Milford, still trying to maintain his calm, adjusted his jacket and replied coolly, “Fifteen mil? Please. That’s pocket change to me. But cash like that takes time. Let us go and I’ll wire it or go get it myself.”
The man scoffed. “Don’t insult us, Mr. Wright. We all know how this game works. Word is you’re getting married. So tell us—” he glanced between me and Malissa, lips curling—“which one’s the lucky bride?”
His tone turned venomous. “Leave one of them behind. We’ll hold her as a little insurance. You try anything funny, we take a finger. Every hour, another one.”
Malissa and I both turned to Milford. These men weren’t bluffing—they had the look of people with nothing to lose.
Milford hesitated, his face twisted in some cocktail of calculation and fear.
Then, without warning, he grabbed me by the arm and shoved me forward. “It’s her,” he said coldly. “She’s my fiancée. Look her up, the photos are all online. Same face. You’ll see.”
I stumbled, stunned, as he practically offered me up.
“This is who you want. Let the rest of us go.”
I stared at Milford in disbelief.