"Go buy yourself a steak, kid. You're going to need your energy. You start on the Widowmaker tomorrow at dawn."
As the Hells Angels fired up their bikes and roared out of the lot, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust and tire smoke, Leo stood holding the $100 bill. He looked at the seemingly cursed 1986 FXR and could almost feel his father's hand on his shoulder. The real work was about to begin.
The sun had barely begun to rise over the industrial skyline of Oakland when Leo walked through the side door of Apex Iron Works on Wednesday morning. He looked different that day. His face was scrubbed clean, and although his clothes were still worn and oversized, he carried himself with a quiet, undeniable purpose. He had eaten the steak Jim Mercer paid for, the best meal he and his mother had shared in months, and he was ready to earn it.
Rusty and his top three mechanics were already standing around the black 1986 FXR. Big Dave was a heavily tattooed giant. Tommy was a wiry speed freak who specialized in carburetors, and Old Man Pete was the shop's electrical guru. All three looked exhausted and deeply skeptical.
"All right, kid," Rusty said, crossing his arms. He looked more stressed than a man defusing a bomb. "Jim Mercer practically signed my death warrant if this doesn't work. We're yours to command. Where do we start?"
Leo didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the right side of the motorcycle.
"Take off the cam cover, Mr. Dave, and drain the oil first unless you want it all over your boots."
Big Dave grunted and slid a drain pan under the bike. For the next three hours, a bizarre ballet unfolded in the garage. Grown men, seasoned veterans of the wrench, followed the precise instructions of an eight-year-old boy.
When the cam cover was finally removed, 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 shone it onto the flywheel.
"There," Leo said, pointing with a tiny, grease-stained finger. "Look at the pinion gear. See the timing mark?"
Rusty leaned in beneath the harsh drop light. His eyes widened.
"I'll be damned. It's not an Evo mark. 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. "He mated the Shovelhead gear to the Evo cam. The timing has to be advanced exactly 12 degrees from the factory service-manual position. That's what was causing the kickback and bending your pushrods."
"The pushrods?" Tommy suddenly gasped, his face draining of color.
He rushed to a nearby workbench, where the engine's internal rods were laid out on a shop towel. He rolled one across the flat steel surface. It wobbled violently.
"Rusty, they're bent. The kickback warped them. We didn't even notice."
A cold sweat broke out on Rusty's forehead.
"Are you kidding me? This is a hybrid motor. Standard Evolution pushrods won't fit the geometry of that modified cam, and Shovelhead rods are too short. Dutch must have had these custom-machined. We can't just order them from a catalog."
The mechanics fell silent. The reality of the situation crashed down upon them. They had found the problem, but without the custom parts needed to reassemble the valve train, the engine 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 burn this shop to the ground."
Leo climbed down from his milk crate. He didn't look panicked. He walked 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.