The doors of the black SUVs flew open simultaneously. In less than two seconds, the street was flooded with federal power. Heavily armored men in olive drab and black tactical gear poured out. Across their chests and backs, large, bold yellow letters read: FBI POLICE.
They moved with terrifying, synchronized precision. Within a breath, a half-dozen laser sights cut through the afternoon air, the red dots converging perfectly on Mitchell’s chest, forehead, and abdomen.
"Hands in the air! Get your hands in the air right now!" yelled SAC Thorne, stepping out of the lead vehicle, his own sidearm drawn and leveled squarely at Mitchell's face.
Mitchell stood paralyzed, caught between the white SUV and the armored wall of the black Tahoe. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. The aggressive swagger, the booming voice, the absolute certainty of his own supremacy—it all vanished in a millisecond, replaced by the stark, terrifying realization that he was vastly outgunned, out-trained, and completely out of his depth.
Inside the white SUV, Valerie finally unlocked her door. She pushed it open with her foot. The orange pepper spray still clung to her face, her left eye completely swollen shut, tears streaming down her cheek. But she stood tall, holding onto the door frame for balance, the silver "FEDERAL" embroidery on her collar catching the sunlight.
Thorne saw her face, saw the burning orange chemical, and a wave of pure, cold fury washed over him. He turned his weapon back to Mitchell.
"You sprayed a federal agent," Thorne said, his voice deadly quiet, cutting through the silence of the neighborhood.
Mitchell looked at the heavily armed men surrounding him, then looked at Valerie. The reality of his catastrophic mistake was beginning to set in. The woman he had patronized, assaulted, and dismissed was exactly who she claimed to be. She was the tip of a very large, very dangerous spear, and he had just thrown himself onto it.
For a brief, pathetic moment, Mitchell’s ego tried to construct a final defense. The sheer embarrassment of being surrounded, emasculated in front of the very woman he had tried to dominate, forced a desperate, foolish reaction out of him. He puffed out his chest, trying to muster the bravado he had shown just two minutes prior.
"She was resisting!" Mitchell stammered, his voice cracking, devoid of its previous bass. "She refused to step out of the vehicle! I had reasonable suspicion!"
Thorne took a step closer, the barrel of his weapon unwavering. "Drop your duty belt, Officer. Right now. Unbuckle it and let it fall to the ground."
"You guys are making a huge mistake," Mitchell said, raising his hands slightly, attempting a sneer that looked more like a grimace. "I'm a sworn officer of this city. You can't just—"
"Well, well, well," Mitchell tried to say, forcing a smirk, attempting to echo the tough-guy persona he saw in movies. "Just watch me."
He made a slight, arrogant twitch, dropping his hand an inch toward his waist.
It was the stupidest thing he could have possibly done.