She looked up. Terrified at first. Then desperate.
“My dad. He’s a police sergeant. He’s inside right now convincing the judge I made everything up.” Her voice cracked. “My foster mom was supposed to be here but she just got pulled over by three squad cars on her way. His friends. They’re making sure nobody shows up for me.”
I noticed the faded bruises on her neck. The way she cradled her left arm. The look in her eyes that no kid should ever have.
Her name was Maya.
Big Mike pulled out his phone and sent one text to our group chat. Five words: “Emergency. Courthouse. Now. Everyone.”
Then he sat down next to her on those steps and said, “Not alone anymore.”
They came in waves. Iron Guardians first. Then Veterans of Steel. Then the Christian Riders. Clubs that hadn’t spoken in years rolled up together, parked side by side, walked in together.
By the time Maya’s case was called, forty-seven bikers filed into that courtroom.
The bailiff blocked the door. “Family only in custody hearings.”
“We’re her uncles,” Big Mike said.
