The sound of the solid metal door opening pulled Sophie from her fitful sleep. She'd woken throughout the night to the sound of the tortured man's screams, but they were no worse than the demons that danced in her nightmares. No worse than the memory of Philip's last cries.
"Señorita." It was the guard's voice.
She lifted her head and pushed her hair back from her face, wincing at the pain that shot through her side. It was a different guard from the one last night. And if she weren't mistaken, his eyes hinted of compassion.
He opened the door wider. "I have come to tell you that you are free to go."
"What do you mean?"
"We thought we had captured a key spy when we got you, but we were mistaken. There will be a truck to drive you out of town today. The ship will be waiting on the coast. It will take you to France. You will not be stopped."
"I don't understand."
"The man we've sought the whole time . . . he has made a trade."
"A trade? Are you talking about—?" She sealed her lips, not wanting to incriminate herself. Or her friend. Maybe this was their plan all along.
He smiled. "You are learning. The trade was one spy for another. A small pawn for, well, one greater."
She stood, brushing the filth from her clothes. "I still don't understand."
"I believe you know him as Walt Block. But to us he has many names."
Sophie eyed the open door, yet heaviness settled on her heart.
"You have Walt?"
"Did you not hear the screams of pain from the dungeon?" The guard chuckled, and his gaze hardened. "I thought you would recognize your friend."
He stepped forward and took Sophie's face in his hands, leaning close. His breath smelled of liquor. She tried to turn her head, but his grip was strong.
"If I had a choice, I would keep you both. But it was not my decision to make. You are free to go. I will give you a ride myself."
"Can I see him before I leave? Can I see Walt?"
"No. I would let you. But he doesn't want you to see him . . . in such a state."
Sophie swallowed hard. It pained her even more to realize the cries had been those of her friend, her rescuer. A sob escaped her lips, and she clung to the wall and then slid to the floor, wishing she could die where she lay.
* * *
Sophie found herself in the same truck as last night; only this time she sat in the passenger's seat. She had refused to leave—after all, where could she go? What did she have without those two men? The guard didn't listen to her pleas.
"Walk away or die. It is your choice," he stated firmly.
The truck drove through town, and in the bright morning sunlight she saw men and women walking to the market as if it were any other day. One woman laughed at her child as she hoisted him onto her hip. The sound of the child's laughter joining his mother's caused Sophie's stomach to turn as the truck rumbled past.
Sophie thought of Maria Donita—yet another person she'd failed. As if Walt and Philip were not enough.
I can't go on anymore. I don't want to live with this pain.
The truck exited town. She refused to turn and glance at the gleaming castle on the hill. Not only was she leaving Granada behind; she was leaving all hope. Sophie slumped lower in her seat, when suddenly gunfire sounded. Bullets hit the cab, and the sound of breaking glass filled her ears.
She screamed and tossed her aching body onto the floor of the cab.
Isn't it enough that You let me be defeated? Must You kill me, too!
The driver shouted in surprise and then in pain. She looked over and saw a bright red spot on his shoulder. In agony, he released the steering wheel just as the truck sped around a curve.
"Dear God!" Sophie cried, reaching for the steering wheel. She was too slow. The truck missed the curve and plowed into a field of thick brush. Her body slammed forward, and she hit the dashboard of the truck. Then only blackness.
* * *
Sophie awoke to find herself hanging halfway out the passenger door. Her gaze darted to the driver, and she noticed a large gash on his forehead. His eyes were wide—staring into the broken windshield, and she knew he was dead.
A moan escaped her lips, and the driver's face blurred. Everything around her faded to gray, then black.
Something stirred outside the truck. She heard the sound of the passenger door opening, and then a voice. "Here, let me help you."
She felt her body being dragged, then lifted.
If Sophie hadn't known Michael's voice so well, she would have thought she had died. She would have imagined it was an angel who carried her to her Maker.
She tried to focus her mind. "Are you here . . . to kill me?"
"No, Sophie." Another voice broke through. One she also knew well. "He's here to help."
Sophie opened her eyes. "Philip." She gasped for breath and then coughed.
"I'm here. And you .. . you'll be okay."
"But . . . but . . ." She looked at Michael. "You took him away. You killed Philip. I heard the gunshots. The sounds of the shovel.
"Michael smiled. "Do you think I do not know how to fake a death? To make it believable?"
"He told me to play along," Philip explained. "Michael saved me, because he needed my help to save you."
Instead of meeting her gaze, Michael turned his look to Philip. "Philip will never abandon you," he said, emotion choking his voice. "Even until the last moment—when he was sure he was about to die—he pleaded for your life. Not his own."
Her eyelids felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds each, and she let them flutter closed. "Walt," she whispered.
"We know." Philip's voice was compassionate. "By the time we returned to the camp, he'd already turned himself in."
"He traded himself . . . for me." She felt a tear escape and journey down her cheek.
"I know, but we'll see what we can do."
"Dear Walt," she muttered again. Sophie felt her body being lifted. She didn't know if it was Philip or Michael who carried her. But she focused on the beating of his heart, and allowed the weariness to pull her into its grasp once more.