"Help—I'm being followed," a limping 70-year-old grandma told a Hell's Angels biker—then he moved!!! скачать в хорошем качестве

"Help—I'm being followed," a limping 70-year-old grandma told a Hell's Angels biker—then he moved!!!

"Help—I'm being followed," a limping 70-year-old grandma told a Hell's Angels biker—then he moved!!! A limping 70-year-old grandma grabbed a Hell’s Angels biker’s sleeve and whispered, “Help… I’m being followed.” He didn’t blink. He just said, “Sit.” Hit like, subscribe, and comment your city—because this quiet diner moment turned into a real hunt. The diner sat off the highway, neon buzzing, coffee burnt. The biker’s cut was worn-in, boots heavy on the tile. The grandma didn’t stare at him. She stared at the front windows. Her coat was too thin. One leg dragged like every step hurt. When she dropped into the booth, she did it fast—like sitting was safer than standing. “He’s outside,” she breathed. “He’s been outside since the pharmacy.” Mason didn’t turn to the glass. He looked at her wrist. A purple ring peeked under her sleeve. He sat opposite her, angled so he could see the windows in the napkin dispenser’s reflection. Across the lot: a gray sedan, engine running, lights off. A man inside, phone glow on his face. Watching the door. The waitress approached. “What can I get you?” “Water,” Mason said. The grandma swallowed. “It’s my grandson. He says he’s my guardian. He took my phone. He says I ‘forget.’” Mason’s eyes stayed calm. “Do you want to leave with him?” A tiny shake of her head. “No.” The bell over the door jingled.