“Will you protect my mom?” a tiny voice whispered as fingers tugged at my leather vest.
I spun around, ready to growl, but froze. A barefoot boy in pajamas, maybe five, stood at the gas station at 11 PM. His lip was split, his eye swollen, and he clung to my vest like it was a lifeline.
“Please,” he said. “They’re coming tonight to hurt Mommy. She said find someone scary. You look scary.”
I glanced at the clock—eleven o’clock. Forty-nine minutes.
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
“My mom’s old boyfriend, Derek, and his friends. They want money… and me. They said they’d sell me.”
Jesus Christ.
He’d run barefoot through the night to find someone—anyone—who could protect him. And somehow, he picked me: a 64-year-old biker with skull tattoos, a grey beard, and a Harley.
I called the club. “Brothers, emergency. Chevron on Route 47. Come heavy.”
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