Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  "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.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  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 p
ain. 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."

  Chapter Forty

  Sophie tossed and turned throughout the night, to the point that looking back it was hard to know which thoughts were hers and which belonged to dreams. How could they get Walt out of that prison?

  She met Philip's gaze across the campfire the next morning and was surprised to discover he looked rested and had an excited look in his eyes. The words spilled from his mouth before she even had a chance to ask.

  "Sophie, remember how we were saved at the airport when we first stole the gold? Walt didn't try to overpower Cesar or Michael. Instead, he made them believe everything was as planned." He took her hands. "I spoke to our friends about the executions. They told me the guards usually take the prisoners outside the gates somewhere, shoot them, and bury them in shallow graves.

  "First, I thought we should ambush the vehicle. Or try to overpower them when they stop. But what if we simply have a different truck pick him up? You told me yourself they have so many soldiers coming and going that they don't know who is who."

  "You mean drive to the prison, pick Walt up, and drive away?"

  From somewhere the smell of frying bacon wafted to her. Her stomac
h growled, reminding her it had been too long since she'd eaten . . . but she couldn't eat if she tried.

  "Yes. We have two days to watch first. See just what takes place. Tomas said he could get the keys for us for one of their trucks. He can even find someone to pose as a driver."

  "I don't know. It sounds too simple."

  "That's the beauty of it. Men know how to react when they are confronted with conflict, but when everything seems as it should be, there's no need to even question. It comes down to having faith—faith that Tomas knows the right people. And that the guards won't see anything unusual."

  "Then what happens after we get Walt?"

  "Michael went to get Maria and the baby. He's then going to travel with Ritter while we journey to the coast, find a ship, and sail away."

  "You make it sound so easy."

  "Let's hope it is." Philip reached over and stroked her cheek.

  A man entered the cave, and Sophie turned. She recognized him from somewhere and knew he was one of the guerilla fighters. As he neared, Sophie saw he was bloody and beaten. He walked with a limp, and a great sadness filled his gaze.

  "Are you the ones trying to find a way to rescue Walt? Are you Sophie?"

  "Yes." Sophie rose. "Do you have information about him?" She looked behind the man. "Is he here?" For the briefest moment Sophie dared to hope Walt was free.

  The man lowered his gaze. "He is not here, but I have information. A message for you, actually. I was released from prison this morning. Walt and I shared a cell. Come, Señorita; sit so we can talk."

  Sophie did as she was told—her knees already growing weak. She eyed the man with suspicion. "How do I know Walt sent you? Why should I trust you?"

  "Walt said you'd believe me. He said your heart was tender, and you would trust me. Out of all people, he said you wouldn't let the war turn you into someone distrusting."

  "Maybe I'm learning to see the world as it really is," she interjected. She felt Philip's hand on her back.

  "If that is the case, that would be a sad thing. Spain is full of people without hope."