The mechanic was ripping out the cam chest, fixing a fatal engine floor with the raw confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The timestamp skipped forward. William watched Preston burst into the bay, his face red with anger. He watched the general manager scream at the mechanic. He watched the mechanic calmly shut the bike off.
He watched the exact moment Cole was fired. Then William watched his brother step up. He saw Hayes walk toward Preston. He saw Preston physically cower, backing away like a beaten dog. He saw Hayes pull out a roll of cash, bypass the manager entirely, and lay it on the mechanic's toolbox.
Hayes rode out into the rain. The mechanic packed up his livelihood. The screen faded to black as the motion sensors in the bay timed out. The silence in the security room was absolute. The soft were of the server racks sounded like jet engines.
"As you can see, Mr. Davis," Preston said, attempting to fill the void, entirely misreading the atmosphere in the room. "The mechanic was totally out of line. I handled the situation by the book. Zero tolerance for that element in our stores." William slowly turned the swivel chair around.
He looked at Preston. Preston stopped smiling. The blood drained from his face. William didn't look angry. He looked hollowed out.
He looked like a man who had just watched his own soul get put on trial and found completely lacking. "You handled it," William whispered. "Yes, sir. I that element," William said, his voice shaking with a terrifying contained fury as he stood up. "Was my brother?"
Preston froze, his brain simply stopped processing information. I'm sorry. Hayes Davis, William said, taking a slow step toward Preston. He built the first engine I ever rode. He kept our father's shop from going under when the banks tried to take it.
He is a 1enter. Yes, he is a criminal to you, but he is blood. Preston's iPad slipped from his hands. It hit the cheap carpet with a dull thud. Mr. Davis, I had no idea the name.
He didn't say, "Of course he didn't say my name." William snapped, his voice finally breaking out of its quiet restraint, echoing off the cramped walls. "He wouldn't spit on my name if it was on fire, because he thinks I sold out. He thinks I built an empire of plastic and glass run by spineless cowards who care more about a polo shirt than a perfectly timed engine." William pointed a trembling finger at the blank monitor.
And you just proved him right, Preston. You proved him absolutely right. William walked past Preston, pausing at the door. He didn't look back. Get your things, Preston.
You're done. William walked out of the office, leaving the general manager standing in the dark, the faint smell of burned popcorn suddenly smelling exactly like a ruined career. William had a lot of work to do. He had a dealership to tear down, a brother he couldn't face, and a mechanic he desperately needed to find. Rain began to fall, drumming a hollow, erratic beat against the aluminum siding of Cole's garage.
He had spent the last 3 hours doing absolutely nothing but staring at the bare steel frame of the 1993 FXR. He had a cup of black coffee in his hand that had gone cold an hour ago. He was mentally cataloging the parts he would need. A wiring harness, a teardrop tank, a set of inverted forks, an Evo engine. It was a list that amounted to thousands of dollars he didn't have.
But for the first time in a very long time, thinking about it didn't make him feel exhausted. It made his hands itch to work. The crunch of heavy tires rolling over the gravel and cracked asphalt of his driveway pulled him out of his head. Cole didn't move initially. He just watched the rain streak down the single grime caked window.
A black Mercedes S-Class, freshly waxed and violently out of place in this neighborhood came to a slow halt behind Cole's rusted pickup truck. The engine cut off. The headlights flicked dark. Cole set his coffee mug on the workbench. He picked up a heavy 3/4in combination wrench.
He didn't grip it like a weapon, but he kept it in his hand. A heavy piece of forged steel to anchor him. He walked over and hit the button for the garage door. The corrugated metal door groaned upward, revealing the gray afternoon. A man stepped out of the Mercedes.
He held a black umbrella, shielding a tailored navy suit from the rain. He closed the car door with a solid expensive thud and walked up the driveway. He stopped at the threshold of the garage, taking in the damp air, the massive red toolbox, and the man holding the wrench. Cole recognized the cut of the suit. It was Preston's world, only elevated.
Preston wore clothes that tried to command respect. This man wore clothes that assumed it. If Preston sent you to claw back the 500 bucks, Cole said, his voice flat. You're wasting your gas. It's already gone to my landlord," the man closed his umbrella.
