The teenager sat down directly in front of my Harley at the red light and refused to move, tears streaming down his bruised face. Cars behind me started honking, drivers yelling obscenities, but this kid – maybe fifteen, school backpack still on – just sat there on the hot asphalt staring up at me with desperate eyes. I’d seen a lot in my sixty-three years of riding, but I’d never had someone literally throw themselves in front of my bike to stop me from leaving.
His lip was split, left eye swelling shut, and his hands were shaking so bad he could barely hold the crumpled piece of paper he was trying to show me. “Please,” he gasped. “You’re a true biker, right?
I can see patches. Please, I need help. They’re going to kill him.”
The light turned green.
More honking. Someone screamed at me to “move your damn bike.” But I couldn’t look away from this kid’s face. “Kill who?” I asked, shutting off my engine.
He held up the paper with a trembling hand. It was a photo printed from a phone – another teenager, younger, maybe thirteen, tied up in what looked like a basement. The kid in the photo was wearing the same school uniform as the boy in front of me.
“My brother. They took my brother because I wouldn’t join their gang. Said if I don’t bring them $10,000 by tonight, they’ll…” He couldn’t finish.
“I saw your vest. My dad told me once that bikers help kids. Before he died, he said if I ever needed help and couldn’t go to the cops, find the bikers.”
I pulled the kid to his feet and walked my bike to the sidewalk, ignoring the angry drivers finally speeding past.
Up close, I could see more than just the obvious beating he’d taken. There were older bruises too, yellowing at the edges. This wasn’t his first fight.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Marcus. Marcus Chen.”
My stomach dropped.
I knew that name. Everyone of my biker friends knew that name. David Chen had been a cop, one of the good ones who actually tried to clean up the neighborhoods instead of just collecting a paycheck.
He’d been killed two years ago in what the department called a “random shooting.” But those of us who rode these streets knew better. David had been getting close to exposing a drug ring that involved some very powerful people, including cops. “Your dad was David Chen?”
Marcus nodded, fresh tears falling.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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