They drove me back. I slipped in through the basement window like I’d left. The other kids were awake, scared.
“Where did you go?” Emma whispered.
“Marcus, they’ll kill us—”
“Not this time. Trust me.”
Upstairs, I could hear Dale and his wife Brenda moving around. It was 6 AM. They’d be leaving soon for their morning “deliveries.”
Through the small basement window, I could see motorcycles starting to appear on our street. A rider “broke down” right in front of our house. Another stopped to “help.”
Dale noticed. I heard him on the phone. “Yeah, there’s a bunch of bikers on our street. I don’t like it. Might need to postpone the delivery.”
Perfect. Keep him in the house.
At 7 AM, there was a knock on the door. Official. Loud.
“Police! Search warrant!”
“You,” he hissed at me, seeing my black eye. “You called the cops?”
“Actually,” said a voice from the top of the stairs, “his sign on the highway called me.”
Detective Morrison stood there, badge out, flanked by four other detectives.
Dale’s hand went to his weapon. “I’m a police officer—”
“You’re under arrest,” Morrison said coldly. “For child abuse, drug trafficking, and corruption. Don’t even think about that gun.”
Dale looked at the window, calculating escape. Then his face went white.
Through every window, he could see them. Bikers. Dozens of bikers, standing in a silent ring around the house. Watching. Waiting.
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