“Come on back here for me,” Kyle says, voice clearly audible through his wireless microphone. The man shuts the truck door. He pulls on the lapels of his jacket. A dog barks inside the truck. The man walks toward Kyle and stops 10 or 15 feet away.
“How you doin’ today?” Kyle asks.
“OK,” the man says. “How you doin’?”
And then, in the first of many provocations, he puts his hands in his pockets.
“Good come back here keep your hands out of your pockets,” Kyle says.
“Why?” the man says, leaving them in.
“Keep your hands out of your pockets, sir,” Kyle says.
The man turns away, as if returning to his truck, and begins a profane and menacing tirade. Kyle steps forward, right forearm entering the frame, right hand ready to draw his gun. The man turns toward Kyle and raises his hands.
“Come ‘ere,” Kyle says.
The man dances, waves his arms, sings like a taunting child:
“Here I am, here I am. Shoot me. Shoot me!”