78
Jacob and to Hell with Everything
Jacob stood at the kitchen sink, staring through the window, watching Lindsey and the boys play in the pool. Rebecca lay on a chaise lounge, wearing a blue bikini, an umbrella shielding her tan skin. Ethan and David were only six and seven, but they could already swim, although they weren’t allowed in the pool by themselves. Jacob thought about Housing Trust and the likely nationalization. He thought about his father. Why am I doing this? We could sell the house. I could quit. To hell with everything. With the money I made shorting Housing Trust stock, plus our savings, we’d be fine.
Jacob was vaguely aware of the back door opening and shutting.
“What are you doing?” Rebecca asked, entering the kitchen.
Jacob woke from his trance and turned to his wife. “Just thinking.”
She sidled up to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I know that’s not true.”
“I made some money shorting Housing Trust stock.”
She furrowed her brows. “Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that insider trading?”
“That’s not the point. We could leave all this. Sell the house. I could quit. We have enough money. We’d have to be smart. We’d have to budget and live someplace cheaper, but we could do it.”
Rebecca tilted her head, staring at her husband. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I don’t enjoy being the CEO of a company that’s responsible for burning people alive because we’re trying to save Fed Coins. I’m sick of being under my father’s control. I’m sick of the corruption. I’m sick of the politics. I’m sick of everything.”
She squeezed his arm, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not sick of me, are you?”
He forced a smile and pulled her into an embrace, kissing the top of her head. “I love you. I could never be sick of you.” Jacob sighed. “I’m just tired.”
She looked up, still in his embrace. “If that’s you want, it’s fine with me.”
Jacob leaned back, eyeing his wife. “Really?”
“I just want you.”
“We’re really doing this?”
Rebecca smiled that perfect smile. “Why not? When we get back from the Virgin Islands, we’ll start making plans.”
“About that. We have no idea how long it’ll take to find him, and, to be honest, I think it’s very unlikely that we do. This whole trip is a huge waste of time and money.”
Rebecca broke from his embrace and crossed her arms over her chest. “You already agreed. We’re supposed to leave in two days.”
“I’m not backing out. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I know it’s a shot in the dark, but it’s important that we do the right thing. If not for Derek, then for Lindsey.”
“Did you arrange for a nanny?”
“We don’t need one. Jeeves is safer than a human nanny anyway. The state designated his model as a competent caregiver.”
79
Summer and Race Wars
Summer had begged Roger to let her take a canoe to the games. The locals called it the Race Wars. Roger had been against her or anyone from 1776 attending the games. He’d said it was an unnecessary expense and an unnecessary risk. But Summer had been relentless, telling Roger that she’d go by herself if she had to. Roger had acquiesced, and Javier had volunteered to escort her to the games. Roger had asked Gavin to provide additional backup. Gavin had reluctantly agreed.
They’d paid their admission with one unopened can of Coke. Great seats too. Right behind the visitor’s dugout. Or the dugout for the nonwhites. The day had been clear and sizzling hot, but she knew they’d have a late-afternoon thunderstorm, at least there’d been one every day since she’d been on the island.
The men in the crowd didn’t bother Summer because she’d been given a haircut, and she was dressed in Fred’s oversize coveralls, with a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Gavin had even muddied her face a little. A few men had looked at her sideways, but she’d been unmolested.
Summer had watched Connor win his first two matches with expert swordplay. He’d killed one man with a deadly slash to the neck, another with a plunge deep into the man’s stomach. Connor had been a bit of a nerd in his younger years. He’d learned sword-fighting as teen and as a young adult, partly because of his obsession with Game of Thrones and The Lord of the Rings. Like a character from his favorite stories, the Aryans named him Connor the Great. Summer was relieved he was still alive, but she’d been horrified by his brutality.
Interestingly, Derek had been fighting from the nonwhite dugout. His skin was tan, but Summer had thought he was white, Italian maybe. The Aryans had nicknamed Derek, The Taliban King. Derek wasn’t as skilled as Connor with a sword, but Derek had used his quickness to win all three of his fights. Derek had spent most of his fights running around, avoiding contact, then, when his opponent tired, he’d go in for the kill. The crowd had hated that strategy, booing his cowardly fighting style.
Now Connor faced the man Summer feared the most. The Executioner. The Aryan announcer, standing on the dugout, called out his name as he stepped onto the field. The crowd cheered. He’d been far and away the crowd favorite. The Executioner looked like he was carved from granite. But something was wrong with him. He staggered as he walked toward center field, one hand on his lower back where blood stained his shirt, the other holding a knife.
In the middle of the stadium, Connor stood with a sword and a shield. It was the first shield Summer had seen that day. The Executioner didn’t wait. He reared back and threw his knife with an audible grunt. Connor dipped his head beneath the shield, the knife sailing past, missing Connor’s face by a split second. The knife throw exhausted The Executioner. He collapsed to one knee, still holding his lower back, the blood spot on his T-shirt growing in size.
Connor dropped his shield and stalked toward The Executioner, his sword in both hands. Connor raised his sword over his head and chopped downward. The Executioner raised his arm, catching the blade on his forearm, the blade cutting to the bone. Connor slashed, The Executioner raising his arm again, this time blocking the blade from his neck. But then Connor thrust his sword forward, sinking the blade deep in the pit of the man’s stomach. Connor stepped back, watching the man bleed.
Summer winced, feeling sympathy for the big man, despite the situation.
The Executioner slumped to his side, and shortly thereafter his body jerked with the death throes. Then he was gone, and Connor raised his hands over his head in celebration, but the crowd booed.
More than a few “fans” complained that the Aryans had stabbed The Executioner prior to the fight. That they had rigged the game. That they never let a nigger win. Fans threw rocks at the Aryans, forcing them to take cover in the dugout.
That’s when Derek exited the dugout with a sword and a knife, distracting the crowd. Summer wasn’t sure if it was due to the dark clouds creeping in or the fact that the Aryans were losing control of the crowd, but it was obvious that the Aryans wanted to finish the games and quick.
Connor hadn’t had much rest, but he didn’t need it. Ironically, his bout with The Executioner had been more of an execution than a fight.
Derek approached Connor, who stood in shallow center field, holding his sword and shield. Derek stuck his sword in the sand and said something to Connor. Derek held out his hands in surrender, and the crowd booed.
A group of Aryans approached, one of them pointing a machete in their direction and saying something. This spurred Connor into action. He rushed Derek and took a swipe with his sword. Derek avoided the attack but left his sword in the ground.