Caleb Mercer smelled gasoline before he understood what he was looking at.
The odor was faint beneath everything else inside the workshop: hot rubber, old oil, metal filings, leather, coffee that had been sitting too long, and the dusty heat coming from a portable propane heater near the far wall.
But gasoline had a different sharpness.
It cut through every other smell.
Caleb stopped just inside the open garage bay.
Nobody noticed.
Five motorcycles occupied the concrete floor of Iron Ridge Customs, a sprawling repair shop hidden behind a row of warehouses outside Mesa, Arizona. Tool chests lined the walls, fluorescent fixtures hummed overhead, and a radio somewhere near the office played classic rock quietly enough that the sound of ratchets and pneumatic tools dominated the room.
Caleb adjusted the strap of his backpack.
He had been standing there less than thirty seconds.
Already he was certain something was wrong.
A huge black-and-chrome cruiser sat on a maintenance stand near the center of the garage.
Beneath it, a narrow wet line curved across the concrete.
At first glance it looked like water.
Then Caleb saw the rainbow sheen.
Fuel.
The line was moving.
Slowly.
Gravity carried it through one of the shallow grooves in the concrete toward the portable heater.
Caleb looked toward the men working nearby.
None of them seemed to notice.
The closest biker had his back turned, leaning over a red touring motorcycle with a torque wrench.
Two others stood near a workbench arguing about electrical wiring.
Another man carried a tire toward a rack.
The fifth man was impossible to miss.
He stood beside the leaking cruiser with his arms crossed.
Broad shoulders.
Thick gray-and-brown beard.
Tattooed forearms.
Swept-back salt-and-pepper hair.
Black T-shirt beneath a worn leather vest.
He looked like the kind of man Caleb’s mother would have crossed the street to avoid.
Caleb swallowed.
He had not come here to tell anyone how to repair motorcycles.
He had come looking for work.
Any work.
Sweeping.
Cleaning tools.
Moving boxes.
Whatever they would give a sixteen-year-old who needed cash quickly.
His mother thought he was at the public library filling out scholarship applications.
Technically he had been there first.
But scholarships would not pay the electric bill due next Tuesday.
Caleb looked at the fuel again.
The shiny line had moved several more inches.
He stepped forward.
“Excuse me.”
Nobody heard him.
A compressed-air gun hissed.
Metal clanged.
Someone laughed.
Caleb raised his voice.
“Hey.”
The broad biker turned.
His eyes were pale blue and immediately irritated.
“What?”
Caleb pointed.
“You need to turn that heater off.”
For one second the man simply stared.
Then he looked toward the heater.
Then back at Caleb.
“Who are you?”
Caleb nodded toward the floor.
“You’ve got fuel leaking.”
The biker’s expression hardened.
“I asked who you are.”
“Caleb.”
“Caleb what?”
“Mercer.”
The man glanced toward the open bay behind him.
“You lost?”
“No.”
“Customer?”
“No.”
“Then why are you standing in my shop?”
Caleb wished he had started differently.
“My guidance counselor said sometimes you hire students for weekend cleanup.”
The biker looked him up and down.
Burgundy hoodie.
Faded work jacket.
Jeans.
Old sneakers.
Backpack.
“You’re here looking for a job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you decided the best introduction was telling me how to run my garage?”
Caleb tightened his jaw.
“I decided the best introduction was not letting your shop catch fire.”
The two bikers near the workbench stopped talking.
One of them gave a quiet whistle.
The large man uncrossed his arms.
“Kid.”
Caleb stayed where he was.
“That motorcycle has been sitting there twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“I know what my floor looks like.”
Caleb pointed again.
“That’s gasoline.”
The biker glanced down.
The leak was partly hidden beneath the motorcycle’s exhaust.
From where he stood, it was difficult to see the full trail.
He looked back at Caleb.
“Stay away from the bike.”
Caleb’s eyes moved past him.
The gasoline was closer to the heater now.
Maybe eight feet.
Maybe less.
The heater’s exposed metal housing glowed faintly inside the protective cage.
Caleb felt a cold pulse run through his stomach.
“Turn it off.”
The biker stepped toward him.
“Back off, kid.”
Caleb did not.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
One of the other men called out:
“Rourke, what’s going on?”
The biker never looked away from Caleb.
“Nothing.”
Caleb did.