with you to kill what some would call my daughter, although I don’t think she’s anyone’s daughter. But if I suspect you’re going to hurt Diana, our peace treaty ends. We clear on that?”
Sam nodded. “We’re clear.”
“Deep down, she’s a good person, Diana is,” Caine said, and sighed. “Deep down, I’m not. But she is.”
NINE
64 HOURS, 25 MINUTES
AS SOON AS the lights came on, so to speak, Albert had known he had made a mistake. He had seen doom, nothing but doom coming as the dome went dark. But then, like something out of the book of Genesis, it was “Let there be light.”
And there was light.
Now as he stood sourly recalling his own failure of judgment, the sun, the actual sun, was setting out over the ocean, and Perdido Beach was touched with gold.
In this light Albert pretty much looked like he’d panicked. In this light he didn’t look like the prescient, cold-eyed businessman. He looked like a coward.
Standing on the southernmost point of San Francisco de Sales Island over these last three terrible days he’d seen that the wild, terrified mobs of kids had not, as he’d expected, burned Perdido Beach to the ground just to provide light as he’d expected. In fact, he was looking now through a very good telescope he’d found in the Brattle-Chance home, and while he could certainly not make out faces, he could see people in town. And he could see beyond town to the motels that had been built, and the fast-food restaurant, and the news trucks. Out there.
And now all was being revealed to that wider out-there world.
Had it happened just a week earlier, he, Albert Hillsborough, would have been one of the great heroes of the FAYZ. Who had kept the McDonald’s running while there was still electricity? Albert Hillsborough. Who had created the market up at the school? Albert Hillsborough. Who had created a stable currency—the ’Berto—using gold and McDonald’s game pieces? Albert Hillsborough.
He had put people to work.
He had saved them all from starvation. Everyone knew it.
My God, had it all ended then, he could have written his own ticket. He was barely in high school and he would have had university business schools lining up to give him a full scholarship.
Albert Hillsborough—Harvard MBA .
Recently graduated Albert Hillsborough offered vice presidency at General Electric .
Albert Hillsborough named youngest president ever of Sony Corporation .
All of it lost in a moment of panic. The story might already be out there. Half the country might already despise him.
Albert Hillsborough buys waterfront villa in the south of France. Says, “I needed some place to dock my yacht.”
Albert Hillsborough hosts party aboard his yacht. George Clooney, Denzel Washington, Olivia Wilde, and Sasha Obama in attendance .
But he really had done all those good things, and he’d done them without ever raising his hand against anyone, and without any so-called powers he had saved everything.
Just by being smart. Not a genius like Astrid, just smart. By working hard. By not giving up.
Albert Hillsborough dating supermodel. “Marriage not in the plans,” Hillsborough says .
Albert Hillsborough declines to run for president despite huge poll numbers. Says, “That job doesn’t pay enough.”
A boat.
There it was, black on a rippled yellow sea: a boat.
One of his missiles was lying under a tarp held down by rocks on what had once been a lush green lawn and was now an overgrown, dried-out weed patch. He had read the instructions carefully. The missiles weren’t hard to fire, really, but then, why would they be? They were used by soldiers in the heat of battle—they’d have to be fairly simple.
It was a rowboat. One of Quinn’s.
He turned the telescope toward it and after a few jumpy misses finally centered the boat in the circle and saw the broad back straining against the oars. It would be at least another hour before Quinn could reach the island.
Albert had never before felt
Sam nodded. “We’re clear.”
“Deep down, she’s a good person, Diana is,” Caine said, and sighed. “Deep down, I’m not. But she is.”
NINE
64 HOURS, 25 MINUTES
AS SOON AS the lights came on, so to speak, Albert had known he had made a mistake. He had seen doom, nothing but doom coming as the dome went dark. But then, like something out of the book of Genesis, it was “Let there be light.”
And there was light.
Now as he stood sourly recalling his own failure of judgment, the sun, the actual sun, was setting out over the ocean, and Perdido Beach was touched with gold.
In this light Albert pretty much looked like he’d panicked. In this light he didn’t look like the prescient, cold-eyed businessman. He looked like a coward.
Standing on the southernmost point of San Francisco de Sales Island over these last three terrible days he’d seen that the wild, terrified mobs of kids had not, as he’d expected, burned Perdido Beach to the ground just to provide light as he’d expected. In fact, he was looking now through a very good telescope he’d found in the Brattle-Chance home, and while he could certainly not make out faces, he could see people in town. And he could see beyond town to the motels that had been built, and the fast-food restaurant, and the news trucks. Out there.
And now all was being revealed to that wider out-there world.
Had it happened just a week earlier, he, Albert Hillsborough, would have been one of the great heroes of the FAYZ. Who had kept the McDonald’s running while there was still electricity? Albert Hillsborough. Who had created the market up at the school? Albert Hillsborough. Who had created a stable currency—the ’Berto—using gold and McDonald’s game pieces? Albert Hillsborough.
He had put people to work.
He had saved them all from starvation. Everyone knew it.
My God, had it all ended then, he could have written his own ticket. He was barely in high school and he would have had university business schools lining up to give him a full scholarship.
Albert Hillsborough—Harvard MBA .
Recently graduated Albert Hillsborough offered vice presidency at General Electric .
Albert Hillsborough named youngest president ever of Sony Corporation .
All of it lost in a moment of panic. The story might already be out there. Half the country might already despise him.
Albert Hillsborough buys waterfront villa in the south of France. Says, “I needed some place to dock my yacht.”
Albert Hillsborough hosts party aboard his yacht. George Clooney, Denzel Washington, Olivia Wilde, and Sasha Obama in attendance .
But he really had done all those good things, and he’d done them without ever raising his hand against anyone, and without any so-called powers he had saved everything.
Just by being smart. Not a genius like Astrid, just smart. By working hard. By not giving up.
Albert Hillsborough dating supermodel. “Marriage not in the plans,” Hillsborough says .
Albert Hillsborough declines to run for president despite huge poll numbers. Says, “That job doesn’t pay enough.”
A boat.
There it was, black on a rippled yellow sea: a boat.
One of his missiles was lying under a tarp held down by rocks on what had once been a lush green lawn and was now an overgrown, dried-out weed patch. He had read the instructions carefully. The missiles weren’t hard to fire, really, but then, why would they be? They were used by soldiers in the heat of battle—they’d have to be fairly simple.
It was a rowboat. One of Quinn’s.
He turned the telescope toward it and after a few jumpy misses finally centered the boat in the circle and saw the broad back straining against the oars. It would be at least another hour before Quinn could reach the island.
Albert had never before felt
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