The men took me two blocks from Sterling Tower, in the middle of the day, with my coffee still steaming on the café table.
There were three of them. They were professionals — no masks, no shouting, just a van and a hand over my mouth. I knew the type; I had been building the Sterling Empire's strategies for five years, and I had read every file that crossed my husband's desk. I had never once thought I would be a file myself.
They put a hood over my head and broke my wrist before the van moved. I heard the bone go — a sound like a dry branch — and I screamed into the cloth until my throat gave out. One of them laughed and told me to be quiet. The other said, "Call the husband."
I was still kneeling on a concrete floor when they dialed. The hood smelled of dust and gasoline, and I could
