I pulled off I-70 near Kansas City at 3 AM. Twelve hours on the road, dead tired, just wanting gas and coffee. I never expected that stop would change a life. Or save one.
Through the thin wall of the men’s bathroom, I heard voices—three men arguing. Then a fourth, terrified. A girl.
“Fifteen hundred,” one man said. “Damaged goods. Tracks on her arms. Nobody wants a junkie.”
“Two grand. She’s young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Still profitable,” another countered.
My blood ran cold. And then I heard her voice. Young, desperate, pleading. “Please… my mom’s looking for me. Let me call her…”
I’m William “Hammer” Davidson. Vietnam vet. Harley rider for forty-four years. Seen horrors, war crimes, villages burned. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for human trafficking at a gas station.
I stayed frozen, listening. Slaps. Whimpers. They were treating a child like property. And then I saw her. Bruised, crying, hands zip-tied, dead eyes. She mouthed two words: “Help me.”
I had seconds to act.
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