Chapter 16

He kicked. The engine turned over once, a dry mechanical gasp, then silence. Owen's expression didn't change: not a flinch, not a blink.Garrett kicked again. This time, Black Fury caught: a single cylinder fired, then the second, and the Shovelhead engine exploded to life with a sound that rattled every window on Michigan Avenue. A deep, thundering, unmistakable roar—the kind that vibrates in your chest before it reaches your ears, the kind that makes your teeth hum and your ribs ache. Black Fury was alive.The exhaust barked twice, then settled into a rhythm: steady, deep, perfectly timed. No sputter, no hesitation, no cough—just pure, unbroken mechanical heartbeat pounding through fifty-four years of American steel.Garrett's hands tightened on the grips, knuckles white. He revved the throttle once, twice, and the engine responded instantly: crisp, angry, hungry, like a dog chained too long that finally broke free.The timer on the kid's phone read 4 minutes and 51 seconds: 4:51. Under five, nine seconds to spare.Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Black Fury's engine drumming against the evening air, echoing off the concrete walls of the Iron Rail, rolling down Michigan Avenue like distant thunder.Then the dam broke. A woman near the fence screamed: not a word, just a sound—raw, involuntary. The teenager who'd lowered his phone dropped it entirely; it hit the asphalt screen first, and he didn't look down. The old man in the back took off his hat and pressed it against his chest. Someone started clapping: real clapping, not mocking, not sarcastic—the kind that starts with one person and spreads like fire through dry grass.Within five seconds, sixty people were on their feet, clapping, shouting, some of them with tears they couldn't explain streaming down their faces. The livestream chat detonated: No way did that just happen... 5 minutes, bro. 5 minutes... This kid is a legend... I'm literally crying in a Wendy's parking lot right now.Garrett sat on Black Fury with the engine rumbling beneath him. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his temples twitched. His eyes were wet: not sadness, not anger, something he hadn't felt in a long time—something he didn't have a word for, because men like Garrett Steel didn't keep words for feelings like that. His father built this engine by hand in a garage not so different from the one Owen grew up in. For three days, Garrett thought that engine was dead; thought the last living piece of his old man had finally given up. And an eighteen-year-old kid—a kid he'd grabbed by the throat, spit on, called a cockroach, called garbage, called nothing—brought it back in under five minutes with a dead man's wrench.Garrett killed the engine. The silence that followed was louder than the roar. He sat there for a long moment, then swung his leg off and stood face-to-face with Owen Fletcher.

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