The mercenary goon kept a bruising grip on my arm as he frogmarched me out of the home theater and down the labyrinthine hallways of the Westbrook mansion. Part of me felt like I should try putting up more of a struggle against being so aggressively manhandled. But the larger part reminded me these terrorists had already brazenly executed one of the estate's security team without a lick of hesitation.
I didn't want to give them even a whiff of an excuse to turn me into their next cold-blooded example of "establishing seriousness." Not with both my own life and that of my unborn child on the line.
So I stayed relatively compliant, letting the merc bully jostle me along while keeping my mouth shut. Every instinct screamed at me to unleash a barrage of outraged protests against such blatant
