The red dirt road trembled beneath the motorcycle's wheels. The night wind lashed my face, carrying the smell of dust, damp weeds, and the lingering echo of a day that had seemed peaceful. Father sat in front, back straight, hands steady on the handlebars. He had been quiet since the picnic, as if letting his thoughts drift with the even hum of the engine. Everything was ordinary—until the moment a coach bus appeared behind us like a ghost reflected in the rearview mirror.
No horn. No flashing lights. Just a large black mass growing closer and closer. For an instant I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but the reflection on its windshield flared—cold and slick, like a fish's eye.
Father swerved onto the highway. At that very moment, the coach overtook us recklessly. It swept past so close the gust struck me like a slap. The motorcycle's wheels skidded on gravel; brakes shrieked, the frame shuddered violently. Father tightened his grip, didn't curse—only clenched his jaw, eyes sharp as knives as he watched the bus speed away.
It passed as if nothing had happened, continuing on without slowing.
That bus was outrageous—driving like that, brazenly cutting across the road.
If it had ended there, it would have been nothing more than a surge of anger.
But it didn't. We were headed the same way. And soon I realized the coach wasn't moving aimlessly; it was tailing the bus ahead of it. Father said nothing, but in the mirror I saw his eyes change—his gaze grew stern. When the bus stopped, the coach stopped too, sticking close like a shadow, enough to raise my suspicions.
Father's voice came from the front.
"You noticed it too, didn't you?"
I nodded. Unease crept up my neck.
So we decided to follow.
After a while, a rest stop appeared under pale yellow lights. A small convenience store came into view, its sign flickering. We parked nearby to observe without drawing attention. The bus passengers disembarked; last came the elderly driver—gaunt, slumped shoulders, weary eyes—clearly in his fifties or older. Behind him, the coach came to a full stop. A young man stepped out, looking like a drug-addicted thug, about twenty-five or so, thin, hunched, walking heavily as if burdened with a secret. The two of them turned into a dark, hidden corner beside the store—a place no ordinary person would wander into, and notably without any cameras.
"Stay here. Don't go anywhere," Father said softly.
Then he entered the convenience store, his figure receding until it vanished into the crowd. I guessed he was gathering clues from the passengers.
I stood by the bike, shivering in the cold wind, waiting. Minutes later, the young man emerged from the alley. He pulled his hood low, but through the fabric I could still see his smile. He walked fast, one hand hidden in his pocket as if concealing something. Shortly after, the old driver came out too, moving slowly and wearily toward the store.
At the same time, Father returned, striding toward me, his voice low. He'd spoken to several bus passengers. Some said the old driver always gave change in small bills, forcing them to go into the store to exchange for larger ones. Others said he'd seemed anxious lately, constantly looking over his shoulder. Father pieced it together quickly.
"He's probably being watched," Father said. "Threatened. Extorted."
The decision came immediately—clean and decisive. Father quietly boarded the bus. I followed. He told me to start the vehicle and drive a short distance.
I froze. I didn't even have a license.
The massive controls made my hands tremble, but when I looked back at Father, his eyes weren't joking.
He handed me a master key—something he'd recently bought but never used. The headlights flared on; the engine rumbled. Father sat behind me, unnervingly calm. I set the bus rolling, my heart pounding. I took a turn nearby and checked the mirror—the black coach latched on instantly, startled and furious.
"Stop," Father said. "Open the door."
I obeyed. Father remained seated, composed. The young man stepped off his vehicle and approached us—each step heavy, oppressive, my heart threatening to burst. He climbed aboard, then froze when he saw Father. Surprise flickered, then rage. He lunged at Father's seat, grabbed the seatbelt strap, and looped it tight around Father's neck.
Nothing about this looked like a perfect plan or something Father had foreseen. Terrified, I snatched a ballpoint pen from the door pocket and rushed him. I stabbed his arm again and again until he screamed in pain and loosened his grip. Father's face had gone pale, eyes rolled back, unresponsive. The man let go of the belt, shoved me hard onto the bus floor; the pen flew from my hand to his feet. He picked it up, moved to stab me. I kicked wildly on instinct, pushing him back, screaming for Father in panic—but he still managed to jab my leg several times. Blood soaked through my white socks, dark red.
A police siren wailed.
He snarled, grabbed me by the collar, dragged me outside as a hostage, arm clamped around my neck, pen pressed to my throat. Red and blue lights splashed across the scene. The police had surrounded him and subdued his accomplices. I knew Father must have called them.
The man shouted nonsense, struggling—until he wasn't looking. A figure burst from the bus. One clean, precise blow knocked him off balance, slamming him to the ground. Father pulled me away—fast and decisive.
The police rushed in. Just when it seemed over, the old driver ran forward, standing between them and the young man. He dropped to his knees, hands clasped, sobbing.
"Please… don't arrest my son."
His voice broke; tears streamed down his face.
The young man sat up too, crying, clutching his father's shoulders, speaking in broken sobs, begging him to stop. He confessed to everything: extortion, tracking devices, drugs—dragging his family into ruin.
At last, he let go and held out his wrists. The handcuffs snapped shut, cold and final. He and his accomplices were taken away. The police car doors closed.
I was shaken to the core. I couldn't imagine how much worse the things Father had dealt with in the past must have been—Father, once a police officer, now retired.
There were procedures afterward, warnings. Absurdly, after all that, I was the one who suffered most: breaking a lock, driving without a license. But because of Father's connections, it ended with just reprimands.
I sat on the convenience store steps, crudely bandaging my leg with tissues. Blood soaked the white fabric, dark under the lights.
Father sat beside me. He didn't speak right away. After a long while, he said,
"Not everyone who does evil starts from evil."
Slowly.
"But not every bond of family is enough to save a person."
I said nothing. The image of the old driver kneeling, his trembling hands trying to buy a little more time, stayed with me.
Father gazed down the dark road where the bus had disappeared—where a family had just been torn apart in the most painful way. I understood then: investigation isn't just about tracing the tracks of crime; it's about touching the most fragile part of human beings, where the line between right and wrong blurs, where compassion and the law stand face to face.
An ambulance siren sounded. I squinted at Father, puzzled. They called an ambulance—for just a few minor wounds?
The night closed with the smell of antiseptic, with sirens fading into the distance—and with my scream as the disinfectant foamed on my leg.