47 Bikers Kidnapped 22 Foster Kids From Group Home And Drove Them Across State Lines

That’s what the police dispatcher said when she sent six squad cars after us. That’s what the group home director screamed into the phone when she realized the children were gone.

But that’s not what actually happened.

My name is Robert Chen. I’m a social worker in Nevada, and I’ve worked in the foster care system for nineteen years. I’ve seen every kind of heartbreak you can imagine.

But nothing prepared me for what I found at Bright Futures Group Home that October.

Twenty-two kids. Ages six to seventeen. All in the system. All forgotten. And all about to spend another Christmas in a facility that had rats in the kitchen and mold in the walls. The state was supposed to shut it down. They’d been “supposed to” for three years.

I’d been trying to get these kids placed in better facilities for eight months. Nobody would take them. Too many behavioral issues. Too many medical needs. Too traumatic. Too expensive. The system had given up on them.

So when my riding buddy Marcus called me one Thursday night in November, I was desperate enough to listen. Marcus rode with the Desert Storm Veterans MC. Fifty guys. All military. All decorated. All looking for purpose after coming home.

“Brother, I heard about your situation with those kids. The club wants to help.” Marcus’s voice was serious. “How would your kids like to spend a week at the Grand Canyon?”

I laughed. Bitter laugh. “Marcus, these kids can’t even get permission to go to the movies. The state would never approve a trip like that.”

“So we don’t ask permission,” Marcus said. “We ask forgiveness.”

That’s how it started. The most beautiful, illegal, insane thing I’ve ever been part of. Marcus and his club planned everything.

They rented a summer camp facility in Arizona that sat empty in winter. They contacted doctors, therapists, and trauma counselors who volunteered their time. They gathered donations. Toys. Clothes. Food. Activities.

And then they came to get the kids.

November 18th. Saturday morning. 6 AM. Forty-seven bikers rolled up to Bright Futures Group Home on their motorcycles. The sound was incredible. Like thunder. Like an army arriving.

The kids woke up and ran to the windows. Some screamed. Some cried. They’d never seen anything like it.

I met the club president, a man named Jackson, at the door. Seventy years old. White beard. Chest full of medals. He handed me a folder.

“These are liability waivers. Medical consent forms. Emergency contact sheets. We did this legal as we could.”

The group home director, Patricia, came running downstairs in her bathrobe.

“What is happening? Who are these people?” I took a breath. “Patricia, these gentlemen are taking the children on a camping trip. One week. All expenses paid. Full supervision.”

Her face went purple. “Absolutely not! You can’t just take state wards across state lines! I’m calling the police!”

“Call them,” Jackson said calmly. “But while you’re doing that, we’re going to ask these kids if they want to go see the Grand Canyon. And if they say yes, we’re taking them. You can sort out the paperwork after.”

We gathered the twenty-two kids in the common room. They ranged from six-year-old Emma with her stuffed rabbit to seventeen-year-old DeShawn who’d been in fourteen placements.

Marcus stepped forward. “My name is Marcus. These are my brothers. We’re veterans. We ride motorcycles. And we’d like to take you on an adventure.”

Little Emma raised her hand. “Are you gonna hurt us?” My heart broke. That’s what these kids had learned. Strange adults mean danger.

Jackson knelt down to her level. “No, sweetheart. We’re going to protect you. We’re going to take you camping. Show you the Grand Canyon. Let you ride horses. Teach you to fish. Give you the best week of your life. But only if you want to go.”

“What if we say no?” DeShawn asked. He was suspicious. He’d been hurt too many times. “Then we leave right now and you never see us again,” Jackson said. “This is your choice. Not ours. Not the state’s. Yours.”

The kids looked at each other. Then twelve-year-old Maya stood up. “I want to go. I’ve never been anywhere.” One by one, the others agreed. All twenty-two. Even DeShawn.

Patricia had called the police already and before we could go, there were multiple cars already outside. That’s when we heard gunshots and……. (continue reading in the C0MMENT)