Dreams of the Golden Age (Golden Age 2)

That got a laugh, and Jones flushed, finally looking a tiny bit flustered.

“And it’s your definition of good that must prevail—”

She leaned forward. “I’m just trying to make a living, like everyone else.”

The judge interrupted. “Mr. Jones, I think you’re finished here. Counsel for the defense, do you have any follow-up questions for the witness?”

“No, Your Honor, I do not,” Bastion said.

“Ms. West, you may step down.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said politely and returned to her place. By Bastion’s pleased expression—looking a bit like a cat with a plate of fresh tuna—Celia assumed her responses had been acceptable. She had to work not to slouch in her chair, deflated. Her performance had about tapped her energy reserves. Maybe this wouldn’t take too much longer. She could go home, tell everyone she was sick, and sleep for the next two months.

It didn’t. The judge spoke: “In light of evidence and testimony presented, I find the suit brought against West Corp by Superior Construction to be baseless. Not just baseless but baseless in the extreme. I encourage counsel for West Corp to proceed with any countersuit it might have prepared, but this initial hearing is over. And to the plaintiff, I have a warning: My statement on this case will be strongly worded, so keep that in mind if you’re thinking of appealing, because I predict such an appeal will not go well for you. Case most definitely dismissed.” The gavel cracked. Celia sighed.

She gathered the energy to look over her shoulder at Danton Majors—and found him staring back at her, frowning. So he really was out to get her. Not West Corp, not the development contract, but her, and she wondered why. Why he wanted to, and why he thought he could. He’d failed, and here he was, Danton Majors, lying bloodied and defeated on the field of battle, never to recover. Nice image, but nothing that could ever happen in real life.

Her team was shaking hands, congratulating each other. Bastion crossed the aisle to shake hands with Jones, who complied but snarled as he did. Celia settled her purse strap over her shoulder and passed through to the gallery.

“Mr. Majors,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you when the planning committee reconvenes to make its vote on the development contract.”

“Yes, I imagine you do. Don’t get too confident, though.”

“Oh? You have a backup plan in case this little dog-and-pony show didn’t work?” She couldn’t keep a dig out of her voice.

“Ms. West, I really must be going. I’ve been away from Delta too long. But it’s been interesting meeting you.”

“I just bet it has.”

* * *

The rest of her law team returned to West Plaza in taxis. Celia lingered, killing some time, ensuring that Tom would have brought the girls home from school by the time she returned to the Plaza. The end of the lawsuit had lifted a weight off her. Cleared a large part of her mind of worry. She felt light. The planning committee’s development contract would take care of itself now, and so would the chemo treatments for that matter.

She took a walk, just a short one, and stopped at a coffee shop near City Hall to indulge and bleed off some anxiety. Enjoy the brief moment of respite in the day. She could stand on the street and watch people go by, and didn’t that sound lovely?

She was so rarely alone. At the Plaza she was surrounded by her West Corp employees or her family. She didn’t often go into the city unless it was to some event or to meet with officials, colleagues, friends. Tom or another driver ferried her back and forth. Arthur was almost always nearby. It wasn’t like the old days, when she lived alone and rode the bus alone and walked alone, and thereby inadvertently created opportunities for those who would harm her. Over the last twenty years, she’d insulated herself with layers of people who watched out for her, and she hadn’t meant to do it any more than she had meant to isolate herself during those rough years in her early twenties. It had been a consequence of the life she’d led. Now, the consequence of having a family, of having a stake in her company and her city, meant she was protected. She’d never looked at it that way before. Not until the protection was gone.

She was very occasionally alone when she stopped off for a cup of coffee or a sandwich between meetings, an echo of her early working days when she was just another woman on the street, one of thousands who would run into a café without thinking about it. She liked to think she wasn’t so much of the elite that she couldn’t buy her own damn coffee.

Fancy hipster coffee in hand, she emerged back on the street and didn’t think anything of it. She needed to call Arthur to let him know how the hearing had gone—he already knew, really, but she liked hearing his voice. She had a long list of items she’d been putting off without even meaning to: calls to Analise, to Mark. A talk with her mother, to tell her about the leukemia. The talk she’d promised Anna. Maybe she could even get rid of the scratchy wig and the pretense that she was well. The coffee didn’t taste like much since the treatments had affected her sense of taste. But the heat of it was comforting, and she sipped it gratefully.

She walked on to the corner, turned, and felt a sharp stab in her shoulder, like a narrowly focused punch. It seemed oddly familiar, and the wave of déjà vu that passed over her was so strong she paused, brow furrowed, trying to figure out the instinctive dread blooming in her gut even as her free hand pawed around to her back and met the cylinder of a syringe protruding from her suit jacket.

Just like the Destructor all those years ago when he’d kidnapped her and attempted to brainwash her for the sole purpose of striking at her parents. She felt the same astonishment, the same despair that she had somehow walked into a trap.

Suddenly, a man and a woman in dark suits, obvious bodyguard types, were at her sides, holding her arms, keeping her upright. One of them took the coffee cup and purse out of her hands before she dropped them.

“Ms. West, you seem unwell, let us help you,” the woman said very calmly. A nondescript black car was waiting at the curb, and the two impassive escorts guided her into the backseat. They wore dark sunglasses, and their expressionless faces made noting their features difficult. They might have been wearing masks.

They stared straight ahead, not at her, and when Celia thought to demand that they tell her who they were and what they thought they were doing, her tongue seemed to swell and fill her mouth. Her whole body had gone numb. Good thing she was sitting down, because the world was tilting sideways.

She had a weird, panicked thought about how the tranquilizer would interact with the cocktail of drugs already in her system. Had they just killed her without meaning to?

What are you going to do to me? She tried to speak but didn’t know if she actually said the words. The two kidnappers didn’t respond to her. Her whole face was feeling too big for her skin, and she was afraid she was drooling. Goddamn it, she could only think, over and over. And then, —Arthur, help—

He didn’t respond.

“Is she really the one? She doesn’t seem like much,” said the woman.