A crying teenage girl begged bikers at the gas station for protection, and everyone inside was already calling 911 thinking 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 15, barefoot and shaking in a torn dress.
The station attendant was frantically gesturing at his phone, telling whoever was on the other end that “a biker gang was kidnapping some girl.”
But I knew better. I’d seen what happened five minutes earlier that nobody else had witnessed.
The girl had stumbled out of a black sedan that had peeled away the second she closed the door.