He shook the water off the black nylon and leaned it against the brick veneer of the garage frame. He looked at Cole, then his eyes drifted to the bare FXR frame resting on the concrete. 82° rake on the neck, the man said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. Rubber mounted engine block. Best handling chassis they ever designed.
Shame they stopped making them. Cole tightened his grip on the wrench. Suits didn't know about rubber mounts and chassis history. They knew about profit margins and Bluetooth stereos. Who are you?
Cole asked. My name is William Davis," the man said. He stepped fully into the garage, entirely unbothered by the grease and dust. I own Apex Motorsports and 14 other dealerships just like it. Cole felt a cold knot tighten in his gut.
The CEO, the man at the very top of the food chain, had shown up at his duplex in the industrial district. Cole mentally braced for the threat of a lawsuit. Breach of contract, falsifying repair orders. They could bankrupt him with legal fees before he even saw a courtroom. Look, Cole said, standing his ground.
I fixed a bike that was going to explode. The guy paid cash. I left your dealership exactly the way I found it. I'm out. What do you want?
William didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly around the garage. He looked at the pegboard where Cole's specialized tools hung in perfect obsessive order. He looked at the empty beer can crushed on the workbench. Finally, he looked at Cole.
I fired Preston Miller an hour ago. William said quietly. Cole blinked. The wrench in his hand suddenly felt very heavy. You fired him.
Escorted him off the property. Box in hand. William reached into his suit jacket. Cole tensed, but William only pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it out.
Cole hesitated, then took it. It was a still image printed on standard copy paper. It was a grainy frame from a security camera showing the service bay. It showed Hayes sitting on a milk crate looking directly at the lens. Preston called him an element.
A liability," William said, his voice tightening, dropping its polished edge. "Preston told me he kicked a gang member off my property to protect my brand. He was very proud of himself. He was an angel," Cole said defensively. "Preston panicked."
"But the guy just wanted his diner fixed. He wasn't causing trouble." "I know he wasn't causing trouble," William said, his eyes locking onto Coohl's. Because I know exactly how he operates. He's quiet until he isn't, and when he isn't, people get hurt.
But he doesn't throw his weight around for no reason," William looked down at the grainy photo in Cole's hand. "His name is Hayes," William said. The words seemed to cost him something. "He's my older brother." The silence in the garage became absolute, save for the steady drumming of the rain on the roof.
Cole looked from the photo to William's face. He traced the jawline, the broad shoulders. The scar was missing, the clothes were different, and the eyes lacked that cold deadend danger. But the structure was there. The imposing heavy presence was identical.
Your brother, Cole breathed. You own the corporate dealership, and your brother rides a rattling matte black shovel. Wait, diner. A 98 diner. A 98?
William nodded. He bought it off a repo lot 20 years ago. Rebuilt the top end himself in our father's driveway. He swore he'd ride it until the wheels fell off. Turns out the cam tensioners almost beat the wheels to it.
I pulled the plastic out of the oil pump. Cole said, still struggling to process the reality of the man standing in front of him. It was minutes away from seizing. I saw the tape. I saw what you did.
William stepped closer. The corporate veneer was completely gone now. He looked tired. He looked like an old mechanic carrying too much weight. I watched my brother lay $500 on your toolbox.
Hayes hasn't handed a man money with respect like that since our father died. He hates everything I've built. He hates the showroom. He hates the epoxy floors. He walked into my flagship store and my general manager treated him like a stray dog.
And you? You treated him like a rider. I treated him like a guy with a broken bike. Cole corrected. That's all.
That's everything. William countered heavily. William walked over to the milk crate sitting near the workbench. He pulled at the knees of his expensive trousers and sat down. It was the exact same posture Hayes had taken in the service bay.
I spent 20 years building an Empire Cole. William said, looking at the dirty concrete floor. I wanted to prove I could be more than a grease monkey. I wanted to wear the suit. But today I sat in a security office and realized I built a place where my own blood isn't welcome, and the only guy who had the spine to do the right thing got fired for it.
Cole leaned back against his toolbox. "So what? You came here to give me my job back? You want me to put the polo shirt back on and go back to bay 3?" William looked up.
"God, no. You don't belong in bay 3. Hayes was right about that, too. You don't match the paint job." William reached into his pocket again.
He didn't pull out paper this time. He pulled out a heavy ring of brass keys. He tossed them through the air. Cole caught them by reflex. They jingled sharply in his palm.