A crying teenage girl begged bikers at the gas station for protection, and everyone inside was already calling 911, assuming the bikers were harassing her.
I watched from my truck as the leather-clad riders formed a tight circle around her. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, barefoot, and shaking in a torn dress.
The station attendant was frantically waving at his phone, telling whoever was on the other end that “a biker gang was kidnapping a girl.”
But I knew better. I had seen what happened five minutes earlier that nobody else had witnessed.