Leaving out the back ending:
Denver looks like he’s going to cry out of frustration, grief and sheer helplessness. He pulls it together and takes me by the arm.
“Come on man. Fuck this and fuck them. I don’t know what’s going on here, but nothing good’s happening here. Let’s go. Now.”
We go back down the hallway and, preparing to make a run for it, open the door to the parking lot.
The spots hit us before we clear the doorframe. Voices are shouting at us, giving conflicting instructions. Denver’s eyes are wide as saucers. I can tell that he’s getting ready to run, which is the worst possible decision he can make. I shake my head and try to make myself heard over the din, telling him to just get down. I demonstrate, sinking down to my knees. He follows, thankfully.
They’re on us in seconds. I try to read the badges fastened on their vests, but I’m facedown on the pavement in a couple of seconds. Two of them hold me down while a third zip ties my wrists. I sneak a glance over to the same thing happening to Denver, but a gloved hand strikes my face.
I’m hauled up. An obvious boss walks forward and regards me warily.
“Are you a spitter?”
“What? No. What’s happening here?”
He smirks, knowing that he holds all the cards.
“Hey. You don’t ask the questions here. I do.”
He believes me that I’m not a spitter, gets about an inch from my face.
“Did you come here tonight to get your militia on? Save a few kids from the former attorney general?
He breaks into a high pitched giggle.
“A PEDO-phile, huh? The shit people will believe. Enjoy your five to ten for conspiracy to commit to terroristic acts.”
I don’t get a chance to protest. A hood is thrown over my head. I hear his voice through the clinging black fabric.
“I was worried for a second now that the war on drugs is out of fashion, but you dumb fuckers make it way too easy. Dickless lambs to the slaughter.”