Page 13 of Claimed Through Deception

"Police! Search warrant! Get on the ground!"

Heavy boots hit the floor. The narrow hallway is instantly flooded with men in dark tactical gear. Blinding, strobe-like beams of white light sweep across the walls, completely disorienting me.

"Hands where I can see them! Do it now!"

I scream, scrambling backward on the mattress until my spine hits the headboard. I throw my hands up over my face to shield my eyes from the blinding flashlights.

"I don't have a weapon!" I shout, my voice cracking in pure, unadulterated terror. "I don't have anything!"

Rough hands grab my ankles.

I am yanked violently forward. The rough fabric of the comforter is ripped away. I slide off the edge of the mattress, my bare knees hitting the hard wooden floor with a sickening thud.

Someone grabs the back of my oversized t-shirt, hauling me up onto my knees. A heavy, booted foot steps on the back of my calf, pinning me to the floor.

"Hands behind your back," a gruff voice barks.

"What is happening?" I sob, struggling blindly against the grip. "You have the wrong apartment! I didn't do anything!"

"Stop resisting!"

A hand forces my left arm behind my back, twisting my shoulder at an agonizing angle. Cold, heavy metal bites brutally into my wrist. The cuffs click shut. My right arm is jerked back, and the metal snaps around my other wrist, locking my arms tightly behind me.

The blinding flashlights lower, sweeping the floor. Someone hits the light switch on the wall.

The cheap overhead bulb flickers to life.

There are four men in my apartment. Two are in heavy tactical vests. The other two are wearing cheap, wrinkled suits, their badges hanging from chains around their necks.

One of the detectives, a heavy-set man with a thick mustache and sweat beading on his forehead, looks down at me. His eyes drag over my bare legs and the thin cotton of my t-shirt. There is no professionalism in his gaze. He looks at me like I am garbage on the bottom of his shoe.

"Livia Marino?" he asks, his voice carrying a thick Boston accent.

"Yes," I gasp, my chest heaving. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"Detective Miller, twelfth precinct," he says, pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket. "We have a warrant to search the premises for narcotics."

"Narcotics?" The word sounds foreign in my mouth. "I don't do drugs. I don't sell drugs. I work at a bar. You have the wrong person."

Miller ignores me. He looks at the other detective, a younger, sharp-eyed man. "Tear it apart."

The men begin to systematically destroy my life.

They rip the mattress off the box spring, slicing the fabric open with a pocketknife. They pull the drawers out of my cheap dresser, dumping my clothes onto the floor. In the kitchen, they sweep their arms across the counter, sending my plates and glasses crashing to the floor.

I watch in horror as the glass shatters. "Stop! Please, you're breaking everything!"

Miller chuckles, leaning his hip against my kitchen counter. "Standard procedure, sweetheart. People hide things in creative places."

I struggle against the cuffs, the metal slicing into my skin. "I told you, there is nothing here!"

The younger detective doesn't even look in the bathroom. He doesn't check the refrigerator or the closet. He walks straight to the center of the living room, looks up at the ceiling, and points his flashlight at the square, metal air conditioning vent.

"Get me a chair," the younger detective says.

One of the tactical officers kicks over a stool. The detective steps onto it. He pulls a screwdriver from his pocket and rapidly unscrews the four corners of the metal grate. The grate falls to the floor with a loud clang.

He reaches his hand deep into the dark, dusty vent. He grunts, pulling his arm back.