These weren't real cops. He knew that much. The vests looked cheap, like something bought online, but they were still two grown men, and the way they were positioned made his skin crawl. "I'm 16," Malik said, forcing himself to meet Rick's hostile stare. "I'm coming home from basketball practice at Oakidge High.
You can see my jersey right here. He gestured to his practice uniform visible under his unzipped hoodie. Anyone can buy a jersey. Rick sneered. For all we know, you stole it.
The accusation hit Malik like a slap. He thought about his father's warnings about staying calm in situations like this, about not giving anyone an excuse. But anger bubbled up in his chest anyway. Stole it? His voice cracked slightly.
I'm the starting point guard. Coach Matthews can verify that. Or you could just ask any of our actual neighbors since you're so concerned about neighborhood security. Linda's face hardened. Don't take that tone with our security team, young man.
They're here to protect our community values. Community values? Malik couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. Is that what you call this? Rick stepped forward, closing the distance.
His breath smelled of coffee and something stronger. Listen here, smart mouth. Either you show us some ID right now, or we're going to have a real problem. Dale circled around behind Malik's bike. Probably stolen, too, he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
Malik's pulse thundered in his ears. The bike had been a birthday present from his parents. He'd helped his dad assemble it in their garage, learning about gear ratios and brake calibration. The suggestion that he'd stolen it made his vision blur with anger. "This is harassment," Malik said, his voice shaking slightly despite his effort to stay calm.
"You're not real police officers. You can't demand my ID." Linda's face lit up with triumphant malice. Oh, if you have nothing to hide, why are you being so difficult? Seems suspicious to me.
Rick's hand shot out, grabbing for Malik's arm. His meaty fingers closed around Malik's wrist with bruising force. Linda's voice carried the satisfaction of someone who' just won a game only she was playing. See? Caught red-handed, Malik's heart hammered against his ribs as Rick's grip tightened.
The evening air felt suddenly thick and hard to breathe. His bike tilted precariously as Dale moved in closer, the two men forming a cage of tactical vests and barely contained aggression. The situation was spiraling, and Malik could feel control slipping away like water through his fingers. Let him go now. The voice cut through the tension like a knife, calm, but carrying the kind of authority that made everyone freeze.
Malik recognized his father's tone immediately. It was the same one he'd used during his FBI days when confronting suspects. Reginald Carter stood at the end of their driveway in his gray jogging shorts and moisture- wicking shirt, his arms crossed over his chest. Despite his casual attire, there was nothing relaxed about his stance. His eyes scanned the scene with precise analytical focus.
Rick's grip on Malik's wrist loosened slightly, but he didn't let go. This is official community business, he growled, though some of the previous confidence had leaked from his voice. Stay out of it. Reginald took three measured steps forward. Is that right?