Chapter 9

A biker named Vince—6'4", 260, skull tattoo crawling up his neck—stepped forward and stood directly over Owen, blocking the light. He leaned down and whispered, "You've got four minutes and thirty seconds. Better start crawling now. Save yourself the embarrassment."Owen didn't look up. He knelt beside Black Fury, placed both palms flat on the engine block, and closed his eyes.The crowd went quiet: not out of respect, out of confusion."He's praying!" someone yelled. "The kid's actually praying to the engine!""Somebody pull this clown off before he drools on the chrome!"A beer can sailed through the air and bounced off the ground next to Owen's knee. He didn't flinch.Garrett cupped his hands around his mouth. "Yo, circus boy, clock's running! You here to fix a bike or take a nap?"Owen didn't hear any of them. His palms pressed against the cooling fins, his fingers spread across the cylinder heads. He felt the metal the way his father taught him: not with his hands, but through them. Then he leaned in closer, pressed his ear against the rocker cover, tapped the engine block three times with his knuckle: light, precise, like a doctor checking a heartbeat.Garrett's grin faded just slightly. He'd never seen anyone touch a bike like that."Forty seconds in and he's making love to my engine," Garrett said. "Somebody get this pervert off my Harley."Owen opened his eyes. Pulled the flashlight from the toolbox. Aimed it at the primary chain cover. Then moved it to the carburetor bowl. Then to the ground wire junction at the frame bolt. Three spots, three seconds each.

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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"