would be there to hear those words, and that to X, his presence would matter in powerful, complicated ways that Jason would as soon not consider. As for the other witnesses—the politicians and the families of the victims—Jason suspected that X would die as he had lived, contemptuous to the end.

After last words, the sponge would be soaked in salt water, placed on X’s bare scalp, and secured there by the cranial cap. Water would stream down his face and into his eyes; it would darken his clothing at the collar. A power cable would be attached to the headpiece, as would a dark shroud designed to conceal his face in what Jason considered the final mercy of allowing a condemned man’s last expressions of pain, fear, and despair to be his alone.

Jason had imagined the moment countless times: silence in the gathered crowd, black cloth stirring as X measured out his final breaths. When the moment arrived, 1,750 volts would pour into X’s body, lifting it, and then dropping it. Fifteen seconds later, a second jolt would be delivered, followed by a mandatory five-minute wait and a declaration of time of death.

Assuming everything goes well.

When they came for Jason, they did so in the dark. Half-blinded by a flashlight, Jason still recognized Captain Ripley. The others he thought were Jordan and Kudravetz. The core of X’s detail. Old-school. They pulled Jason to his feet, and every inch of the journey hurt.

“Get dressed.”

They gave him civilian clothes, and Jason did as he was told. They took him into the hall. Cuffs only. No chains.

“This way.”

Ripley set a fast pace, and they met no one as they moved down deserted hallways, and passed through checkpoints that would normally be guarded. That set off alarm bells, but when Jason slowed his pace, they yanked him hard by the arms. Outside, the sky was clear and dark.

Not dawn.

Not even close.

They drew him along a dim path, cellblock D emerging from the gloom.

No lights on the towers.

No movement.

With each turn, Jason ticked off places they weren’t taking him.

Not the infirmary.

Not death row.

They weren’t taking him to X, and that made the bells sing.

Ripley said, “Six minutes.”

Jason felt the tension, the new tempo. They hustled him toward the admin building, where they passed two guards, down at the gate, and bleeding. Ripley got them through, and locked the gate behind them.

“Shift change in four minutes.”