Little Girl Texted, “He’s Hitting My Mum’s Arm,” to the Wrong Number — The Hell’s Angel Replied, “I’m On My Way.”

Little Girl Texted, “He’s Hitting My Mum’s Arm,” to the Wrong Number — The Hell’s Angel Replied, “I’m On My Way.”

At 9:47 p.m., the phone buzzed.

The man who picked it up wasn’t expecting a message. His phone rarely rang unless it was business—or trouble. The screen glowed in the dim light of a roadside bar somewhere outside Bakersfield, California.

Unknown Number.

The message was short. Misspelled. Terrified.

“Hes hitting my mums arm. Pls help.”

The man frowned.

He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes scanning the words again. Whoever sent it hadn’t meant to send it to him. That much was obvious. Wrong number. Drunk text. A prank, maybe.

Then another message arrived.

“Im hiding in my room. Hes yelling.”

The man set the glass down.

His name was Marcus “Crow” Dalton, and he was a patched member of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club for over twenty years. He’d seen bar fights, knife fights, gun fights. He’d buried friends. He’d made enemies. He lived by a code most people never understood—and never wanted to.

But there were lines you didn’t cross.

And hurting a woman in front of her child was one of them.

Crow typed back.

“Who is this?”

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

“My name is Lily. I think I texted the wrong number. Please dont be mad.”

Crow leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not mad. Where are you?”

Several seconds passed. Long enough for Crow to imagine the scene: a little girl clutching a phone with shaking hands, listening to shouting through a thin bedroom wall.

Then the reply came.

“I dont know the address. Were at my mums boyfriends house. Its blue. He drives a black truck.”

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