“No,” I said, and when I saw Steve’s shoulders slump and his face darken, I wished I had lied.
Even if I had, it would not have mattered. One of the men had taken out his mobile phone and was speaking into it with urgent vehemence. When the call ended, he pointed at four of the men and issued them instructions. Two manhandled our bikes from us and the other two clapped their hands on our arms and shoulders and began to lead us away. Around the corner, a panel van sat beside the kerb, and Steve was roughly pushed into its open back door first. He complied meekly, head down, resigned to his fate, whatever that might be. I, on the other hand, felt so angry at what was happening to us that I considered kicking out, striking and punching at these men with their hands on me, screaming and flailing like a trapped cat, doing whatever I could, no matter how viol...
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