“Think about it, Preston. Something has been different lately, hasn’t it? Your dad, he’s been changing his patterns. Fewer trips out of the embassy? New cars? New guards? New protocols?” I spoke slowly, but still Preston inched farther and farther away from me and the things I had to say. “Someone is hunting Circle members, Preston—the descendants of the Circle founders.”
“No.” Preston shook his head.
“Someone is hunting you.”
Carefully, I reached into the pocket of my jeans, my cold hands scraping against the wet denim; but I clawed until I found the piece of paper. Gently, I unfolded it, peeling back the damp layers until I could look down at the names I knew by heart.
“This is why they wanted me, Preston. Because years ago I saw this list. Because I knew about the people who founded the Circle of Cavan. Look, Preston. Look!” I pointed to the names. “Elias Crane. His great-great-great-great grandson is dead. Charles Dubois’s great-great-great-great granddaughter and her kids are probably dead. Look at the last name, Preston.”
“No.”
“Samuel is a family name, isn’t it?” I asked. “Wasn’t your dad named for a relative who fought in the Civil War?”
There was no denying the truth in what I’d said, but Preston just shook his head.
“So what if he was? That doesn’t mean my family has anything to do with the Circle.”
“Yes, Preston.” I nodded. “That’s exactly what it means.”
“You’re wrong. You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“My parents were nice to you. My dad helped you!”
“He tried to kill me, Preston. He would have killed me.”
“You’re a spy. You lie. It’s what you do.”
“I’m not lying now.”
Preston continued to inch away from me—from the truth he no longer wanted to hear.
When a helicopter roared overhead and began to land in the courtyard inside the closed gates of the embassy, I looked away for a split second. I swear I didn’t lose focus for more than a breath. But when I turned back, Preston was bolting into the street, into traffic, pushing people aside and running against the grain to the embassy’s gates.
“Dad!” he yelled, and then I saw what he was seeing. Ambassador Winters was out of the building and walking across the courtyard. He crouched beneath the chopper’s spinning blades and only stopped when his son’s cries broke through the air.
“Dad! Wait! Open the gates,” Preston yelled.
“Preston, stop,” I called after him.
He stole a hurried, frantic glance in my direction, but ran even faster, as if he was no longer sure exactly who to trust. I totally knew the feeling.
“Open the gates!” Preston yelled again, but the guards must have been given some kind of order because they glanced at the ambassador and the gates stayed closed.
“Dad!” Preston yelled. He gripped the iron fence, pleading. But the man only ran faster to the chopper and closed the door, blocking off the sound of Preston’s cries.
“Dad?” Preston asked one final time. This time it wasn’t a scream. It was a whimper.
Then the whole scene changed.
It was like the whole thing was happening in slow motion. I heard the sirens. I recognized the snipers for what they were the moment they appeared on the embassy’s roof. What I didn’t know was why.
The helicopter started to rise, but someone fired a warning shot and the chopper hovered.
More guards filled the courtyard, rifles trained on Preston’s father. And when a voice came booming through a bullhorn, I knew.
“Samuel Winters, you are under arrest,” Agent Townsend said. I saw him appear then, through the crowd. My aunt Abby stood at his side, her dark hair blowing in the swirling wind. “Land the chopper or we will fire. I repeat, we will fire.”