Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

Before the musicians could comply, the assailants took them out of their hands. The cello player started to resist; he held both hands on the cello’s neck and glared. Celia’s captor made a noise and gestured with the gun for emphasis. The cellist let go.

She was insurance. Somebody might launch into heroics at the risk of destroying a chunk of wood and string. But not when someone had a gun pointed at her head.

Not for a minute did she believe that their choice of hostage was random.

With the instruments taken captive, the gang made its way to the back of the hall and the service entrance. The leader dragged Celia along. They weren’t going to let her go.

Mark broke from the stricken crowd to intercept the gang. Celia had no idea what he thought he could do. Flash his badge and intimidate them? He ought to know better than that.

He said, “Let her go. Take me instead.”

“Mark, no!” said the mayor, still speaking into his microphone. That’d lose him points in the polls, she bet.

Mark continued. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you ask, just don’t hurt her.”

God, it was touching. If only he had a clue. “Mark, don’t,” she said. “It’ll be okay. I’m used to this.” I’m a pro by now.

“Please,” Mark said, ignoring her.

“Okay,” the gunman said. Celia groaned to herself.

Still dragging her alongside, he inched over to Mark to make the switch. He wasn’t going to take chances, and he wasn’t going to take his gun off both of them. She sincerely hoped Mark didn’t have some kind of rough-and-tumble police kung-fu trick planned. She liked him, but she didn’t trust him to rescue her.

In one movement, the gunman shoved her away and trained his weapon at Mark, who held his hands up and stayed still. Celia hugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and met Mark’s gaze as the gunman grabbed his arm, pushed the gun to his neck, and hauled him away. He seemed calm and determined. Very heroic.

The moment they were all gone, the room burst into motion and conversation. A hundred cell phones came out of clutches and jacket pockets. The first violinist burst into tears. Celia closed her eyes, hugged herself, and sighed. She needed another drink; she’d suddenly sobered up.

“Ms. West! My God, are you all right?” The mayor, cutting through the crowd like an arrow, strode toward her. Mrs. Paulson flanked him, looking interested for the first time all evening. Paulson touched Celia’s arm and studied her like he expected her to faint.

“Yes. Except for Mark being an idiot.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Andrea Paulson said.

Sternly, Paulson said, “He probably saved your life.”

That was how everyone was going to read the situation, she realized. Handsome young cop puts his life on the line. “I’d have been okay.”

“You’re taking this very well.”

“I’ve done it before. Several times.”

There it was, that look of morbid curiosity, though to his credit the mayor repressed it quickly. Mrs. Paulson wasn’t so circumspect. She gaped. “You’re that Celia West?”

Celia looked away, repressing a wry smile. “I’m assuming the police are after them already?”

“They should have the block surrounded by now,” Mayor Paulson said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business. Obviously. One of my people can take you home. Andrea, you should go home, too.”

“No, I’m staying until Mark is safe.”

“Fine.” He pointed at an aide, then continued on, his entourage trailing in a wake behind him. Andrea went with him. Celia let them go. She’d done the polite thing and left her cell phone at home, but now she needed to make a call.

The mayor had left her staring up at a bulky, bodyguard-looking man in a suit, who stared back, expressionless. He gave the impression that he’d pick her up and sling her over his shoulder if she argued.

She tried anyway. “I think I can make my own way home. I appreciate the thought, though.”

“I think the mayor would prefer that I see you safely home.”

He was probably one who prided himself on following orders. Not quite clever enough for her to be able to talk into letting her go. Too bad she didn’t want to go home just yet.

“Then do you mind if I go find a phone to call my folks? Tell them I’m okay? If they hear there’s been a kidnapping, they’ll assume it was me who was kidnapped and I don’t want them to worry.”

He considered a moment, nodded coolly, and followed her to the coat-check desk. She asked the clerk there if she could use the phone.

She dialed, the phone rang; a stern, accusing voice answered. “This is a secure line, how did you get this number?”

The bodyguard watched her, listening in, she assumed. She turned her back to him and spoke softly. “Hi, Robbie. It’s Celia.”

His tone changed from suspicious to amiable. Off guard duty and talking to a friend, now. “Oh, hey, kid! What’s wrong?”

Such a vote of confidence. “You guys hear anything about an attack at the symphony tonight?”

“Yeah. We’re monitoring. The police say they have it under control.”

Surprised, her brow furrowed. The situation didn’t look under control. She hunkered closer to the phone. “Really? Because the attackers took Mark Paulson hostage.”

Robbie hesitated a moment, then said, “Detective Paulson? Not you?” There was a laugh behind the voice. She supposed it sounded funny on his end.

“They took me first. Then Mark decided he had to be a hero.”

“That must be a nice switch.”

“I’d have preferred it if they’d taken me. I wouldn’t do something brave and stupid that would get me killed. My first real date in months and he gets kidnapped right off my arm.”

“Aw, kid, I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic.

“Can you let me know if you hear anything? I’m getting to like the guy and I’d hate for something to happen to him.”

“Will do. I’ll pass on the news about Paulson. The cops didn’t tell us that part.”

Which was weird. Mayor’s son gets kidnapped and the cops didn’t mention it? They probably wanted to save Mark themselves and get brownie points with the mayor, rather than letting the Olympiad have all the glory, again.

“Thanks.”

She gave the phone back to the coat-check clerk. The bodyguard was still lurking nearby. Had to be a way around him. Maybe if she didn’t hate being chaperoned so much she wouldn’t get kidnapped. Go live at West Plaza like her mother wanted.

For a moment she thought about claiming that she needed to use the restroom, then sneaking out the window, or an emergency exit, or—

On the other hand, this could save her cab fare.

She turned to him and smiled. “All right. I’m ready.”

The police were interviewing everyone in the place; they weren’t letting anyone leave until they’d recorded contact information and followed every lead. Celia’s chaperone cut right through the chaos and left the symphony hall in minutes.

He drove her in an unmarked government sedan. She gave him an address that wasn’t her apartment, and helpfully offered directions when they neared the location.

“Here,” she said finally. “You can let me out here.”

The guy leaned forward to peer through the windshield. “You live at the police station?”

“No, but thanks for the ride anyway. Bye!” She hopped out of the car and darted up the building’s steps before he could argue. She wondered what he’d tell Paulson.

She walked through the front doors and the smell of the tired, ancient, sweaty waiting room hit her. It had been a while, and she hadn’t missed it at all.

The place buzzed with far more than the usual late-night police station energy. The evening round of drunks and prostitutes had stalled out in the lobby, waiting on plastic chairs until someone remembered that they’d been arrested. The front desk was missing its clerk. Behind the desk, in the back, voices shouted, phones rang, uniformed people scurried back and forth with files in hand and cell phones stuck to ears.