“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked softly, never taking his eyes off the parking lot entrance.
“Emma. Emma Bradley.”
“Brothers!” he called out, and suddenly four more bikers emerged from near the gas pumps, moving with purpose toward us.
The soccer moms scrambled backward, clutching their children, but the bikers ignored them completely.
“It’s Rebecca Bradley’s little girl,” he said quietly, and the other bikers immediately formed a protective circle around Emma.
The station manager was on his phone now, probably calling the police. “I’m warning you, step away from that child or—”
“Or what?” the biker asked calmly. “You gonna call the cops? Good. Call them. Tell them the Guardians of the Children have Emma Bradley, and she’s safe. They’ll know what that means.”
I was the only “normal” person who hadn’t retreated. Something about the way these men moved, the way they positioned themselves, told me this wasn’t an abduction. This was a rescue.Continue reading…
