When I rounded the corner, I saw them. The bikers had formed a tight circle around the girls. One girl—maybe fifteen—was sobbing uncontrollably. Another was holding up her phone, recording. The third was pressed against a car, looking terrified.
“STEP BACK!” I shouted, pushing through the bikers. “Security! Everyone step back now!”
That confused me. “You’re telling me to call the police?”
“Yes. And an ambulance. And probably child protective services.” He stepped aside slightly, and that’s when I saw what the bikers had been blocking.
A man in his thirties was on the ground, his camera smashed beside him. Two of the bikers were holding him down. Not violently, but firmly. The crying girl had bruises on her arms. Fresh ones.
“This man,” the bearded biker said slowly, “was taking pictures of these girls. Hundreds of them. Following them through the mall. We saw him grab this one,” he pointed to the crying girl, “and try to drag her toward his van when she tried to run.”
My blood went cold.
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