Unexpected.

“Yo, man, check his wallet!”1

The voice came from somewhere above him and seemed to echo around him unwilling to let it’s location be pinpointed. He tried to move, to run his hand across his aching face, but his arms wouldn’t respond to the command. He gave out a small puff of a groan before managing to roll his head slightly to the side. “Hurry up! Man, he’s starting to wake up!”
2

“Fucking hit him again!” At this command, he could feel rough hands pushing at his coat, sliding his semiconscious body sideways across the console of his car. He felt the brush of hands along the inside of his waist, felt the snatch and backlash of his belt as the hands pulled his gun free. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was cradle his pounding skull in his hands and pray for a release from the building pressure.3

“Did you get it? Oh, shit…this dude’s a cop, yo! How much you got?”  4

“Fucking shit, twenty-eight, man, that’s it!” He could here in the background the companion, further away now, whining about the lack of cash, about coming across a cop. He would have laughed but it probably would have splintered his face in two. They should know cops didn’t have any money. 5

“Check this out. Fucking sweet, right? I got me a new piece and fuck this lowlife cop, I should cap his ass with his own piece.” That didn’t make him want to laugh. He tried to pry open his eyes, but they were matted shut with clumps of blood. Whatever they’d hit him with had caused some serious leakage. 6

“Let’s go, man, they didn’t say nothing ‘bout no cop.” the whining voice was back, closer. He could here the rustle of clothes, and prayed that one was dragging the other off without firing his pistol at him. “Come on!” He heard the footfalls of his assailants smack against the asphalt, waited for them to fade completely before he could concentrate on lifting his swollen fingers to his eyes. He could only command two of the fingers to stay straight, the others stayed curled and unresponsive. He managed to dig two of them into his eye, one at a time and pull out the clots of blood that had collected there, smearing the blood across his cheek.
7

He used his right elbow to help prop himself up, and managed to slide himself across his back, into an upright position in the driver seat. The glass from the broken window crunched under his weight, adding a new painful sensation to his aching body. The anger he felt was directed more at himself than the two punks that had made off with his weapon. It was unbelievably stupid of him to have not noticed them when they first approached, at an angle; fast, jacked up on adrenaline, which made their steps pop against the ground.
8

He’d been sitting here the better part of the night, his gear stowed on the passenger seat: Cheetos, Pepsi, large plastic cup, toilet paper, all within grabbing distance. He’d been working on his third Pepsi when he caught sight of the two kids in his rearview mirror. They were halfway down the street on the sidewalk, seemingly walking with no other purpose than to get the their slum apartments or crash under some rotten cardboard that was scattered along the six foot fence that railroaded the street and sidewalk. He had looked away to focus back on the apartment building in front of him: fifth floor, second window from the right, no lights, and no active movement. He didn’t know if it was a sixth sense, a sense of approaching doom, or just a flash of movement that caught his eye, probably all three, but his head had snapped around to try to catch-up with the movement his eyes had caught and by then they were already at his driver door.
9

He’d barely had time to raise his arms for protection when one of the kids had smashed half a cinder block through the window. He was rather proud of the fact that he caught that cinder block, albeit with his left arm. The force of the landing smashed his own fist into his face, and the edge of the block bounced across the top of his skull to land somewhere behind him. He’d felt a few more pounding blows, but he was already fading out and didn’t really notice.
He reached for the keys in the ignition, and managed to start the car the first try. Switching the Oldsmobile into gear, he palmed the wheel and pulled out from the curb debating whether or not to drive to the nearest hospital. It was probably in his best interest; only it wouldn’t go over so well with his superiors when he had to report what happened. Not to mention the flack he was going to have to take from his colleagues over yet another fucked up assignment.
10

So much for being undercover.
11