The man who had spoken was heavyset with a reddish beard and rectangular glasses.
“Your black cruiser is leaking fuel.”
The red-bearded biker immediately looked toward the motorcycle.
Rourke snapped:
“It isn’t.”
Caleb said:
“Look under it.”
Rourke took another step forward.
“You walk in here without permission, start pointing at equipment you know nothing about, and now you’re giving orders?”
Caleb felt his face heat.
“I know what gasoline smells like.”
Rourke laughed once.
Short.
Cold.
“Congratulations.”
The other men were watching now.
Caleb hated that.
He hated public confrontation.
He hated being the youngest person in the room.
He especially hated adults who heard age instead of words.
He looked toward the heater again.
The line was still moving.
That decided it.
Caleb stepped around Rourke.
Rourke caught his arm.
Not hard.
But enough to stop him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Caleb pulled free.
“To turn that off.”
“Don't touch anything.”
“If you won’t, I will.”
Something in Rourke’s expression changed.
Not anger exactly.
Disbelief.
He was not accustomed to being ignored in his own garage.
Caleb walked quickly toward the wall.
Rourke followed.
“Kid.”
Caleb reached the heater control.
The flame was still running.
He hit the shutoff.
The heater clicked.
The fan continued spinning, but the burner died.
Silence spread through the shop in pieces.
Caleb turned.
Rourke stood three feet away.
“You’re done.”
Caleb pointed toward the floor.
“Now look.”
Rourke did.
This time he moved.
He crouched.
The gasoline trail reflected the overhead lights.
For several seconds he said nothing.
The red-bearded biker approached.
“Damn.”
Another man walked over.
“Where’s it coming from?”
Rourke followed the line back beneath the cruiser.
His expression sharpened.
“Feed line.”
The red-bearded man bent lower.
“Clamp’s split.”
Rourke’s jaw tightened.
Caleb stayed quiet.
The gasoline had stopped several feet from the heater.
Probably nothing would have happened.
Maybe the burner was sealed enough.
Maybe ventilation would have carried the fumes away.
Maybe there had never been any real danger.
But nobody in the garage seemed interested in testing those possibilities now.
One biker opened the large bay door fully.
Another rolled the heater farther away.
The red-bearded man brought an absorbent spill kit.
Rourke looked at Caleb.
Caleb expected thanks.
Instead:
“You still shouldn't have touched my equipment.”
Caleb almost laughed.
“Seriously?”
Rourke stood.
“You hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Then say yes.”
Caleb stared at him.
“No.”
The red-bearded biker covered his mouth.
Rourke’s eyes narrowed.
Caleb continued:
“If I see gasoline moving toward a heater again, I’m turning it off again.”
The shop went completely quiet.
Then somebody near the tire rack laughed.
Not mocking Caleb.
At Rourke.
Rourke turned.
A lean biker with a shaved head lifted both hands.
“What?”
Rourke looked back at Caleb.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Caleb Mercer.”
Rourke repeated it.
“Mercer.”
Something about the surname seemed to bother him.
Not recognition.
Not yet.
Just the sensation of a word brushing against an old memory.
“Your father a mechanic?”
The question landed strangely.
Caleb’s posture stiffened.
“Was.”
Rourke noticed the tense.
“Was?”
“He died.”
The entire conversation changed.
Rourke’s face softened slightly.
“How long ago?”
“Six years.”
Caleb hated answering questions about his father.