The voice was small, barely louder than a whisper, but it cut through the tension of the garage like a razor blade. Jim Mercer snapped his head around. Rusty blinked in shock. The Hells Angels turned in unison, their hands instinctively dropping toward their belts.
Standing in the shadowy corner of the garage, holding a push broom that was easily twice his height, was a boy. He couldn't have been more than eight years old. He was painfully thin, wearing a faded, oversized T-shirt that hung off his bony shoulders and a pair of jeans patched at the knees. His face was smudged with engine grease, but his bright blue eyes stared unblinkingly at the massive enforcer.
This was Leo.
"Leo, shut your mouth and get back to sweeping," Rusty barked, his panic spiking.
The last thing he needed was a smart-mouth street kid provoking a tense motorcycle club. Leo didn't flinch. He gripped the wooden handle of the broom tighter and took a step out of the shadows, right into the center of the standoff.
Jim Mercer stared down at the scrawny child. For a moment, the sheer absurdity of the situation baffled him.
"Who the hell is this kid?" Jim demanded, looking at Rusty.
"He's nobody," Rusty said quickly, rushing forward to grab Leo's arm. "His dad used to rent a bay in the back before he passed away. Kid's mom is working three jobs just to keep a roof over their heads, so I let him sweep up the shop for a few bucks and a hot meal. He doesn't know what he's talking about. Come on, Leo, get in the back."
Leo yanked his arm out of Rusty's grasp with surprising strength. He didn't look at the mechanic. He kept his eyes locked on Jim.
"I know what I'm talking about," Leo said, his voice surprisingly steady for a child facing down a man who had spent time in federal prison. "Mr. Rusty and his guys, they're plugging the bike into computers. They're reading manuals for a 1986 Evolution motor. But that bike ain't standard."
One of the younger Angels, a prospect named Bobby, laughed outright.
"Listen to the rugrat. Kid, go play with your Hot Wheels. Grown men are talking."
Jim raised a single massive hand, silencing Bobby instantly. His eyes narrowed as he looked from the boy to the bike and back again.
"What did you just say, kid?"
Leo pointed a grimy finger at the timing cover on the right side of the engine.
"They timed the ignition based on the factory marks for an Evo motor, but that's a trap. My dad told me about this bike. He said Mr. Dutch was a madman when it came to engines."
Jim's breath hitched slightly at the mention of his friend.
"Go on."
"My dad said Mr. Dutch blew the bottom end of this motor during a race in Reno back in '92," Leo explained, stepping closer to the machine. He traced his small fingers over the brushed aluminum of the cam cover. "He didn't have money for new factory parts, so he gutted a wrecked 1978 Shovelhead and machined the cam gear to fit this case.
The timing marks on the flywheels are off by exactly 12 degrees. If you try to fire it on the factory mark, the ignition happens at the wrong point. That's why it kicks back."
The garage was dead silent. Rusty stood frozen, his jaw slightly open. The mechanics in the back, who had been eavesdropping, slowly stepped out from behind their toolboxes.
"And the battery drain?" Jim asked, his voice suddenly very quiet, devoid of the earlier aggression.
"It's not a short," Leo said simply. "It's a kill switch. Mr. Dutch was paranoid about people stealing his bike. He wired a secondary ignition bypass into the frame under the gas tank.
If you don't toggle a hidden switch beneath the left-side Fat Bob tank before you turn the key, the circuit stays open and the battery drains into the frame. A brand-new battery can be dead in ten minutes."
Jim Mercer stared at the boy. He remembered 1992. He remembered Reno. He remembered Dutch laughing in a motel parking lot, covered in oil, bragging about a Frankenstein engine he was building from scratch.