Quantum Break Read Online Free Page A

that—a perfect green flattop through which Founders’ Walk cut—was strewn with traveler cups, sodden flyers, beer cans, and the occasional abandoned sign requesting those participating in the sit-in to not litter the area. A tent city was in place, forming a frail protective barrier between the old library—a bright-red Gothic Revival anachronism amid a herd of glass and steel—and the outside world. Jack flashed back to an incident on the New York subway a few years back: a group of thirteen-year-old girls shielding an old lady from some crazy dude with a screwdriver.
    He opened the car door, got out. “What the hell happened?”
    Nick stepped out of the driver’s door and sprawled his arms across the car’s roof, pleased at Jack’s reaction. “Impressive, huh?”
    “It’s like a moon base designed by French aliens. All this in six years?”
    “We live in an age of great change.” Nick had the tone of cartoon millionaire. “Something I heard on a podcast.”
    Jack peeled a wet flyer off the sidewalk. The date of the library’s execution was set for tomorrow. Right now the tent city was mostly quiet, some of the residents laid out where they’d passed out. He thought about the BearCat, all those frickin’ bangin’ uniforms Nick liked so much, the tower overlooking the entire city, the 2013 Pritzker Prize—and he didn’t like the old lady’s chances.
    “Where are you meeting your friend?”
    Jack pointed to the plaque. “Quantum Research Lab.”
    “Your brother … that all gonna be cool? I have some experience with wards. If you need me to place a call—”
    Jack waved the offer away. “Nah, whatever it is it won’t be anything I haven’t dealt with a dozen times before.”
    Nick thought about that. “Listen, I’m gonna take a break and hang around for a while. Here’s my card; you need an escape, call me.”
    Nick had an actual business card, the central feature being the presidential seal, with the eagle holding two hockey sticks.
    “Will do. What are your hours?”
    Jack’s phone rumbled in his jacket pocket: Will. He wasn’t ready for a brotherly reunion just yet. Best to get a coherent answer from Paul first. He let it ring out. A text message flashed up:
    I’m at our house. Where are you?
    “Between meds and errands and where’s-the-remote, Dad keeps me going all hours,” Nick said. “That espresso machine isn’t just for the customers.”
    Jack watched Nick pull away, then turned his attention to the university. He hoped Paul had answers.

 
    3
    Saturday, 8 October 2016. 3:45 A . M . Monarch Tower, Riverport, Massachusetts.
    On the twenty-ninth floor of Monarch Tower Beth Wilder watched a two-year-old girl take a short staggering run and head butt the palm of her father’s hand. Full of beans and still on Kyoto time. Her mother looked like she needed a drink, but happy to be in America and reunited with her husband.
    Lorelei Gibson was the unofficial mascot of Chronon-1, Monarch Special Project’s pride and joy. The 1 percent. The nine operatives out of 112 candidates who had the experience, adaptability, and mental fortitude to get through basic and advanced chronon training without losing their shit and washing out.
    Chronon-1 wasn’t the only squad of chronon-enabled operatives. Technicians were trained for lightweight short-term operations. Strikers were heftier, flashier. Juggernauts … well, Juggernauts were still in the test phase. They were scary as shit, but overdesigned in Beth’s opinion.
    Randall Gibson’s crew was different. Trained to adapt, survive, and operate at peak efficiency within prolonged zero-state exposure were using minimal gear, with negligible psychological impact. They were rock stars and they were concrete.
    Gibson, his second-in-command Donny, then Irene, Reeves, Dominguez, Voss, Mully, Bristol, and Chaffey. Chronon-1—the jewel in Special Project’s shiny crown. Proof of what was possible.
    Question was, why were they gathered