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The station manager came out, demanding the biker “step away from the child,” threatening to call police if he didn’t “stop touching her.”
But when the little girl finally spoke, telling us why she recognized the skull patch on his vest, everyone understood why she’d run to him.
She whispered something in the biker’s ear that made his entire demeanor change. His jaw clenched, his massive fists tightened, and he stood up slowly, shifting the little girl behind him protectively.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked softly, never taking his eyes off the parking lot entrance.
“Emma. Emma Bradley.”
I watched the biker’s face go white beneath his beard. He knew that name. We all knew that name.
“Brothers!” he called out, and suddenly four more bikers emerged from near the gas pumps, moving with purpose toward us.
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