After the Golden Age
A novel by Carrie Vaughn
ONE
CELIA took the late bus home, riding along with other young workaholic professionals, the odd student, and late-shift retail clerks. A quiet, working bunch, cogs and wheels that kept Commerce City running.
Only a block away from the office, the person in the seat behind her leaned forward and spoke in her ear:
“Get off at the next stop.”
She hadn’t noticed him before. He was ordinary; in his thirties, he had a rugged, stubbled face, and wore jeans and a button-up shirt. He looked like he belonged. With a lift to his brow, he glared at her over the back of the plastic seat and raised the handgun from his lap. Without moving his gaze, he pushed the stop call button by the window.
Damn, not again.
Her heart pounded hard—with anger. Not fear, she reminded herself. Her fists clenched, her face a mask, she stood. She could hardly move her legs, wanting only to turn and throttle the bastard for interrupting her evening.
He stood with her, following a step behind as she moved forward toward the door. He could stop her before she called to the driver for help. And what could the driver do, but stand aside as her kidnapper waved the gun at him?
She was still two miles from home. She could try to run—in pumps and a dress suit. Right. Really, she only had to run far enough away to duck into a corner and call 9-1-1. Or her parents.
9-1-1. That was what she’d do.
She didn’t dig in the pocket of her attaché for her phone. Did nothing that would give away her plan. She stepped off the bus, onto the sidewalk. Her kidnapper disembarked right behind her.
“Turn right. Walk five steps.”
She turned right. Her muscles tensed, ready—
The bus pulled away. She prepared to launch herself into a run.
A sedan stopped at the curb. Two men jumped out of the back, and the kidnapper from the bus grabbed her arm. The three surrounded her and spirited her into the car, which rolled away in seconds.
They’d planned this, hadn’t they?
In the backseat, one of the men tied her hands in front of her with nylon cord. The other pressed a gun to her ribs.
The one from the bus sat on the passenger side of the front seat and looked back at her.
“You’re Warren and Suzanne West’s daughter.”
Not like this was news.
“What will the Olympiad do to keep you safe?”
“You’ll have to ask them,” she said.
“I will.” He grinned, a self-satisfied, cat-with-the-canary grin that she recognized from a half-dozen two-bit hoodlums who thought they’d done something clever, that they’d figured out how to corner the Olympiad. As if no one else had tried this before.
“What are you going to do with me?” She said it perfunctorily. It was a way to make conversation. Maybe distract him.
His grin widened. “We’re going to send your parents a message. With the Destructor out of the picture, the city’s wide open for a new gang to move in. The Olympiad is going to stay out of our way, or you get hurt.”
He really was stupid enough to tell her his plan. Amateurs.
Wasn’t much she could do until he’d sent the message and the Olympiad learned what had happened. She’d leave the hard work to them. She always did.
Then, of course, they blindfolded her so she couldn’t keep track of their route. By the time they stopped, she had no idea where they were. Someplace west, by the docks maybe. The air smelled of concrete and industry.
A stooge on each arm pulled her out of the car and guided her down a corridor. They must have parked inside a building. Her feet stepped on tile, and the walls felt close. Finally, they pushed her into a hard wooden chair and tied her wrists to its arms.
The blindfold came off. Before her, a video camera was mounted on a tripod.
The man from the bus stood next to the camera. She smirked at him, and his frown deepened. He’d probably expected her to be frightened, crying and begging him to let her go. Giving him that power of fear over her.
She had already been as frightened as she was ever likely to be in her life. This guy was nothing.
“Read this.” He lifted a piece of paper with large writing.
She just wanted to go home. Have some hot cocoa and cookies. Supper had been microwave ramen and her stomach was growling. The blindfold had messed up her short red hair, making it itch, and she couldn’t reach up to scratch it. Irrationally, she thought of her parents, and her anger began to turn toward them. If it wasn’t for them and what they were …
Thinking like that had gotten her in trouble before. She focused on her captor. This was
She skimmed over the text, groaned. They couldn’t even be a little creative. “Are you kidding?”
“Just read it.”
In a frustrated monotone, she did as she was told.
“I’m Celia West, and I’m being held in an undisclosed location. If the Olympiad has not responded to their demands in six hours, my captors cannot guarantee my safety—”
“Wait. Stop.”
She glared an inquiry.
“Couldn’t you sound … you know … Scared or something?”
“Sorry. But you know I’ve done this before. This isn’t exactly new to me.”
“
“They all say that.”
“Shut up. Finish reading.”
She raised her brow. He waved her on.
She said, “If you really want to scare everyone you’d cut off one of my fingers and send it to them. Of course, then you’d
He stepped forward, fists clenched, like he might actually hit her. “Unless you really want me to do something like that, just stick to the script. I know what I’m doing.”
“Whatever you say.” She read out the usual list of demands: the Olympiad was to leave Commerce City and not interfere with the actions of the Baxter Gang— “Baxter Gang?” she added in a disbelieving aside, then shook her head and continued. They’d let her go when the Baxter Gang had the run of the city. They’d send another video in six hours to show just how mean they could be, etcetera.
The plan must have sounded so good on paper.
She made a point of not looking at the men with guns who seemed to fill the room. In truth there were only five. Even so, if she did anything more aggressive than mock the man she assumed was Baxter, they just might shoot her.
