Chapter 11

Owen held his stare, steady: "I understand."Garrett shoved him back down. Owen's knees hit the asphalt hard; he didn't make a sound."Clock's ticking, boy. Crawl position is waiting."Vince cracked his knuckles behind Owen. Two other bikers moved closer, flanking him on both sides: arms crossed, shadows falling over the engine—not helping, hovering, waiting for the moment they'd get to drag this kid across the parking lot on his hands and knees.The crowd pressed in tighter. Phones everywhere, sixty screens glowing in the evening heat. Livestream viewers climbing: 200, 500, 1,000. Comments flooding in: This kid is toast... Hells Angels going to eat him alive... No way he fixes that in five minutes, lol... Somebody call this boy's mama.Owen blocked it all out: every voice, every laugh, every camera flash. He picked up the half-inch Craftsman, his father's wrench, the one with the chip on the jaw, and positioned it on the first bolt of the cam cover. His hands weren't shaking. His breathing was even. His eyes were locked on that engine like nothing else in the universe existed.Eleanor Graves uncrossed her arms. She recognized something in the way Owen held that wrench: the angle of his wrist, the pressure of his fingers, the way he braced his elbow against the cylinder for leverage. Textbook form—no, better than textbook: instinct. She took out her phone, not to record, but to time him herself.Three minutes and thirty seconds remained. Owen took one breath. Then he began.The first bolt came off in three seconds. Owen's fingers moved with a precision that didn't belong to an eighteen-year-old. The cam cover lifted clean: no fumbling, no hesitation, like he'd opened this exact engine a thousand times.Underneath, the timing chain sat exposed: a long loop of roller chain wrapped around the cam sprocket and the crankshaft sprocket, connecting the top and bottom halves of the engine's breathing system. On a healthy Shovelhead, the chain would be taut, aligned, every link seated perfectly on every tooth. This one wasn't.

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Hells Angels Bet $5N No One Can Fix Their Bike — Until an 18-Yr-Old Picks Up a Wrench "Give Me 5 Min"