Sophie awoke in the cave. She opened her eyes and noticed Michael and Philip talking, looking at her with concern. It was strange to see them together. Others she recognized—Salvador, Emanuel, Diego—sat with them.
Philip pulled away from Michael and walked toward her. "How do you feel, Sophie?"
She tried to lift her hand to her face but winced at the pain in her shoulder. "Like I've been hit by a truck."
He smiled. "Close enough." He glanced over his shoulder to Michael. "We're trying to figure out a plan . . . to save Walt."
She nodded.
"He left you something." Philip pulled a small brown pouch from his pocket. A piece of paper with her name on it had been pinned to it.
Philip helped her sit, and she opened the top of the pouch with shaky fingers. She turned it upside down, and five coins fell into her palm.
"He thinks he 's not coming back."
"I know."
"And the rest of the gold?"
"We're sticking to the plan. Michael will be meeting with Ritter."
"And you?" She looked into Philip's light blue gaze.
"I stay with you."
She held up a coin to the light. "Do you think if I give this away, I'll regret it?"
"Yes, I do," Philip answered. "They cost him a lot. You could give it away. But if you did, I think for the rest of your life you'd wonder if you took the easy road out. And you'll wonder if you would have made a difference had you followed through."
"I don't want to think about this anymore."
"You don't have to right now." He placed the softest kiss on the tip of her nose. "Rest. We have a lot to talk about."
"But Walt . . . he may not have time."
"Don't worry, Sophie. We'll talk fast."
* * *
Walt felt his body thrown into the cell. Even if his legs would have held him, he could have not stood in the small space.
The cell was long and narrow. Like a coffin, he thought to himself. Iron rings hung from the walls, like the handles of a coffin turned inward.
He crumpled to the ground and tried to ignore the pain. He refused to look at his hands, to see the damage, and instead pulled them tight to his side—as if that would somehow ease the throbbing.
"Are you rested?" a voice asked.
Walt forced his eyes open and realized he must have fallen asleep. For how long he did not know. All he knew was that the faintest beam of sunlight slanted in a tall window, one he had not realized was there.
A man stood in the doorway holding out a cup of coffee. From the scent wafting up from the tin cup, Walt knew it was real coffee, not the chicory most of the country drank as a poor substitute. Walt shook his head, refusing, mostly due to the fact he knew his hands could not grip the cup. He also considered it might be drugged—yet another way for them to try to pull information from him.
"Not thirsty?" the man asked. Then he drank from the cup himself.
Outside, from somewhere in the courtyard, Walt heard the sounds of marching feet. The clump of boots against the stone pavement wearied him. Keeping his eyes open and gazing into the man's smiling face tired him even more.
"It is sad that someone such as you, who has commanded so much, should end up like this. There are generals who have commanded the troops, but you have controlled so much more—the coming and going of men and women. The shipment of treasure."
Walt refused to reply, or even to look at the man.
"You carried more in your mind than others in books of troop placements and battle plans. It's a shame you could not turn off your sympathies. You could have left this country a wealthy man if not for your tender heart." The man spat the last two words as if they created a foul taste in his mouth.
"You're in pain. I can see that." The man's voice held no sympathy. "But do not worry; it will not last long. I am not cruel. In two nights it will be over. The plans. The schemes. Your life."
And with that the man turned and strode from the doorway.
A sob caught in Walt's throat. It wasn't something he expected. Then again, he hadn't expected to be here either.
The man was right, though; he'd become soft. If he'd stuck by his original plan none of this would have happened.
Yet even now Walt didn't regret the changes. He'd thought of everything. Well, almost everything. One thing he hadn't considered was the people. He didn't realize how they'd change not the plan, but his heart.
He sighed, then eased his head back against the damp, moldy straw. He would be dead in two days and wished it were sooner. He had no doubt that, if his friends were still alive, they'd try to rescue him. It was the last thing he wanted.
"Señor, can you hear me?" A voice spoke through the walls.
"Yes." Walt turned. "I can. Who are you?"
"I am a prisoner, too."
Walt considered telling the man not to speak for worry of the guard's wrath, but changed his mind. He needed a friend. And for a strange reason he immediately considered this man a friend.
"What are you here for?" Walt asked.
"I tried to help . . . those who didn't want it. Then I was wrongly accused. A friend turned me in. Or at least, someone I thought was a friend. And you?"
"I had something they wanted. But I didn't tell them where it was. I'm not sure why, because even when I found it . . . it wasn't what I thought." Walt adjusted himself against the wall, the pain of his body nearly causing him to black out. "I did it for myself. Then for others. But it made no difference. My soul was still empty. I wanted my family's approval, but I failed at that, too."
"And your friends?" the man asked.
"I put them in danger, and I'm afraid they still are. I either need to escape or to die. I worry for them if I don't."
"Maybe you should wait and trust instead." The man's voice was gentle. "Maybe they have a plan."
"That's what I fear."
The door opened, and a guard shoved another man into the cell. A man as broken and bruised as Walt.
"Thank you for listening," Walt said after the guard had stalked away.
"Are you talking to me?" his cell mate growled.
"No. To the prisoner on the other side of the wall."
The eyes of the man widened. "Are you mad? There is no one over there. It's an outside wall. We are three stories high."
Walt glanced up. Sure enough, he leaned against the wall with the window. A chill moved up his arms. "I was mistaken," he said hastily, remembering the words spoken to him. "I am mistaken."
* * *
Sophie stared into the fire. "I think we should do this alone." She looked at Philip. "We can't bring any more danger to these men. If anything, perhaps they could help by finding Maria and the baby—but as for the rescue . . . they shouldn't risk their lives."
Emanuel crouched before her. He gently touched her hand. "Señorita. You are an American. You were born in a country filled with freedom of choice. Yet you come here—into a country that is not yours, and you believe you know better than we do? My family has known no other country." His voice was firm. "This is our land. Our home. We have fought the Moors. We have fought ourselves. You cannot grasp all our fight involves."
She glanced away, ashamed. Then she looked at Michael. "You are right. I've been a fool. Michael—he has told me this from the beginning. I don't understand. I wasn't raised here." She folded her hands on her lap. "But I do know this—suffering happens. Countries are forged out of hardship. I grew up in Boston. The very ground cries with the blood of martyrs."
"Then let us go with you. Let us try. Some for the woman and child. Some for Walt. We know what it means to die for a cause—many of our friends have done that very thing."
"Are you sure?"
"Señorita, you do not understand," Salvador echoed. "In our country we are raised with the knowledge there are important people, and then there are the rest of us. For a few months we had hopes that the people's voice could win. That what we cared for, as a group, could stand up to powerful men."
"But don't you understand? That is the truth. Every person is special in God's eyes. Your voice does matter."
"And that is why I am doing this. You are important—a gifted painter and one whose work has touched hearts for our cause. But more than that, your heart is tender for the people—the lowliest among us. Your voice with your heart will make all the difference. I am one man, and the people I influence are few. You have a fighting spirit that you barely see for yourself. It is the same with your friends. I believe in them because you believe in them. I will help them with hopes they will continue the fight."
Sophie nodded and lowered her head. "Yes, I can't stop you. In fact . . . I appreciate your help."
"Good." Emanuel patted her hand. "But now we must sleep. Tomorrow is a big day, and we must all be rested."
He rose and looked at her with a twinkle in his gaze. "And maybe the next time you fall asleep, you will do it as a free woman, in a land of freedom."