The next morning, Oscar woke early. He walked to the small wooden cross he had placed the night before and knelt briefly, making one last prayer. His faith had never been strong, but as a son of the colonies he had been raised within the Catholic tradition. And today, when his actions could very well decide whether he lived or died, seeking a bit of favor from the spiritual world did not seem like such a bad idea.
He sighed, looked under the bed, and pulled out the chestplate. He strapped it on as best he could, trying to hide it beneath his clothes. It was still slightly visible, and the agent noticed it, though he did not think much of it—perhaps he assumed it was simply a precaution against Spanish soldiers.
