Rick stepped closer, his heavy boots scuffing the chalk drawings on the pavement. He reached out and forcefully clamped a meaty hand onto the handlebars of Malik’s bike. "You're not going anywhere, kid. Not until we search that bag to see what you're carrying."
"You have no right to search my things," Malik said, his voice rising, though he kept his hands visible and away from his pockets.
"We have HOA jurisdiction," Dale hissed from the left, stepping so close Malik could smell stale tobacco on his breath.
Fake community enforcement officers, emboldened by an HOA leader's deep-seated prejudice, believed a Black teenager riding home alone was out of place and vulnerable. Exhausted from practice and seemingly isolated, they thought he was an easy mark. They thought they held the power.
What they couldn't possibly imagine was the storm waiting just a few doors down.
Rick suddenly yanked the handlebars, trying to pull the bike out from under Malik. Malik stumbled, his foot catching on the pedal, and he fell hard onto the grassy shoulder.
"Hey!" Malik shouted, scrambling up.
"Resisting," Rick grunted, pulling a heavy metal flashlight from his belt, raising it like a club. "We got a hostile one, Dale. Teach him some manners."
Dale lunged forward, grabbing Malik by the collar of his jersey.
Seventy yards away, Marcus Washington stepped out onto his front porch. He was a man forged through decades of federal tactical training, hardened by years of confronting real, heavily armed threats in the darkest corners of the country. Currently serving as a Senior Supervisory Special Agent for the FBI, Marcus had a sixth sense for trouble.