Mason unwrapped it, and her breath caught. Their father's old toolbox. The red metal case with C. HARRIS stenciled in white paint, scratched and dented from decades of use. She'd thought it was lost, thrown away with everything else when they'd been evicted.
"I hid it," Keisha whispered, tears in her eyes. "After Dad died, I knew we'd need it someday."
Inside the toolbox: the fuel pressure regulator adapter their father had machined himself. The exact tool she needed.
The crowd's energy shifted. Some faces softened at the sight of two homeless girls clinging to their father's memory through tools. Others remained hard, skeptical, waiting for failure. Sterling Blackwood was on his phone, texting furiously. His face had gone from amused to concerned to something approaching alarm.
06:38 on the clock.
Mason connected the adapter to the fuel system. Now came the delicate part: bleeding the vapor lock without flooding the carburetor. Too fast, and fuel would cascade into the intake manifold. Too slow, and the pressure wouldn't equalize before time ran out. Her hands moved in a dance she'd practiced a thousand times on junkyard engines. The release valve opens three turns. Wait for the hiss to stabilize. Close one turn. Monitor the gauge. Monitor.
The pressure began dropping. 85 PSI. 72. 58.
Gary Wilson stepped closer, ostensibly to observe. His coffee cup tilted, just slightly, just enough. Hot liquid spilled across Mason's toolkit, soaking into the blanket, splashing dangerously close to the open fuel line.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Gary jumped back, his performance Oscar-worthy. "I didn't see. Let me help clean."
But Mason had seen it. The deliberate angle. The calculated clumsiness. This wasn't an accident.
"You sabotaged it, didn't you?" Mason's voice was low, meant only for Gary. "Not just now. Earlier. You're the reason the engine wouldn't start in the first place."
Gary's face cracked. Guilt flooded his features before he could mask it. "Kid, I don't know what you—"
"Yes, you do." Mason didn't raise her voice, but her words cut like surgical steel. "My father trained you, didn't he? Before Sterling fired him. You know this system. You know exactly where to create a vapor lock that looks like natural failure."
05:49 remaining.
In the crowd, a man in his 60s with salt and pepper hair and calculating eyes watched the interaction intently: Vincent Crawford, Sterling's business rival, owner of Crawford Tech Industries. He'd been on his phone all evening, his thumbs flying across the screen with increasing urgency.
A server's tray bumped his elbow. His phone tumbled to the marble, unlocked screen visible. Mike Coleman, walking the perimeter, saw it. Saw the text message thread. Saw Vincent's last message to Gary Wilson, sent three days ago: Sabotage the Bugatti. Make Sterling look incompetent. 25k on completion. Merger vote is Monday.
Mike's eyes went wide. This wasn't just about a car; this was corporate warfare, and Gary had been the hired weapon. Mike scooped up the phone, handed it back to Vincent with a pointed look. "Careful, sir. Wouldn't want anyone seeing something incriminating."
Vincent's face went ashen. He understood the implication. Mike had seen. Mike knew.
05:02 on the timer.
Mason ignored the spilled coffee soaking through her jeans. She repositioned her tools, checked the pressure gauge: 44 PSI. 38. 32.
Gary stood paralyzed, his guilt and fear warring visibly on his face. Mason could see it now: the tremor in his hands, the sweat on his forehead despite the cool evening air. This man had compromised everything he believed in for money. And now, a 16-year-old girl was unraveling both the mechanical sabotage and the moral one.
"Why?" Mason asked, still working, her hands steady even as her heart raced. "Was it worth it? Whatever they paid you?"
Gary's voice cracked. "You don't understand. I have aging parents, medical bills. Sterling pays well, but not enough for... hop—" He stopped himself. "This kid, Vincent Crawford. He offered me money I couldn't refuse. Said it was just a prank, just to make the car fail for one evening. Make Sterling look bad in front of investors."
"A prank that destroys my father's legacy," Mason said quietly. "Again."
The pressure gauge hit 28 PSI. Almost in the safe zone. Mason began the repriming sequence, her father's instructions playing in her head like a recording: Prime slowly. Let the fuel find its path. Rushing creates air pockets.
04:15 remaining.
The engine coughed once. A single sputtering rotation that sent a jolt through the crowd. Phones lifted higher. Vivian's livestream viewer count hit 340,000. The chat was a waterfall of disbelief and excitement.
Gary took a step back, his face a mixture of shame and awe. This girl, this homeless, powerless girl he'd dismissed, was actually going to succeed. She was going to expose his sabotage simply by fixing what he'd broken.
Mike Coleman moved to stand between Gary and Mason, his body language clear: no more interference.
Sterling Blackwood's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—a text from Vincent Crawford: Stop her. Whatever it takes. The deal falls apart if the car starts.
Sterling's eyes darted to the Bugatti's dashboard. Hidden among the vintage gauges was a modern addition: a kill switch disguised as a diagnostic sensor, a fail-safe he'd installed for security purposes. One press would cut all electrical power to the engine. Untraceable. Instant. His hand drifted toward the dashboard.
03:48 on the timer.
Mason primed the fuel system one final time. The pressure gauge read 22 PSI. Perfect. She disconnected her tools, wiped her hands on her already-soaked jeans, and moved to the driver's seat.