A small girl walked into a biker tavern after midnight and asked the scariest-looking man there whether he could help her find her mom.
When this small girl in pajamas with Disney princesses on them stood in the doorway, crying and staring at thirty big bikers like they were her last hope, every leather-clad rider in that smoke-filled room went dead silent.
She walked right up to Snake, the six-foot-four president of the Iron Wolves MC. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, and his face was full of scars. She tugged on his leather vest and muttered the words that would get everyone in the motorcycle club moving and let out the community’s biggest secret.
“The bad man put Mommy in the basement, and she won’t wake up,” she added. “He said he’d hurt my baby brother if I told anyone.” But Mommy replied that motorcyclists kept people safe.
Not the cops. Not the people that live next door. Not a single one of the “good” people in town. Her mother had told her that if she ever needed real help, she should look for the motorcyclists.
Snake bent down to her level, and his big body made her look even smaller. Everyone in the bar held their breath.
“Princess, what’s your name?” he inquired in a voice that was softer than any of us had ever heard.
She said, “Emma,” and then she said something that had every biker in the room grab their phones: “The bad man is a policeman.” That’s why Mommy instructed you to just look for motorcycles.
Snake picked up Emma like she was nothing, but this scary-looking man held her like she was a valuable piece of commerce.
He told the people in the room, “Brothers.” “We ride.”
There’s no need to talk about it. There was no vote. A child had asked for help.
“Take five brothers and go to the hospital,” he roared at his sergeant-at-arms. “Let them know that we’re bringing in a woman who is unconscious and may have overdosed or been poisoned.” “Don’t let them call it in until we get there.”
“Road Dog, take 10 and clean up the area. Every street and every house. We want to find a basement, maybe a police officer’s residence.
“Come with me, everyone else.”
Snake held Emma closely and put a leather jacket over her. “Princess, can you tell us where your house is?” ”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not my house.” The bad man took us to a different house with a blue door and a mailbox that doesn’t function.
Thirty bikes fired up in that parking lot. The cacophony should have horrified her, but Emma actually smiled a little.
“Oh my gosh, that’s a lot of motorcycles!” she said in amazement.
Snake told her, “We’re all here to help you and your mom.”
We intended to split up and ride through every area within five miles. Prospect found it: a blue door, a broken mailbox, and a police car in the driveway.
He whispered over the radio, “Got him.” “Officer Bradley Matthews’s house.” 447 Oak Street.
I knew the name. Everyone did. Officer Matthews was the “hero cop” who always worked the night shift, volunteered for extra shifts, and was always there when drug busts happened.
We all went to that house like an army. But Snake was smart. He called his lawyer first, then sent two brothers to the hospital to wait and three others to film everything on their phones.
“Emma,” Snake said softly, “we’re going to get your mom.” But I need you to stay here with Patches. He’ll take you to a secure place.
Patches, a 70-year-old Vietnam War veteran who looked like Santa Claus in leather, was the oldest member. Emma went to him without thinking.
What we found in that basement still scares me.
Jennifer, Emma’s mother, was unconscious on a mattress and tied to a pipe. She was still alive, but just barely. There were fresh track marks on her arms, but Snake, who had been a paramedic before, looked at her and said, “She’s not a user.” These are places where you get injections, not places where you do it yourself.
There was a crib in the corner with a baby in it. Emma had talked about this baby. She was around eight months old and unharmed, but she was hungry and scared.
We pulled them out and wrote everything down. I grabbed the baby, while Snake carried Jennifer. Officer Matthews got home just as we were placing them in the van we had called.
He saw us. He saw the individuals he wounded being saved. Then he made a mistake by going for his gun.
At the same time, thirty bikers came forward.
Snake said quietly, “I wouldn’t.” “We’ve already talked to your boss.” And the FBI. And the news. It’s remarkable what they’ll uncover when they look at the number of missing persons cases you’ve worked on.
Matthews became white. “I was trying to help, but you don’t get it. That lady is addicted to drugs.”
“By putting her in your basement? “I asked.
Later, the truth came out. Jennifer had watched Matthews take bribes from drug dealers. When she claimed she would call the police, he kidnapped her and her kids and kept them for three days, making her take heroin to make her look like an addict so that no one would believe her if she got away.
He didn’t think about Emma, though.
He also didn’t listen to what her mother said about motorcyclists.
Jennifer finally woke up at the hospital and requested for her kids right away. When she saw all the motorcycles in the room, she cried again.
“You found her,” she said quietly to Snake. “Emma found you.”
“Brave little girl,” Snake said. “She walked into Red’s Bar all by herself.” She said her mom taught her that motorcyclists keep people safe.
Jennifer was able to smile weakly. “My dad was a biker.” He died when I was ten, but he always promised me that the club would aid me if I ever needed it. I always remembered that.
What did he call himself on the road? “Snake asked.
“Thunder.” Jerry “Thunder” Morrison.
The room got quiet. Everyone who was there at the time knew that name.
“Thunder’s daughter?” “Snake’s voice was deep. “Goddamn it. Thunder saved my life in Vietnam. “Three bullets were meant for me.”
Jennifer cried even harder. “That last tour was the last time I saw him.”
