Everything I believed I knew about that night suddenly fell apart when the motorcyclists who everyone said had killed my son appeared at his hospital bed.
My eight-year-old boy’s injured and bandaged body was surrounded by four enormous men wearing leather vests. The machines beeped. His respiration was maintained by tubes. My hands were trembling from fear and rage. I wanted to yell for protection. I wanted them hauled out in handcuffs. I wanted them to be punished.
The tallest one then broke down in tears and muttered, “Ma’am,” with a gray beard and tattoos up his neck. Your son wasn’t hit by us. We were able to save him.
Rebecca Turner is my name. I had been living in hell for three days. Four motorcyclists crashed through our neighborhood, according to witnesses who notified police. My son Connor was discovered in the street a short while later, with internal bleeding, a fractured skull, and broken ribs. By the time the neighbors noticed what had happened, the SUV that had struck him had vanished. The sound of engines was all they could recall.
Everyone thought it was the bikers. Everyone reported seeing motorcycles to the cops. Everyone thought that after hitting a youngster, they drove off.
I also thought so. I wanted them to be found, detained, and annihilated. I wanted someone to pay for my young son’s ordeal.
These men now had the audacity to enter his hospital room.
“Leave,” I growled. “Escape or I’ll contact security.”
The tall one raised his hands and pleaded, “Please.” Let’s have five minutes. You must see something.
“I have nothing to ask of you.”
A bald motorcyclist replied softly, “We have video.” from the cameras on our helmet. Everything was captured on camera.
I was completely stopped by that.
“Video?” I muttered.
Another answered, “Yes, ma’am,” and took out a phone. “The police refused to listen. The neighbors were yelling at us. They refused to even watch the video. However, you must.
He pressed play.
The video originated from a helmet camera. It was my street; the road was familiar. Connor was riding his small blue bike on the sidewalk, swaying a little.
Then he was followed by a black SUV. Too sluggish. Too near. It creeps in a way that makes your skin crawl.
The SUV, I whispered. “Who?”
The SUV jumped the curb—right at Connor—before I could finish thinking.
It was a recorded, but I still yelled.
The riders. Each of the four. Instead of being in front of the SUV, they were behind it. Cutting ahead of the SUV and allowing his bike to take the collision, the lead rider surged. He flew across the road like a rag doll after the crash. However, the SUV was sufficiently slowed by his collision.
In one rash, desperate move, another biker swooped down and grabbed Connor off his bike. They fell onto someone’s grass, my son’s tiny body cradled in the man’s arms.
After swerving and smashing a mailbox, the SUV sped off in reverse.
Shouting, terror, injuries, and confusion were all captured on camera.
“Dial 911!”
“The child is injured!”
“Does anyone see the license plate?”
Then it was over.
I was crying. My knees buckled. I muttered, “Someone tried to kill him.”
The towering motorcyclist gave a nod. “We observed the SUV pursuing him. Something didn’t feel right. We responded when it went for him.
“However, the witnesses—”
“They made snap judgments after seeing motorcycles,” Marcus, the bald one, remarked sourly. We were attempting to explain when the ambulance arrived. Then our neighbors began yelling at us. hurling stones. accusing us of being murderers.
He pointed to a biker with a bandaged head. “A brick struck Thomas.”
Robert said, “The police put us in handcuffs.” Not interested in seeing the video. told us to stop talking. They had nothing to charge us with, so six hours later they released us.
Thomas said, “And by then your son was already in surgery.”
All I saw when I looked at these men—the ones I had been hoping would be arrested—were four weary, hurt men who had done everything in their power to save a child that no one else was watching after.
“What makes someone want to murder my son?” I muttered.
They looked at each other. Marcus moved to the front. “Madam… Are you aware of anyone who could wish to harm your family members?
My stomach turned over. My voice broke. “My former spouse.”
I clarified—abuse, custody disputes, and restraining orders. Control was his preoccupation. When I left him, he threatened me. His SUV. Black. tinted. same manufacturer. identical model.
Robert murmured, “Jesus.” Three days ago, we gave the police a partial plate. They were unconcerned. They were too preoccupied with accusing us.
Thomas went on to say, “The nurse watched the video.” She sobbed. At last, she allowed us to enter.
After that, things started to snowball.
Within hours, the video made headlines. It was shared everywhere. Headlines went crazy: The child’s life was saved by the biker who was blamed for the hit-and-run.
Police rushed to correct their mistake. And they located the SUV within hours after the video went viral.
The new girlfriend of my ex-husband was behind the wheel. He occupied the passenger seat. For days, they had been following Connor. preparing to take him. or worse.
Both of them were taken into custody. They are both accused of attempting to kill someone.
However, the cyclists remained in the hospital.
Two in the room and two in the hallway were their alternate shifts. They brought me some food. They gave me consolation. When I started crying, they made jokes. They protected Connor as if he were their own.
And when he eventually opened his eyes, they were there.
“Mom… who are the superheroes?” muttered Connor as he gazed up at four giants dressed in leather.
Marcus knelt next to him. “Little man, we’re not super heroes. We ride motorcycles. We only lend a hand when we can.
Robert said in a husky voice, “And we’ll keep helping.” “For however long you require.”
Months went by. Trials took place. It was thirty-two years for my ex. His girlfriend received twenty-five. The final nail in the coffin was the video.
The motorcyclists gave testimony. Each juror shed a tear.
Connor also gave testimony. He was afraid. However, there was a tiny patch with wings in his pocket.
Thomas had referred to them as “Guardian Angels.” “Now you’re one of us.”
The men were waiting for Connor when he emerged from the courthouse later. One courageous young child is hugged by four giants on their knees.
They become a permanent family two years later.
They attend all baseball games. Attend each and every birthday. Teach Connor how to stand upright and how to fish. His bike was fixed. made a customized helmet for him. In order to ensure his safety, they ride carefully beside him on the local streets.
Additionally, they ride to the scene of the accident on its anniversary each year. Connor also rides a little dirt bike that they purchased him.
He can now keep up with them because he is tall enough.
Connor recently told me, “Mom, my dad tried to hurt me.” But I was saved by my motorcycle uncles. This implies that bikers are more powerful than uncaring fathers.
He is correct.
When no one else perceived danger, those men took action. They didn’t think twice. They took action. They provided protection. They remained. They were vigilant. They had unconditional affection.
People make assumptions about them based on their tattoos and leather. However, capes aren’t usually worn by heroes.
They occasionally ride motorcycles and wear vests.
They can also appear when everyone else expects the worst, just to turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to you.