“Please take me to heaven,” a small voice whispered through the freezing rain.
I was riding my Harley on a deserted highway at three in the morning when I first heard her. A little girl, no more than seven, barefoot on the slick asphalt, wearing nothing but a thin princess nightgown. Her lips were blue, and she clutched a worn teddy bear to her chest. When she looked up at me, her eyes were so filled with sorrow it nearly broke me in two.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Take me to heaven where Mommy is.”
Her name was Lily. That much I learned quickly. She pressed her tiny, frozen hands against my leather jacket, trembling. And then, in the most fragile voice I have ever heard, she told me her story: her father had hurt her again—so badly this time that she’d rather die out here than ever go back to that house.
When she lifted her nightgown, I saw the truth. Fresh burns, cigarette burns, covered her small body. And carved into the soft skin of her back, as if to mark her forever, were the words: “Nobody wants you.”
I had been a Marine. I had seen battlefields where men didn’t come home. But nothing prepared me for the sight of that little girl asking me if I could take her to heaven. I wrapped my leather jacket around her tiny frame and pulled her close.
That’s when the roar of an engine split the silence. A truck came barreling down the highway, headlights cutting through the storm. And in that instant, I knew exactly who it was.
Her father. The monster who had done this to her.
I scooped Lily up, placed my helmet on her head, and set her on the back of my bike. “Hold on tight, sweetheart. We’re not going to heaven—we’re going somewhere safe.”
As the truck’s high beams closed in on us, I twisted the throttle and felt the Harley come alive beneath me. The chase had begun.
The rain lashed like needles against my face as we tore down that highway. Behind us, the truck loomed, its engine growling like a beast determined to devour us. Lily clung to me, her little arms trembling, her voice a faint whimper lost in the roar.
“He’s coming,” she cried.
“Not for you,” I shouted back. “I’ve got you now.”
He rammed us once, the back tire skidding wildly. My heart pounded, but rage and determination steadied me. For every scar on her body, every cruel word etched into her skin, I pressed harder, pushing the Harley faster. But the rain-slick roads betrayed us.
One final hit sent us crashing to the ground, sparks flying as metal screamed against asphalt. Pain ripped through my body, but I twisted mid-fall, shielding Lily with every ounce of strength I had left.
When we stopped sliding, I scrambled to my feet, leg throbbing, arm torn open. Lily was alive—that was all that mattered. I pulled her behind me as the truck screeched to a halt.
The man who stepped out was massive, reeking of alcohol and fury. His eyes locked on Lily with a sick possession. “Give me my property,” he snarled.
I stood between them, bleeding, exhausted, my body ready to collapse. But I met his eyes and growled: “You’re not touching her ever again.”
He laughed, stepping closer. “And you’ll stop me? You and what army?”
That’s when he heard it.
A low rumble, faint at first, then growing until the very earth seemed to shake. Over the rise of the hill came a wall of headlights. One bike. Two. Five. A dozen. My brothers. The Road Warriors MC.
They surrounded us, engines thundering, leather and chrome forming an unbreakable shield. Our president, Shepherd, walked forward, calm as stone. There was no fight. No shouting. They simply took his keys, held him in place, and called the police.
As Sarah, Shepherd’s wife, rushed to Lily, the little girl’s wide eyes lifted to the towering circle of bikers. “Are these… are these God’s angels?” she whispered.
Sarah hugged her tightly, tears mixing with the rain. “Yes, darling. Something like that.”
Hours later, the flashing police lights faded into the distance. The monster was gone, locked away where he could no longer hurt anyone. Inside our clubhouse, the usual rowdy laughter and music were replaced with silence. A protective silence.
Lily lay curled on the big leather sofa, wrapped in blankets, her teddy bear tucked under her chin. Doc, our medic, had gently cleaned and bandaged the cruel words carved into her back. She was safe now.
I sat beside her, my body aching, my arm in a sling, my leg throbbing. But none of that mattered. Shepherd came to me, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You did good, Preacher,” he said softly.
I looked at Lily, her chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep, and I felt something stir in me. A fierce, protective love. She had asked me to take her to heaven. And though I couldn’t give her the heaven where her mother was, I could give her something else—our heaven. A family. A circle of rough, broken men who, in their own way, were angels on two wheels.
In that moment, I made a vow. I would spend the rest of my life making sure she knew the truth—that she was not a mistake. She was wanted. She was loved. She was ours.
Sometimes heaven doesn’t look like clouds and harps. Sometimes it looks like leather jackets, grease-stained hands, and roaring Harleys. And sometimes, God’s angels ride motorcycles.