Out of nowhere the ringing stops, and the twins pop up on the screen inside our little cave.

Whoa.

“Rayla! I knew we’d hear from you!” Ava exclaims. I know she’s Ava from what I remember of their rousing recruiting video the night of the Gala. She’s the sister who kept her red hair.

“Thank Whitman you’re both safe!” Rayla shouts, springing into action. She scoots right up to the screen and touches their digital faces. She’s more energetic and perky than I thought Rayla Cadwell capable of, like seeing her granddaughters is the ultimate caffeine hit, five times as strong as her bitter tea.

Ava and Mira stand shoulder to shoulder, looking way too cool and brazen considering they were just locked inside a superpower’s prison cell. But what really has me bugging out is Ava’s awesome and super illegal antisurveillance gear. Blackout Wear. You can’t even find that stuff on the Black Market.

“We’re about to leave for our missions,” Mira announces. They seem rushed, like there’s a lot going on behind their screen, vying for their attention, but all they want to do is stand there and talk to their grandma.

“Missions?” Rayla says, all serious and concerned.

“They just escaped. Do they ever sleep?” I remark out loud.

“Does privacy mean anything to you?” Blaise nudges me. Choice words coming from a hacker.

I stay where I am and linger behind Rayla, trying my best to be a fly on the wall that no one notices.

But Ava notices. She stares at me—more like sizes me up—giving me an enigmatic smile. She wants to know who the guy is that’s with her grandmother. I get it. I’d want to know too. I puff up my chest and wave hello like an imbecile. Ava doesn’t wave back.

Blaise grips me by my collar and hauls me toward the ladder. “Better go get the car, lovesick Cog.”

Lovesick? I’m about to tell Blaise the only thing that makes me sick is his face, but I decide not to reason with simpletons.

“Where are we going?” I ask, climbing the steps after him.

“Don’t you listen?” Blaise says from above. I have to admit, I am a bit distracted having America’s top wanted practically in the same room with me.

I strain my ears to hear scraps of the family reunion, but I catch only undertones.

“We’re heading for Colorado,” he states nonchalantly.

“Colorado! I haven’t been across a state border in over seven years.”

“Thanks for your unsolicited life story,” Blaise says, scrambling up onto the first floor of the house. He bends down and yells at me, “Get the car!” like I didn’t hear the first time.

Buckle up, to quote the old expression.

This could be a wild ride.

MIRA

The last time I was on a railcar, I was the one being hunted. Ava and I were fleeing our home, speeding across Texas, terrified and defenseless. It’s strange transforming into the hunter, the predator. The one in charge.

Across the broad aisle, Alexander sits five rows ahead, facing me. Only a smattering of standing passengers grips the handrails along the walkway, leaving me a clear view of my prey. I quickly take in his dark hair and eyes, his pompous, oval face. Yes, this is Alexander.

A Roth.

A black raincoat drapes his lanky frame—it looks expensive, and so does he. Life as a ghost has been good to him, then. His plump lips seem to curl upward in mockery both at me and at the rest of the duped world. It’s a smile so like that of his son, Halton, I have to force myself not to turn away.

Why are you here? Did your father exile you? Or did you run? I want to storm over and force the answers out of him with my fists, but Kano and Ciro would stop me before I could even stand. Instead, I readjust the wavy mane of my chestnut-brown wig and wait for the planned time. Seven more stops to go.

I brush my fingers along the marked skin of my inner right wrist, outlining the single hooded eye of my tattoo. This usually soothes my restlessness, but now it only stokes my hatred. I watch as Alexander leans his head back against his cushioned seat, his long arms and legs splayed out, one man taking up the space of three. He closes his eyes, catching a nap on his commute home after a full day on the docks. He looks comfortable, relaxed. He shouldn’t be.

The forgotten son has been found.

Before I left headquarters, the Common matched the face of Governor Roth’s son to a Julien Wright hiding out in the open in Vancouver, Canada. The booming western coastal city saved from the rising seas by their billion-dollar flood defenses.

He’s only thirty-two miles from the border wall.

My temper flares. Did President Moore help him cross?

Further probing told us Julien, a.k.a. Alexander, has owned and operated a profitable cargo business off the famous Port of Perennial for exactly eighteen years.

Since the precise time Alexander vanished from Texas.

So he abandoned family and country to engage in international trade? He’s here to export lumber and get rich? Not likely. He’s a Roth after all, even if he changed his name. And Roths want for nothing.

The railcar stops, and more commuters pile in. Every one of them wears water-resistant clothing, and every bag, purse, or fist carries an umbrella. A woman takes the seat beside me, her rain boots and raincoat zipped up tight. I look out the window and see nothing but clear skies. It’s like they know something I don’t.

As the railcar hurtles forward, away from the harbor and toward the suburbs, a faint twist of doubt squeezes my insides. What if this all leads to nothing? What if there are no secrets, no revelations, and Alexander was hiding nothing but himself?

No, there are secrets here.

I should go to him. Talk to him.

Let him know he’s caught.

Slowly, so as not to attract my handlers’ attention, I lift myself up to stand, but a firm hand lowers me back against my seat as soon as my rear feels air.

“Don’t. Blow. Our cover,” Kano warns in a curt whisper from the row behind me.

“It’s not as if he’s going anywhere,” Ciro adds, loud enough for our entire section to hear. Kano must be glaring daggers at our vexatious companion, because a muted “My apologies” quickly follows.

Privately, before we left for our mission, Kano promised me he would keep Ciro by his side at all times. We both agree Ciro comes with more baggage than he’s worth.

Ciro might be funding the mission, but I’m leading it.

I take a deep breath and calm myself. Alexander hasn’t moved. He still sleeps, his body stretched out despite the crowding car. I pull down my sleeve to cover my tattoo and reach inside my pocket, slipping my fingers into the four steel rings of my knife’s handle. The knife my father gave to me.

A Roth and a Goodwin, ten yards away from one another.

Six more stops to go.

“Shaughnessy Heights,” the cheerful voice of the railcar announces, inciting a rush of mayhem.

Alexander is the first to pop up, already out the door and on his way to disappear on the packed platform by the time I detangle my legs from the waterproofed woman blocking my row’s exit. I muscle through the commuters standing in the center aisle, trusting Kano and Ciro to follow as I push aside incoming passengers through the only open door.

Move! Hurry! I can’t lose him.

Without pausing to find my bearings, I charge forward onto the platform, swiveling my head around so ferociously I nearly get whiplash.