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They looked exactly like what we’d been warned about in training. Exactly like the threat we’d been called to neutralize.
“Police! Get off the bikes! Hands where we can see them!”
“Officers, please,” he said. “You don’t understand. We’re not here to hurt anyone. We’re here for—”
“Save it,” my partner said, pushing him against the motorcycle. “We’ve got multiple reports of you stalking this woman. You have the right to remain silent.”
We cuffed all five of them. Read them their rights. Started loading them into the patrol cars.
That’s when the front door of the blue house flew open.
A little boy, maybe seven years old, came sprinting across the lawn in his pajamas. His mother was right behind him, screaming for him to come back. But the boy was faster.
He ran straight to the oldest biker—the one my partner had pinned against the motorcycle—and threw his arms around the man’s waist.
“NO! DON’T TAKE HIM! PLEASE DON’T TAKE HIM!”
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