"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 cuts. He said if you build a Frankenstein monster, you better keep spare body parts."
Ten minutes later, Rusty used bolt cutters to remove the rusted padlock from locker 42 in the damp, dimly lit basement. The heavy metal door squealed open. Inside, beneath a thick layer of dust and spiderwebs, were cardboard boxes filled with old motorcycle magazines, rusted tools, and a heavy wooden crate closed 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. Leo peeled back a layer of canvas, revealing a set of four pristine custom-machined pushrods.
Attached to them was a faded piece of masking tape with the words DUTCH'S WIDOWMAKER SPARES written in black marker.
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 directions, Pete traced the phantom battery drain. It was exactly where Leo had said it would be: a secondary heavy-gauge wire spliced into the ignition harness, running up the backbone of the frame and terminating at a tiny, nearly invisible toggle switch recessed beneath the left side of the fuel tank.
If the switch was open, the starter would crank while the ignition remained grounded, draining the battery without delivering the spark the engine needed. 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 a 12-degree advance, and the battery was fully charged.
"Should we fire it up?" Big Dave asked, his hand hovering over the ignition key.
"No," Leo said from his spot on the milk crate.
He looked exhausted, with bags beneath his bright blue eyes and 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 half a 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 kickstand down, and stepped off his bike with his face an unreadable mask of stone.
He walked into the garage, his heavy boots echoing through 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 facing a firing squad. Only Leo stood near the bike, holding his oversized 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. He took a step back and gestured toward the eight-year-old boy.
"It's all on the kid, Jim. We did exactly what he told us to do."