He gave a humorless laugh.
“That man kept Dutch alive on more roads than I can count.”
He looked toward Leo again.
“Son, what exactly did your father tell you?”
Leo's eyes moved toward the engine.
Then the little boy began explaining something no one inside Apex Iron Works had known.
And with every sentence, the grown men standing around him became a little quieter.
But the real secret wasn't in the timing marks.
It wasn't even inside the engine.
It was hidden beneath the garage, behind a rusted steel door that hadn't been opened in years.
And the key had been hanging around Leo's neck since the day his father died.
Fourteen days earlier, the Harley-Davidson FXR arrived at Apex Iron Works on the back of a flatbed trailer.
It was a cold Monday morning in Oakland, the kind when fog drifted between industrial buildings and the air smelled of damp concrete, coffee, and exhaust.
Rusty Cole was standing near the garage entrance when the truck pulled in.
He recognized the motorcycle immediately.
Black paint.
Gold-and-orange tank lettering.
A cracked but carefully maintained leather seat.
Chrome exhaust pipes that had been polished thousands of times but still carried the marks of decades on the road.
And beneath the left side of the fuel tank, a small brass plate engraved with the letters D.S.
Dutch Sullivan.
Rusty slowly set down his coffee.
For several seconds, he stood without moving.
Then the driver lowered the trailer ramp.
A younger rider stepped out.
His name was Jackson Reed, and he had been responsible for looking after Dutch's property during the months following the old biker's death.
“Morning, Rusty.”
Rusty nodded.
“Morning.”
Jackson looked toward the motorcycle.
“We've got a problem.”
Rusty gave a tired smile.
“That's usually why people bring motorcycles to a garage.”
Jackson didn't laugh.
“It's Dutch's bike.”
Rusty's expression softened.
“I can see that.”
“It won't start.”
The mechanic frowned.
“When did that happen?”
“Last week. We brought it out of storage to prepare for the memorial ride. It cranked a couple of times, then quit. We thought the battery had gone bad.”
Rusty walked toward the FXR.
He rested one hand against the fuel tank.
For a moment, he remembered Dutch standing beside the same machine thirty years earlier, laughing while an angry service manager tried to explain why his motorcycle should have been replaced instead of repaired.
Dutch had always been stubborn.
He treated the FXR like a living creature with its own moods.