Chapter 4

"No, you just waste my time."Curtis left: calm, collected, wrong.Garrett stood alone next to Black Fury. The summer heat pressed down on the asphalt. He pulled a thick roll of hundreds from his vest and slammed it on the table: $5,000 cash in the open."Five grand right now! Anyone who can make her run in one hour takes it all! No excuses, no 'I need to take it to my shop.' Right here, right now!"Silence. Not one hand went up. Not one voice. Five thousand dollars baking in the Detroit sun, and not a single person in that crowd willing to touch Black Fury.That's when Owen walked past. He wasn't there for the bikes. He wasn't there for the money. He was walking home from his second shift: six hours at the car wash on Livernois Avenue, four hours stocking shelves at the gas station on Grand River. His shoes were splitting at the soles. His shirt smelled like industrial soap and exhaust fumes. He had eleven dollars in his pocket and a library book in his backpack.But he heard something. Not the crowd. Not the country music leaking from the bar. He heard the engine—or rather, he heard what was hiding inside the silence: a faint metallic whisper coming from Black Fury's engine block. A sound so quiet that Dale's scanner missed it, that Nolan's hands missed it, that Curtis's laptop never even looked for it.Owen stopped walking. Tilted his head. Closed his eyes for half a second. And he knew.He walked toward the bike: hands in his pockets, slow, like he had nowhere to be.Garrett spotted him from fifteen feet away. "The hell are you looking at?""Your bike. I think I know what's wrong with it."

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