Unlawful Detainment

I’ve always thought of myself as the cautious type. You know, the kind of guy who plays by the rules, never speeds, never talks back to a cop, and always makes sure the seatbelt’s buckled. So, when I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror that night, I figured it was just a routine stop. I’d been driving home after a late shift, and yeah, I was tired, but swerving? No way. I pulled over, rolled down my window, and waited, just like you’re supposed to. The cop approached, flashlight shining straight into my eyes, blinding me. "License and registration," he barked. I fumbled for my wallet, handed over the documents, and waited for him to ask if I knew why I’d been stopped. But that question never came. Instead, he ordered me out of the car, no explanation, no nothing. "Is there a problem, officer?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Out of the car. Now," he repeated. I stepped out, confused as hell. That’s when things went sideways. He grabbed my arm, twisted it behind my back, and before I knew it, I was handcuffed and thrown into the back of his cruiser. My heart was pounding. I hadn’t done anything wrong. What the hell was happening? As we pulled away, I tried to get answers. “What’s going on? Why am I being arrested?” He didn’t answer. Just stared ahead, driving down some dark road I didn’t recognize. We weren’t heading to the station—I knew that much. The streets got emptier, more desolate, until we were in the middle of nowhere. It hit me then: this wasn’t normal. I tried to calm myself down, to rationalize what was happening. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe they thought I was someone else. But deep down, I knew better. We pulled up to a large, rundown warehouse. The kind of place where bad things happen. The kind of place no one’s supposed to know about. “Where are we?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The cop still didn’t answer. He yanked me out of the car and dragged me inside. My stomach twisted with fear. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but none of that seemed to matter. Inside the warehouse, the place was dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. There was another guy waiting there, another cop, this one even bigger, arms crossed like he was ready for a fight. The first cop shoved me into a chair, handcuffs still tight around my wrists. “Do you know why you’re here?” the bigger one asked, his voice cold. “No… I don’t,” I stammered. He smirked. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Ryan.” “What are you talking about?” I protested, panic rising in my chest. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” They didn’t care. The bigger cop leaned in, close enough that I could smell the stench of his breath. “You’ve been making waves in the wrong places. We don’t like people who ask too many questions.” “What? You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s when it started. They began asking questions about things I had no knowledge of—crimes, names, places I’d never heard of. They kept demanding answers, and when I couldn’t give them what they wanted, the real horror began. They didn’t beat me—not at first. No, they were smarter than that. They knew how to inflict pain without leaving marks. It started with threats, then escalated to slamming my head against the cold concrete wall, using methods that would never be traced back to them. I could feel myself breaking—mentally, physically—but I had no answers for them. Hours passed, or maybe it was minutes. Time blurred in that hellhole. All I knew was that every time I failed to give them the answers they wanted, the torture got worse. One of them pulled out a knife, running it along my cheek just enough to let me feel the cold metal against my skin. He grinned, the kind of grin that said he’d done this before. “You’re not walking out of here unless you start talking,” the bigger one growled. It hit me then, like a gut punch—these weren’t cops doing their jobs. They were off the grid, taking people like me to settle personal scores. Maybe they thought I was someone else. Maybe I just pissed off the wrong person. But either way, I wasn’t getting out of here alive unless I found a way to escape. They left me alone for a while, probably to mess with my head. My wrists throbbed from the cuffs, and my entire body ached, but my mind was racing. I scanned the room, looking for anything I could use. In the corner, I spotted a toolbox. If I could just get to it… When they came back, I played along. Gave them vague answers, said what they wanted to hear. It bought me a few minutes. Just enough time. The moment their backs were turned, I lunged for the toolbox, grabbing a hammer. I swung it with every ounce of strength I had left, hitting one of them square in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground, and I didn’t wait around to see if he’d get back up. I ran—out the door, into the night, blood pounding in my ears. The cold night air hit me like a slap, but I kept running. I didn’t know where I was, didn’t care. All I knew was that I had to get away from that place, from those men who weren’t just cops—they were monsters. I ran until I collapsed in the dirt, my lungs burning, my legs screaming in pain. I don’t know how long I lay there, but eventually, I found the strength to keep going. I had to. I made it to a nearby town and stumbled into a gas station, barely able to speak. The clerk called the police—the real ones this time. I was taken to the hospital, then questioned about what had happened. But here’s the thing—those cops, the ones who took me? They were gone. No records, no trace of them ever being there. The warehouse? Empty. Just an abandoned building with no signs of the nightmare I’d endured. No one believed me. Not really. They wrote it off as a crazy story, maybe a mix-up, maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I knew better. Those men are still out there, and I’ll never forget their faces.