“Yes. They are beneath the paint booth.”
He shrugged.
“The basement is damp and filled with old junk.”
“Why?”
“Locker forty-two,” Leo said. “My father rented it.”
He placed the damaged rod on the bench.
“When his cancer became worse, we could no longer afford the rent.”
“The old landlord locked the storage space.”
Leo looked toward the motorcycle.
“But my father said he never threw away custom parts.”
“He used to say that if you built a mechanical monster from different machines, you should always keep spare body parts.”
Ten minutes later, Rusty stood inside the dim and damp basement holding a pair of bolt cutters.
Leo, Dave, Tommy, and Pete waited beside him.
Rusty cut through the rusted padlock securing locker forty-two.
The heavy metal door opened with a long squeal.
Inside were cardboard boxes covered in dust and spiderwebs.
They contained old motorcycle magazines, worn tools, faded manuals, and engine parts wrapped in paper.
Near the back rested a heavy wooden crate secured by a simple brass latch.
Leo knelt in the dust and opened it.
Inside, meticulously wrapped in oil-treated canvas, were neatly organized engine components.
Leo unfolded one of the canvas layers.
Four pristine, custom-machined pushrods lay beneath it.
A faded strip of masking tape was attached to them.
Written across the tape in black marker were the words:
DUTCH’S WIDOWMAKER. SPARES.
Rusty stared at Leo.
A mixture of wonder and disbelief moved across his face.
“Your father was a saint.”
“He was a mechanic,” Leo corrected gently.
He wrapped the rods again and lifted them carefully.
“Let us repair the motorcycle.”
Thursday was consumed by the electrical system.
Following Leo’s directions, Old Man Pete traced the mysterious battery drain.
It was exactly where Leo said it would be.
A thick secondary wire had been hidden inside the ignition harness and routed along the motorcycle’s frame.
The wire ended at a tiny toggle switch recessed beneath the left side of the fuel tank.
The switch was almost impossible to see unless someone already knew where to look.
When the switch remained open, the starter could still turn the engine.
The ignition coil, however, remained grounded to the frame and could not produce a spark.
The battery slowly lost its charge without the engine ever starting.
By eleven on Thursday night, the engine had been completely reassembled.
Arthur Hayes’s custom pushrods were installed.
The valves had been adjusted.
The ignition timing had been set twelve degrees beyond the ordinary factory position.
A fully charged battery sat inside the motorcycle.
Big Dave placed one hand near the ignition key.
“Should we start it?”
“No,” Leo said from his place on the milk crate.
The boy looked exhausted.
Dark circles had formed beneath his bright blue eyes, and grease had stained his hands almost completely black.
“Mr. Mercer paid to hear the engine start.”
Leo shook his head.
“If we start it now and something fails, we may not have enough time to repair it.”
“We wait.”
Friday morning arrived with agonizing slowness.
The atmosphere inside the garage felt heavy with expectation.
The 1986 FXR stood in the center of the main bay.
Its body had been cleaned and polished, making it resemble a dark predator waiting to be released.
At exactly 11:45, the ground began to vibrate.
A low rumble approached from the distance.
It grew steadily louder until it became a wave of mechanical thunder.
The Hells Angels had returned.
This time, there were not only six riders.
A group of twenty motorcycles rolled into the parking lot, creating a wall of leather, steel, chrome, and intimidation.
Jim Mercer shut down his engine and lowered the kickstand.
He stepped from the motorcycle wearing an unreadable expression.
Jim entered the garage, his heavy boots echoing across the quiet floor.
The other club members followed and formed a line behind him.
Their attention remained fixed on Dutch’s black FXR.
Rusty stood beside a tool cabinet, sweating despite the cool morning air.
Big Dave, Tommy, and Pete waited behind him like men facing a final judgment.
Only Leo stood close to the motorcycle.
He held his oversized broom and looked up at the towering enforcer.
“Friday,” Jim said.
“Noon.”
His deep voice cut through the silence.
Jim looked toward Rusty.
“Is it a motorcycle, or is it scrap metal?”
Rusty swallowed.
His throat had become painfully dry.
He stepped aside and gestured toward Leo.
“It all depends on the boy.”
“We followed every instruction he gave us.”
Jim slowly turned toward Leo.
Then he walked to the FXR.
He ran one hand across the leather seat and gripped the handlebars.
Jim swung one leg over the motorcycle and lowered himself into the saddle.
He turned the ignition key.
The headlight flickered to life.
Jim looked down at Leo.
“Moment of truth.”
He pulled the clutch lever, drew a breath, and pressed the starter button.
Click.
The starter motor turned.
The engine rotated cleanly, but it did not ignite.
There was no spark and no combustion.
Only the empty, discouraging sound of a dead engine turning over.
Rusty felt his heart sink.
Big Dave closed his eyes.
The bikers behind Jim shifted uneasily, and a dangerous murmur moved through the group.