Leo didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the right side of the motorcycle and pointed to the cam cover. "Let's open it up and look at what Mr. Dutch actually built instead of what the manual says he built."
For the next three hours, a bizarre ballet unfolded in the garage. Grown men, seasoned veterans of the wrench, followed the precise observations of an 8-year-old boy while doing the heavy labor themselves. When the cam cover was finally pulled, exposing the complex array of gears inside the engine, Leo climbed onto a milk crate to get a better look.
He produced a small, battered flashlight from his pocket and shined it toward the internals. "There," Leo said, pointing. "Look at the pinion gear. See the timing stamp?"
Rusty leaned in, squinting under the harsh drop light. His eyes widened. "I'll be damned. It's stamped with a V. That's a Shovelhead gear. You were right, Leo."
"Mr. Dutch was a genius, but he was cheap," Leo said matter-of-factly. "My dad said he mated the Shovelhead gear to the Evo cam and made the geometry work by hand. You have to account for that same 12-degree difference instead of trusting the factory service manual. That's why the book kept sending you the wrong direction."
Tommy suddenly looked toward the workbench, where several internal components lay on a shop towel. He picked up one of the pushrods and rolled it across the flat steel surface. It wobbled noticeably.
"Rusty," Tommy said, his face draining of color. "They're bent. The kickback must have damaged them, and we didn't catch it."
A cold sweat broke out on Rusty's forehead. "You've got to be kidding me. If these were custom to the way Dutch built this motor, standard replacements may not match. We can't just order the exact thing from a catalog."
The mechanics fell silent. The reality of the situation crashed down on them. They had finally understood the engine, but without replacement parts to put the custom valve train back together, the motorcycle was just as dead as it had been the day before. It was Wednesday afternoon. They had less than 48 hours.
"We're done," Big Dave muttered, dropping a heavy wrench onto the concrete floor with a clang. "Jim is going to lose his mind."
Leo climbed down from his milk crate. He didn't look panicked. He walked over to the workbench, picked up one of the bent steel rods, and examined it.
"My dad was Mr. Dutch's mechanic," Leo said quietly. "Mr. Dutch broke things all the time. He rode too hard. My dad knew this."
Leo looked up at Rusty. "Does Apex Iron Works still have the basement storage lockers? The ones from before you bought the building?"
Rusty blinked, confused by the sudden change in subject. "Yeah. Down below the paint booth. It's damp and full of junk. Why?"
"Locker 42," Leo said. "My dad rented it. When he got sick, when the cancer got bad, we couldn't pay the rent anymore. The old landlord locked it up, but my dad told me he never threw away his custom pieces. He said if you build a Frankenstein monster, you better keep spare body parts."
Ten minutes later, Rusty stood in the dim basement with a pair of bolt cutters. After getting access to the long-abandoned locker, he opened the heavy metal door. Inside, covered in dust and spider webs, were cardboard boxes filled with old motorcycle magazines, rusted tools, and a heavy wooden crate secured with a simple brass latch.
Leo knelt in the dust and flipped the latch. Inside the crate, wrapped meticulously in oiled canvas rags, were neatly organized engine components. He peeled back one layer of canvas and revealed a set of four pristine custom-machined pushrods. Attached to them was a faded strip of masking tape with words written in black marker: Widowmaker spares.
Rusty stared at the boy, a mixture of awe and disbelief washing over him. "Your old man," Rusty whispered, "was a saint."
"He was a mechanic," Leo corrected gently. "Let's go fix the bike."
Thursday was consumed by the electrical system. Following Leo's memory of what his father had explained years earlier, Pete traced the phantom battery drain through the modified wiring. Eventually, Pete found the secondary heavy-gauge wire spliced into the ignition harness along the backbone of the frame. It terminated at a tiny, almost imperceptible toggle recessed into the underside of the left-side fuel tank, exactly where Leo said Dutch had hidden it.
By Thursday night at 11:00 p.m., the engine was fully reassembled. The custom pushrods were installed, the valves were adjusted, the timing was locked at the 12-degree offset Leo had described, and the battery was fully charged. For the first time in two weeks, the mechanics were not guessing what Dutch's machine was supposed to be. They were finally working with the motorcycle Dutch had actually built.
"Should we fire it up?" Big Dave asked, his hand hovering near the ignition key.
"No," Leo said from his spot on the milk crate. He looked exhausted, bags under his bright blue eyes, his hands stained black with grease. "Mr. Mercer paid to hear it turn over. If we start it now and something breaks, we don't have time to fix it. We wait."
Friday morning arrived with agonizing slowness. The air in the garage was thick with anticipation. The 1986 FXR sat in the center of the bay, wiped down and polished, looking like a dark predator waiting to be unchained.
At exactly 11:45 a.m., the ground began to vibrate. It started as a low rumble in the distance, growing steadily louder until it became mechanical thunder. The Hells Angels had returned.
This time it wasn't just a half-dozen riders. A pack of 20 bikers rolled into the lot, forming a massive wall of leather, chrome, and intimidation. Jim Mercer killed his engine, kicked his stand down, and stepped off the motorcycle with his face set in an unreadable mask of stone.
He walked into the garage, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet shop. The rest of the club filed in behind him and crossed their arms. Their eyes locked on the black FXR.
Rusty stood near the toolbox, sweating despite the cool morning air. Big Dave, Tommy, and Pete stood behind him, looking like men awaiting judgment. Only Leo stood near the bike holding his large push broom and looking up at the towering enforcer.
"Friday. Noon," Jim Mercer said, his deep voice cutting through the tension. He looked at Rusty. "Is it a motorcycle, or is it scrap metal?"
Rusty swallowed hard, his throat dry. He took a step back and gestured toward the 8-year-old boy. "It's all on the kid, Jim. We did exactly what he told us to do."
Jim slowly turned his gaze to Leo. Then he walked over to the FXR, ran his hand over the leather seat, gripped the heavy handlebars, and swung his leg over the bike. He turned the ignition key. The headlight flickered to life.