Turning toward the boulevard, Eli dropped his wrench in utter disbelief.
A convoy of over thirty immaculate motorcycles swept into the alleyway. Chrome flashed under the setting sun. Black leather jackets, custom choppers, cruisers, and heavy tourers rolled in two-by-two formation, lining up along both sides of the lot until they created an unbroken wall of rumbling iron and steel.
At the front of the pack, the cherry-red chopper came to a halt.
Hank cut the ignition. He dismounted, pulled off his heavy riding gloves, and tucked a thick manila envelope beneath his arm. Behind him, dozens of veteran riders turned off their engines, crossing their arms in solemn, respectful silence.
Eli looked around the crowded yard, his voice trembling with confusion:
"Why are all these bikers here?"
Hank walked up to the young mechanic, his weathered face alight with fierce pride.
"Because I told you I wouldn't forget what you did for me."
Eli took a step back, shaking his head. "You don't owe me anything, Hank. I just did what any decent mechanic was supposed to do."
"No," Hank said firmly, stepping forward and thrusting the heavy envelope into Eli’s grease-stained hands. "You saved my life, and you protected the honor of this trade. Open it."