“No,” Snake said in a quiet voice. “But before that last task, he made us all pledge something. He told her that if something happened to him, the club would always be there for her. I guess it took you thirty years to keep that promise.
The next several weeks were a blur. Matthews was arrested, and the FBI found proof that he was linked to the cases of six women who had been missing for five years. Jennifer and her kids were secure, but they were afraid.
At that point, the Iron Wolves did something that would have made Thunder proud.
They developed a plan. Every day, two individuals would come to Jennifer’s apartment to clean up, bring her groceries, and just be there. They put up a fund to pay for her kids’ education and made sure she had the best counsel for the case.
But Emma was the one who won everyone’s hearts.
She would go to the clubhouse with her mom and not be scared of the big, tough men there. She would paint their nails (seriously, thirty bikers sat still while a five-year-old painted their nails). She would put stickers on their motorcycles. During meetings, she would fall asleep on Snake’s lap.
She was the Iron Wolves’ smallest member and sported a little vest with “Princess” on the back.
Emma was at the clubhouse painting drawings six months after the rescue. Her parents were talking to the lawyer. She got a piece of paper and walked over to Snake.
“I made this for you,” she said.
It was a picture of that night. There were stick figures of bikers on motorcycles and a little girl in the midst. She had written “MY HEROES” in crayon at the top.
This big, tough biker named Snake broke down completely. He cried like a baby in front of everyone.
He might respond, “No, princess.” “You are the hero.” “You saved your mom.” “We just helped.”
Emma hugged him, but her small arms barely stretched around his neck. “Mommy says heroes help each other,” she said.
It was all over the news: “Biker Club Saves Woman and Children from Corrupt Cop.” The Iron Wolves moved from being a problem in town to becoming heroes. People who had crossed the street to avoid them were suddenly giving them drinks and thanking them for their service.
But Emma was the one who changed the most.
As she got older, she never forgot that night or who helped her when she called. She went to the clubhouse a lot, where she did her homework at the bar and bikers helped her with math. She rode with her mom on Snake’s bike in memory of her. She learned to respect the code, the fraternity, and the way of life that had saved her life.
Snake taught her how to ride a bike when she was sixteen. When she graduated from high school, 847 motorcycles came to take her to the ceremony. They came from six states because they had heard the story of Thunder’s granddaughter, the little girl who walked into a biker bar and reminded them all why they ride.
She is currently in college studying criminal justice. She says she wants to be a cop who protects people, not hurts them. She still has a small Iron Wolves pin on her backpack.
And Snake? He’s gotten older and slower, and his arthritis makes lengthy journeys painful. But every year on the anniversary of that night, he travels to Jennifer’s house for dinner with her. This is a tradition that started on the worst night of their lives.
Emma gave a speech at the Iron Wolves’ anniversary party last year. She stood in front of two hundred motorcycles and stated,
“When I was five, my mom told me to look for bikers if I ever got into big trouble. Not the police, not the teachers, and not the other adults who were supposed to protect us. Find the bikers. Motorcyclists don’t care about how they appear, politics, or hiding anything. They want to do the right thing. They wish to protect people who can’t do it themselves. You saved my life. You saved my mom’s life. You saved my brother’s life. But you taught me that real strength isn’t how scary you look or how loud your bike is. When a group of big guys stops what they’re doing to help a scared little boy, that’s real strength. “Being the guardian angels that no one expects you to be is real strength.” “Keeping a promise to a sibling who died thirty years ago is real strength.”
She stopped and looked at all the old people, some of them were crying.
“People ask me if I was scared when I walked into a bar full of bikers. I tell them no. I wasn’t scared. My mom told me a secret that everyone should know: every scary-looking biker is someone’s parent, son, or protector. You just have to look past the leather to see the hero inside.
For five minutes, people clapped.
Emma will finish her degree this year. The FBI has already given her a job working on corruption cases. She says it’s her way of honoring her grandfather, who she never met, and the motorcyclists who saved her when she needed them most.
What about Officer Matthews? He will spend the rest of his life in prison without the prospect of parole. Jennifer wasn’t his first victim; she was his first survivor. The other women weren’t as lucky because they didn’t have a brave little girl who knew exactly where to find help.
Sometimes I think about that night. What would have happened if Thunder hadn’t made Snake promise to look after his daughter? If Jennifer hadn’t thought about what her dad said about motorcyclists? If Emma hadn’t had the guts to go into that bar?
But mostly I think of how one little kid helped the whole motorcycle club remember why we are here. Not for the bikes, the brotherhood, or the parties. We are here at moments like that, when someone needs help and doesn’t know where to go.
Emma now has her own bike. She received the red Harley she always wanted. When she rides with us, she may wear her dad’s old vest. Snake has kept it all these years. It’s too big for her for now, but she’ll grow used to it.
She became the hero she had always been.
The Iron Wolves MC has a new motto in our clubhouse. It’s written on the wall right below our colors. When Snake asked Emma that night why she wasn’t terrified of us, she answered,
“Mommy says that angels don’t always look like angels.” They occasionally look like bikers.
We try our best to live up to that every day. For Thunder. For Jennifer. But mostly for the five-year-old who came into a biker bar and reminded us all why we’re here.
To be the angels that no one thinks we can be.