Chapter Twenty

The Reys were in Dresden. Not the corporate headquarters in Boston. Not a satellite office in some foreign land. They were actually in Dresden, Germany. The city. The namesake for the corporate conglomerate.

They were hiding in plain sight. “Genius level smart,” Craig had said. And he was right. The location was so arrogant, so flagrantly mocking all the government organizations trying to find them, that when Craig Bernard said it out loud, it made complete sense. The Carlos and Rosario Rey I met survived on charm and oozed such an excessive sense of self-importance that, of course, they would never expect to be found in the one place that shared a name with their criminal organization. They were probably sipping Gewürztraminer in the town square and inviting local law enforcement to dinner.

Marcus was beyond excited. So were Julian and Charlotte. We’d found two of the people we were looking for—really found them. Julian even had contacts in Dresden scope out the address Bernard gave us, and within hours, we received cell phone images of Marcus’s parents. His dad’s head and beard were shaved, and his mom’s hair was sliced into a severe bob and dyed a bright auburn, but it was them.

We’d actually done it. First I met with Randolph Urban, and now we were meeting with the Reys. It finally felt like we were close to ending the espionage trap that ensnared us. We were the hunters now.

I only wished it wasn’t with the help of Craig Bernard, nor at the expense of my sister.

Charlotte and Keira were staying behind. Due to my sister’s high profile, we couldn’t risk her drawing paparazzi to a meeting like this. And due to Craig Bernard eating dry toast in our basement, Keira couldn’t be left alone for fear she’d put cyanide in his tap water. (Not that there was anything wrong with that.)

“This is it,” I said to Marcus, squeezing his hand as we traveled beside Julian in the back of a car en route to the flat where his parents were staying. Marcus wanted this moment so badly I could practically see his hope emanating in fuzzy waves, like the air off a hot gas grill.

“I don’t know how to feel.” He crushed my fingers. “I know what it was like when you saw them. And I know what you went through when you saw your parents. But none of that fits with the people who raised me.”

I nodded, staying silent, trying to let him keep faith in his parents for as long as he wanted. Even if I thought it was unfounded. Even if I was certain they were going to break his heart.

In my mind, the Reys were the leading candidates for “Most Likely To Have Killed Tyson Westbrook.” My parents denied doing it when I saw them in Rio, and Urban denied any involvement when I saw him in Poland. Both had admitted to crimes much worse than a single case of murder, so it was hard not to believe them. That left the Reys. We already knew that Antonio was feeding them information on the Dresden Kids, which meant they weren’t above using children to get to us; we knew that they wanted to pin Department D’s entire criminal history on my parents; and we knew they were involved in Urban’s original plan to kill them. But Marcus believed there would be reasonable explanations for all of that, and I had to let him think that.

For now.

I stared at the architecture outside my window as I sat squished in the middle of the back seat. Of all the places I’d traveled, I’d never been to Germany. It never even occurred to me that the name of my parents’ company referred to an actual place. Charlotte had explained that the city was devastatingly bombed during World War II. British forces leveled much of the historic charm of this artist community, thought of as the “Florence of Germany,” and killed thousands of innocent civilians. It’s considered a major blot on the efforts of the Allied forces, reinforcing an idea that the good guys are not always good. There’s a lot of gray in this world, and I wondered if that was why Urban and my parents chose the name for their corporation—because good and evil were sometimes a matter of perspective.

Marcus rubbed his forehead, hope and fear warring behind his eyes.

“Whatever happens”—I squeezed his leg—“this meeting is a good thing. It’s one step closer to ending this.”

“With a prison cell?” He cocked his head.

I didn’t respond, because yes, that was exactly where this ended. He knew that. We agreed on that. But I also knew facing that reality was a lot harder than talking about it hypothetically. That was why Julian was with us; he was tasked with calling Martin Bittman of the CIA once Marcus had obtained the answers he needed—we figured Julian was the most detached from the situation, the most capable of making a difficult call. It was a call I didn’t make when I saw my parents in Rio, nor when I saw Randolph Urban in Poland. I should have, I knew that, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“I wish Antonio were here,” Marcus whispered, like he didn’t want me to hear. But he was his brother. Of course, I understood.

I reached for the metal chain that hung from the back pocket of Marcus’s jeans and found the lock dangling from it. His lock and my key, showing we’d always be there for one another, no matter how we felt about our parents or anything else.

“I get it. I get you.” I tugged on the lock, but he kept looking out the window.

We passed a museum. It looked almost British, a Tudor-style building with yellow stucco outlined by dark beams. It reminded me of Lewes, and bonfire night, and kissing Marcus as fire swirled around us. That was the night I met his brother.

“When I was in Rio, facing my parents, I wanted nothing more than to be holding my sister’s hand,” I told him.

Marcus nodded, sadly smiling at me for trying to understand. “What if they really hurt people? What if I’m wrong about them?”

