Jim looked down at Leo. "Moment of truth, kid."
He gripped the clutch, took a breath, and hit the starter button.
The starter motor spun cleanly, but the engine didn't catch. There was no combustion. Just the hollow, depressing sound of a dead machine turning over.
Rusty's heart plummeted into his stomach. Big Dave closed his eyes. The bikers behind Jim shifted their weight, a dangerous murmur rippling through the crowd.
Jim took his thumb off the starter. He didn't look angry. He looked profoundly disappointed. He slowly shook his head.
"You forgot," Leo said.
The small voice silenced the entire room.
Jim looked down at the boy, his brow furrowed. "Forgot what?"
Leo stepped closer and pointed toward the left side of the fuel tank. "You forgot Mr. Dutch's trick, Mr. Mercer. The hidden switch."
Jim froze. A look of sudden realization washed over his weathered face. He reached under the curve of the fuel tank and searched by feel until his fingers found the tiny concealed toggle.
Click.
Jim pulled his hand back. He looked at Leo, then gripped the handlebars again. He pressed the starter button.
The engine caught and erupted into life.
The straight pipes unleashed a deafening, rhythmic thunder that shook dust from the rafters and rattled tools in their metal chests. It was the distinct, uneven, heavy-hitting idle of a heavily modified V-twin. The machine sounded like an angry beast finally released from its cage.
Jim Mercer twisted the throttle. The engine roared, a wall of mechanical sound that forced Rusty and the mechanics to cover their ears. The exhaust barked sharply, and brief tongues of flame flashed at the pipes as the engine cleared itself. The sound was exactly what Jim had been waiting to hear.
He let the bike settle back into its heavy, thumping idle and sat there for a long moment, feeling the intense vibration of the engine beneath him. Tears, thick and unexpected, welled in the corners of the old enforcer's eyes. It was the exact sound of his deceased best friend. It was the sound of 1992. It was the sound of brotherhood.
Jim reached down and killed the engine. The garage descended into a ringing, stunned silence.
He slowly stepped off the bike, walked over to Rusty, reached into his leather vest, and pulled out a thick envelope. He slapped it against Rusty's chest.
"That's the five grand I owe you," Jim said, his voice thick with emotion. "And an extra two for the rush job."
Rusty took the envelope with shaking hands. "Jim, I didn't do it. I just turned the wrenches. It was all him."
Jim turned to Leo. The boy was leaning against his broom, a small, tired smile on his face.
Jim knelt on one knee, ignoring the grease on the floor, bringing himself to eye level with the 8-year-old. "Your daddy, Arty," Jim said softly, "was the finest mechanic I ever knew. I thought when he died, his magic died with him. I was wrong."
Jim reached up and unclasped a heavy silver chain from his neck. Hanging from it was a small, solid-silver winged-skull medallion, a token reserved for people the club considered especially trusted. He looped it around Leo's neck. The heavy silver rested against the boy's oversized T-shirt.
"You wear this," Jim told him, his voice carrying the weight of a promise. "Anyone in this city gives you or your mother trouble, you show them that. You tell them you're under the protection of the Oakland chapter."
Leo looked down at the medallion, his eyes wide. "Thank you, sir."
Jim stood up, towering over the boy again. He looked at Rusty.
"Rusty, the boy works for you now. An official apprenticeship, appropriate for his age and schooling. You pay him fairly, and you teach him how to use his hands so they can catch up with what's already in his head. And when he's 18, the club is paying his tuition for engineering school. Do we have an understanding?"
Rusty nodded vigorously. "Yes, Jim. Absolutely. We'd be honored to have him."
Jim Mercer turned back to the black FXR. A genuine, warm smile transformed his intimidating face. "All right, brothers," he called to the pack. "Let's load her up. Dutch has a ride to lead tomorrow."
As the bikers cheered and began maneuvering the flatbed truck, Leo stood near the workbench, his fingers tracing the outline of the silver skull against his chest. Big Dave walked by, paused, and gently ruffled the boy's hair with a massive calloused hand.
The ghost of Apex Iron Works had been exorcised, not by a team of master mechanics following factory books, but by an 8-year-old boy armed with his father's memory, years of listening, and grease on his hands.