“Social services won’t help?” he asked.
“They think we’re lying. Dale’s a cop. Who believes kids like us?”
“What?”
“My motorcycle club. We’re all cops, retired cops, and first responders. We’ve been looking for a way to get evidence on Henderson without tipping him off.” He smiled grimly. “You just gave us a gift, kid. You’re our witness. But we need to get your statement on record, and we need to secure those other kids before Henderson realizes what’s happening.”
The motorcycles started arriving. Not just a few. Dozens. They pulled off the highway, one after another, until the shoulder was lined with bikes.
Detective Morrison gathered them quickly, explained the situation. I watched these tough-looking bikers become laser-focused, all business.
“We need someone small,” Morrison said. “Someone who can get into the house without raising suspicion.”
“I can get back in,” I offered. “They don’t know I left. They think I’m locked in the basement with the others.”
“Too dangerous,” Morrison said.
“Those kids down there are my family,” I said firmly. “Only family I’ve got. I’m not leaving them in there.”
The plan was insane. I’d go back to the house like nothing happened. Morrison would call in his detective team officially, but quietly. Meanwhile, his motorcycle club would stage a “breakdown” in our neighborhood – bikes scattered around, riders “working on repairs,” essentially creating a perimeter around the house without it looking like a perimeter.
“If Henderson tries to run, if things go south, we’ll be right there,” Morrison promised. “You’ll have fifty witnesses and backup within seconds.”
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