I leaned my forehead toward his. “Then we’ll deal. But right now, you’re going to see your parents. Focus on that.”

“I concur,” said Julian, cutting into the moment. “Let’s take a moment and consider that we’ve managed to confront your parents”—he looked at me—“Randolph Urban, and now your parents”—he looked at Marcus—“in a matter of months. We’re not trained spies. We don’t work for a government agency. But we did it. And if we can do that, we can accomplish whatever we need to here. We’re in this together.”

“Look at Julian the cheerleader,” I said as our driver pulled up to the curb of a modern villa.

The edges of Marcus’s lips twitched; it wasn’t a smile but I could see his mood had shifted. The hope was back, and he needed that. One of us had to be optimistic.

The car stopped, the driver staying professionally silent as we looked at the glass structure in front of us, lined with long modern balconies and an outdoor swimming pool that looked more fitting for Southern California than Germany. It was perfect for the Reys.

“Nice place,” Julian complimented, with the appreciation of a rich man with good taste. The home sat atop a cliff overlooking the city. They weren’t exactly roughing it as they ran from the law—much like Urban. I worried what else they had in common.

“Whatever happens, I’m right here,” I said as we exited.

Marcus nodded, then we crossed the lush lawn and ascended a set of steps leading to their door. Marcus paused on the stoop, his chest heaving with every breath.

He closed his eyes briefly, then he lifted his fist and knocked.

“Marcus! Ay, mijo!” his mother greeted, throwing her arms around her son like she had been expecting him for Sunday dinner. “Look at you! Carlos! Ven aqui!”

Marcus’s father jogged toward the entry, wiping his mouth like he was in the middle of lunch. “Ay, Marcus!” He rushed to the group hug.

Julian and I stood quietly on the outskirts, our shoulders tense like awkward coworkers infringing on a personal moment. Marcus’s mother kissed every inch of his face while his father mussed his hair. They didn’t seem very panicked about unexpected visitors. In fact, they were just as boisterous as when I saw them in Boston, but the change in their hairstyles really did alter their appearance. And it looked like they’d lost weight. His mother was curvier before, now her clothes hung a bit too loosely. And his dad was wearing skinny jeans that could probably fit Julian.

“Aanastaaasthia!” his father greeted me with a hug. “Good to see you again! And you must be Julian! Bienvenidos!”

“Why thank you,” Julian replied, trying to match their good manners, though I could tell by his blue eyes that he was confused by the enthusiasm.

Back in Boston, I had been startled by their overly familiar demeanor, as well, but I expected it this time. The Reys were huggers.

Finally, Marcus pulled away from his mother’s embrace. “Que esta pasando?” he asked, before rattling a lengthy list of questions in Spanish ranging from where have you been, do you know where Antonio is, and are you involved in Department D?

His father hushed him as soon as the evil corporation was named. “Por favor. There is time for all of that.” His eyes swiftly scanned the street, searching for something. “Let’s celebrate that you are here. Have you just arrived in Dresden?”

We nodded.

“Then you must see the sights!” Carlos swung a heavy arm around Marcus and another around his wife, ushering them out the doorway and onto the stoop where Julian and I were standing. “Let us show you the city.”

“Pop, we’re here to ask some questions. There’s a lot going on…” Marcus began, his voice sounding like he thought his parents might somehow be unaware of the fact that government entities were chasing them and trying to incarcerate them for decades of treason.

“Yes, I know there is much to discuss, but first we must take you to see downtown.” Carlos guided us down the steps toward a dark SUV.

“You have to see Frauenkirche,” his mother cooed, referring to the historic, refurbished church. Charlotte had told me it was the city’s top tourist attraction, a gorgeous Baroque cathedral that anchored the town for hundreds of years, standing gorgeous and proud like the Duomo in Florence, until it was destroyed in the war. Afterward, the Germans left the rubble sitting in a soaring pile in the town square, untouched for decades, as a reminder of the atrocities of war. Eventually, in the early 2000s, the cathedral was reconstructed using the original stones—a modern marvel. Charlotte jokingly suggested Marcus, Julian, and I swing by to see it before we returned home. “Take in the sights,” she teased. Now we were actually going.

“Ma, I don’t think we have time for that. Really, I just want to talk,” Marcus pressed.

“And we will! Come! Let us show you some history.” Rosario opened a door to their SUV as if we were all going to hop into their vehicle.

“Mrs. Rey, I appreciate the offer, but we have our own driver,” Julian pointed to the dark sedan idling nearby.

“Yes, have your driver wait here,” Carlos said with authority. “Our car will fit us all comfortably, and I will drive. I insist.”

There was something about the way he said those last two words that told us this was nonnegotiable. If we wanted to talk to the Reys, it was going to be in their car, on their terms. I looked at Marcus, who tilted his head to suggest, They’re my parents, let’s do this!

What choice did we have?

We got into the car with spies.