At first, my brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing, because children do not belong on interstates, especially not barefoot, especially not dressed in pale pink pajamas. She burst through the brush like a frightened animal, stumbling, arms flailing wildly.
She could not have been more than five years old.
Her scream pierced through fifty engines.
“Help me! Please!”
Everything happened at once, yet also impossibly slow.
Brakes shrieked.
Rubber burned.
Steel groaned.
One by one, motorcycles skidded to a stop across three lanes, forming an accidental barricade of chrome and leather. Cars behind us screeched in protest, horns blaring angrily, drivers shouting through closed windows.
None of it mattered.
Nothing was going to touch that little girl.
Logan dropped his bike before it fully settled, sprinting forward with the speed of a man who never hesitated when instinct took over. The child collapsed against him, tiny hands clutching desperately at his vest.
“He’s coming,” she sobbed, voice broken with terror. “Please don’t let him take me.”
I saw her feet then.
Raw.
Bleeding.
Torn open by asphalt.
A cold rage stirred deep inside my stomach.
Then we noticed the van.