The bikers heard the girl screaming before they saw her running through the truck stop parking lot at 2 AM, barefoot and bleeding. She couldn’t have been more than six. Maybe seven.

Pink nightgown torn. Face swollen. She ran straight into our group of eight bikers who’d stopped for coffee.

Grabbed my leather vest with both tiny hands. Started begging. “Please.

Please. Please.” She kept saying it. Over and over.

“Please.”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re coming. The police.

They’re going to take me back.” She looked over her shoulder. The terror in her eyes was something I’d only seen in combat. In Vietnam.

When men knew they were about to die. Jake stepped forward. “Take you back where?”

“Foster home.

But I can’t. I can’t go back. She’ll kill me this time.

She promised.”

That’s when I saw her face in the truck stop lights. Really saw it. Left eye swollen shut.

Lip split. Bruises on her neck. Adult finger marks.

Someone had choked this little girl. “Who did this?” I asked. “My foster mom.

But she’s a cop. They’re all cops. They don’t believe me.”

The sirens were getting louder.

The little girl started pulling at my jacket. Trying to hide behind me. She was so small she could almost disappear behind my leg.

“Please. I know you don’t know me. But I heard my real mommy say once that bikers protect kids.

That you have a code. Is that true? Do you protect kids?”

Big Tom looked at me.

We’d all seen abuse. Had all stopped it when we could. But this was different.

This was a tiny girl asking us to hide her from the police. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sara. Sara Sanders.”

“Sara, we need to call someone.

Your social worker. Someone.”

Sara pulled up her nightgown. Her entire back was covered in welts.

Belt marks. Some scarred over. Some fresh.

But worse were the words carved into her skin. “BAD” scratched over and over. “I told my social worker.

She said Officer Stevens would never do that. Said I was lying for attention. I told my teacher.

She called the police. Officer Stevens’ partner came. Said I fell down the stairs.”

“When did you run away?” Jake asked.

“Tonight. She was drunk. Really drunk.

Started hitting me with her belt. The buckle end. Said she was going to teach me respect.

But I couldn’t take it anymore. I’ve been there eight months. Eight months of this.”

The sirens were maybe a mile away now.

Sara dropped to her knees. “Please. I’ll do anything.

I’ll wash your bikes. I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good.

Just don’t let them take me back. She said next time she’d make it look like an accident. Said foster kids die all the time and nobody cares.”

I looked at my brothers.

Eight men who’d lived by a code for decades. Protect the innocent. Stand against abuse.

Never let a child suffer if you can stop it. But hiding a kid from the cops? That was kidnapping.

That was prison time. The sirens were getting closer. “Tom,” I said.

“Get the girl.”

He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. Threw his vest around her and tucked her against his chest. We didn’t talk.