Jim slowly turned his gaze toward Leo. Then he walked to the FXR, ran his hand over the leather seat, and gripped the handlebars.
He swung his leg over the bike, settled into the saddle, and turned the ignition key. The headlight flickered to life.
Jim looked down at Leo.
"Moment of truth, kid."
Jim gripped the clutch, took a breath, and pressed the starter button.
Click. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr.
The starter motor spun cleanly, but the engine didn't catch. There was no spark, no combustion, only the hollow sound of a dead machine turning over.
Rusty's heart dropped. Big Dave closed his eyes. The bikers behind Jim shifted their weight, a dangerous murmur moving 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 gas tank.
"You forgot Mr. Dutch's trick, Mr. Mercer. Under the left Fat Bob tank, the switch."
Jim froze. A look of sudden realization washed across his weathered face. He reached his massive left hand beneath the curve of the fuel tank. His thick fingers blindly searched the dark recess beneath the metal until, suddenly, he felt it: a tiny toggle switch completely hidden from view.
Click.
Jim pulled his hand back. He looked at Leo, gripped the handlebars again, and pressed the starter button.
The engine caught.
Then it erupted into life with a violent explosion of sound. It didn't just start. It seemed to detonate 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 high-compression V-twin.
It sounded like an angry beast finally let off its leash.
Jim Mercer twisted the throttle. The engine roared, a wall of pure mechanical aggression that forced Rusty and the mechanics to cover their ears. Fire spat briefly from the exhaust pipes. The sound was absolutely perfect.
Jim let the bike settle back into its heavy, thumping idle. He 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.