“Cammie!” my mom said, louder this time, cutting me off. “That’s enough. The two of you are already in this far deeper than you should be. And this is as deep as you go. For your own good.”
Mrs. Baxter walked smoothly through the room and placed her hand on her daughter’s back. “Bex, why don’t you and Cam go for a walk? Have some fun.”
We both turned and looked out the window at the people on the street. I wasn’t sure what was stranger—that three parents were asking their teen daughters to leave the house on New Year’s Eve, or that Bex and I totally didn’t want to go.
“They do a great light show at the Thames,” Mr. Baxter said. “You can see it better from the park.”
But Bex and I had both witnessed our fair share of explosions for that day. We didn’t need to see any more.
“We know where we can find another heir,” I said.
“Not now, Cammie.” My mother’s voice was a warning.
“We know that Samuel Winters’s great-great-great-great grandson shares his name and is the US ambassador to Italy. He’s probably at the embassy in Rome right now,” I went on. “And Preston is with him.”
“Girls, we are not going over this again. The ambassador is a hard target. He’ll be safe in the embassy. And that means Preston will be safe.”
“Charlene Dubois’s kids weren’t safe,” I said, and thought about the first time I had met Preston Winters. He’d had an easy grin that had made him seem a little too eager. His arms were growing too quickly for the rest of him to catch up. He’d been a dork. He was my friend. And now there were people in the world who wanted to kill his father—maybe even Preston himself. People don’t get to choose their families. Or their family businesses. Bex and I knew that better than anyone. And I couldn’t help but feel grateful that at least my family business was working for the good guys. Preston wasn’t that lucky.
“Are Zach and Mr. Solomon in Rome?” Bex asked this time, taking the lead. “Because someone needs to be in Rome. Someone needs to get Preston.”
“If I know Joe Solomon,” Mr. Baxter said, sounding sage and wise, “then I know that he is wherever he needs to be. Where that is, however, I’m not certain.”
“But—” I started.
“But nothing,” my mom said. “I’m sure Preston is fine, girls.”
“She’s out there!” I snapped. My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it, but I talked on. “Catherine is out there, and she’s hunting the same people we’re hunting, and—”
“And that is why you are going back to school!” I don’t know if my mother even realized she was yelling, but the words were out and echoing around the small room. “You are going to go back to school, and you are going to have one semester where no one is shooting at you and chasing you and… We are going to have one semester when I don’t spend every waking moment wondering whether or not my daughter is going to live to see graduation.”
“We’re seniors,” I said. “I turn eighteen next month.”
“Then act like it,” Mom told me. The words hit me like a slap. As far as our parents were concerned, it was over. There was no argument Bex or I could make. We were beaten.
“Go watch the fireworks, girls.” Bex’s mom put her arm on my shoulders. “Go be young. Have fun. Enjoy the night.”
Covert Operations Report
Operatives Baxter and Morgan were temporarily exiled from the London safe house at 2300 hours and told to go have fun. The Operatives, however, were currently unfamiliar with the protocol for “fun-having,” so they decided to worry about their mission objectives instead.
The people on the street wore funny hats and sang songs I didn’t know while they walked toward Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, parties, and pubs. But neither Bex nor I even smiled. She draped her arm through mine, and, as we walked, I was sure she probably looked chic and cool and European. I felt slow and clumsy and American.
“So,” Bex said, “how did you enjoy your first collegiate experience?”
“Honestly,” I said, “it didn’t seem all that different from my high school experiences.”
Bex sighed. “I know what you mean. If I ever reach the point in life where there are no more snipers, I might go crazy. Or bake. I could take up baking.”
“Liz took up baking,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but I’d be better at it. I would totally rock baking.”
But something told me she would vastly prefer the snipers.
The crowds were growing heavier. We passed middle-aged women in feather boas, college boys with their collars turned up. I felt like disappearing, there on that crowded street. And yet, I also felt like the most conspicuous girl in the world.
“It’s okay, Cam,” Bex said.