"Get down, hands on your head!"
The guards, seeing the sticky mess of red and white at their feet, found their gun hands trembling, their nerves stretched taut.
Dean was speechless.
My shoulder's this swollen—and they want me to put my hands on my head? Dream on!
"Get down, hands on your head!"
The guards repeated the warning, their voices even more agitated.
Dean hurriedly said, "Guys, relax. I'm Detective Dean from the Robbery and Homicide Division, Squad Four. My gun's on the ground, and my badge is in my chest pocket."
He was afraid that if he spoke too slowly, these bastards would empty their magazines into him.
Dying like this would really suck.
The lead guard had also noticed Dean's handgun lying to one side.
He rushed forward, kicked the gun away, and then, ignoring Dean's swollen shoulder and leg joints, pressed his knees into Dean's upper body, ensuring Dean couldn't move.
