Malik's stomach dropped. He slowed his bike, pulling out his earbuds as the larger of the two men—a burly guy with close-cropped hair and an aggressively red face—held up a thick hand in a stop gesture.
"Hold it right there," the man barked. His tactical vest was a size too small, the Velcro straining across his wide chest. A plastic name tag read Rick.
Malik's heart began to pound against his ribs, but he remembered his father’s advice: Always keep your head. Never let them see you panic. He squeezed his brakes and kept his voice remarkably steady.
"Is there a problem?"
The second man, leaner with dead, cold eyes, moved silently to Malik's left. His name tag identified him as Dale. The tactical positioning wasn't lost on Malik. They were boxing him in.
Linda stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. "The problem, young man, is that we’ve had a rash of 'incidents' in the neighborhood. Loitering. Vandalism. And frankly, you look entirely out of place."
"I live three houses down, Mrs. Whitfield," Malik said, gesturing with his chin down the street. "You know me. My family moved into the old Miller house."
"I know of you," Linda sniffed dismissively. "But my enforcement officers are just doing their neighborhood duty. We need to see some ID."
"I'm sixteen. I'm riding my bike home from school. I don't carry my passport in my gym bag," Malik replied, his patience wearing thin. "Now, please step aside. My parents are waiting for me."