Walt approached the waiting truck, but his steps slowed when he noticed an automobile parked to the side. Two men stood beside it under the light of a street lantern. It was obvious they wanted to be seen.
Walt's heart pounded, and he stopped in his tracks. Michael. He pulled his rifle closer to his chest, tightening his grip.
Michael approached Walt. He narrowed his gaze and studied Walt's features. Then he nodded, as if in recognition. "I hear you've been following me."
"I was."
"But not now?"
"I have no need."
"I know. Maybe that's because you have what you were after." Michael looked at his own hands, then Walt's. "I always wondered how you kept up with me. I never understood it. It was as if you could read my thoughts."
"Maybe I could. Or . . . rather, maybe I just pondered what I would do if I were in your shoes."
"Really?"
"Yes, I imagined how I would steal the gold. Where I would go. Who I would seek help from."
"And it worked?"
"I think the results prove so."
"Until the end. You surprise me, Walt . . . Walter. I thought you'd be long gone by now. I read about the seven coins. Five of which you have. My uncle kept detailed notes. You could have left long ago. You have what you wanted."
"My focus changed."
"Because of Sophie. And Philip." He spat their names. "I would have left—"
The sound of a man's hurried footsteps interrupted Michael's words.
Salvador approached. "Walt, come quick! They've been captured!"
"Who?"
Cesar lifted a pistol and pointed it at Salvador's chest.
"Sophie and Philip," Salvador continued.
Walt cursed. "Philip? What was he doing? I thought he had a mission tonight."
"He canceled. He said he had to talk to Sophie—convinced me to bring him."
Fury flashed in Michael's gaze, and he turned to Cesar. "Let's go."
"Where to?" Walt asked.
"To save Sophie, that's where."
"It's not going to happen."
Michael and Cesar climbed into their car, and Michael started the engine.
"Wait! We need to talk!" Walt called. "To figure out a plan."
"Talk? We don't have time to talk," Michael shouted through the open window. "Do you know how these soldiers operate? They worked hard to take control of this part of Spain. And even harder to keep it."
"Yes, but—" Walt took a step back. "I know what to do. Leave Sophie to me. It's the only way!"
Walt watched as Michael sped away. He lowered his head in defeat.
* * *
Instead of heading to town, the truck wound up a steep mountain hill through the dark night. Clouds covered the moonlight, and Sophie strained to see Philip's face.
"Where are we going?" she asked. Her body tossed from side to side on the wooden bench in the back of the canvas-covered truck bed.
"Silence!" The young soldier pointed the gun her direction. He looked like dozens of other soldiers she'd seen, helped, painted. Only the uniform was different—and his allegiance.
She bit her lip, and her eyes met Philip's. She could see the apology in his gaze.
The truck pulled over, and Sophie stood.
"Not you." The soldier pushed her to the floor of the truck.
Two others yanked Philip to his feet and pulled him out of the truck.
"Sophie, I love you. No matter what happens . . . remember that!"
"Quiet!" One of the soldiers slammed the butt of the rifle into Philip's face. It gave a horrific crack, and blood spurted from his mouth.
She yanked on the handcuffs in front of her, but it did no good. They were locked securely and held together by a thick, heavy chain. She rose again and tried to push past the soldier in the back of the truck. "Where are you taking him? What are you doing?"
"I said quiet!" The soldier pushed her back. Her head cracked against the bench as she fell, and Sophie fought to keep consciousness. The light faded even more, and then the soldier neared. His angry face distorted her view. He gave her a quick kick in the ribs.
Sophie gasped as pain shot up her side. A moan escaped her lips. Through her blurry vision, she watched in disbelief as another automobile sped up the winding road and stopped. The guards looked at each other. Surprise registered on their faces.
Two men jumped from the car. She recognized both of them.
"Michael?" Sophie spoke his name. She could see Philip looking at her, pain in his expression.
"Silence!" The same soldier covered Sophie's mouth with is hand.
One of the soldiers holding Philip's arm seemed to recognize Michael.
"Señor Michael. I haven't seen you—"
"In months, I know, but I need a favor. I want the woman." Michael's voice was firm.
"Sorry. I have a direct order. I will lose my own head if I do not bring her in. She made a fool of all of us—passed on vital information."
Michael refused to meet Sophie's gaze. "If you can't grant that request, I ask another."
"Sí, Señor." The soldier's head bobbed, hoping to please.
Michael pointed to Philip. "This man has harmed me. He's taken what was most precious to me. I want revenge." Michael opened his hand to Cesar, and Cesar passed him the pistol with a smile.
Sophie shook her head, trying to free the man's hand from over her mouth. His grip was too strong. She struggled harder and felt tears springing to her eyes.
Michael, no!
Michael motioned to the shovel in one of the soldier's hands. "Cesar, grab it. I've learned never to leave my dirty work unfinished."
Cesar approached, lifted the shovel, and forced the handle into Philip's back.
Philip cried out, then crumbled to the ground. Sophie looked away. She couldn't watch—couldn't believe what was happening. It was all her fault.
Hatred coursed through her like she'd never felt. Hatred greater than any love she'd ever felt for Michael.
Michael grabbed one of Philip's arms, Cesar the other.
She closed her eyes but could still hear the sound of Philip's feet being dragged into the forested area beside the road.
A minute later, the sound of three gunshots split the air.
"Sophie!" Philip screamed once. And then silence.
Sophie's whole body trembled. She fell to the bed of the truck and curled up in a little ball. More than anything she wished her hands were free so she could cover her ears. Worse than the gunshots were the sounds of the shovel's head penetrating the ground.
* * *
The guard pushed her into the tiny, dark cell, and Sophie collapsed to the ground. Sobs shook her body.
Philip.
The tears came, and she couldn't stop them. The sound of those three gunshots rang in her head. Over and over.
"Why, God? Why did You bring me here?" She curled up in a ball and tried to block out the world. "I never wanted this. I never asked for this."
She thought about Michael and swore to herself she'd hate him until the day she died, which she knew might be this very day. She worried about Walt and wondered what part he'd played in all this. She wondered if he too had been captured. If he too had died like Philip. Or if he would.
Nothing mattered anymore. Not the gold. Not Spain. Not her life. She glanced around at the small cell and considered her fate. She'd come for Michael . . . she'd tried to give all she could to help. And now . . .
Sobs shook her body. "Why, God, why?"
The answer that came to her soul wasn't what she expected.
Why not?
Why not her? Many had lost so much. Who was she to think she deserved anything different? Jesus had offered her salvation, but He never promised an easy life.
Sobs shook her shoulders again. She held her ribs, sure they were broken. She gasped for a breath of the filthy air.
Images filled her mind. Of Philip when she first saw him in the foxhole, and the surprised look on his face when he noticed a woman on the battlefield. The tenderness as he'd carried injured José. Their talks. Their laughter and the way he had watched her as she painted the soldiers at the field hospital, months ago.
And finally she thought of the last kiss he'd placed upon her head only hours ago.
The cell had no bed, so she curled in a ball on the filthy floor that smelled of urine. The shouts of guards carried down the halls. From somewhere a man's pained screams split the air. It was the most horrific cry she'd ever heard.
Sophie drifted off in a fitful sleep, not caring if she ever awoke. Not caring about anything. Knowing all was lost.