Six riders came with it.
The first was Jim Mercer.
Jim was sixty-one, six-foot-two, broad enough that his leather vest looked tailored despite being nearly twenty years old, and quiet enough that people usually listened before he had to repeat himself.
His beard was iron gray.
His left hand carried scars from knuckles to wrist.
Nobody in the garage needed an introduction.
Jim had been riding with Dutch Sullivan since before Rusty opened Apex Iron Works.
Dutch had served as president of the Bay Ravens motorcycle club for nearly twenty-seven years.
Even people who disliked the club respected Dutch.
He had the unusual reputation of being a dangerous man who spent the second half of his life trying to prevent younger men from becoming dangerous for stupid reasons.
Three months earlier, Dutch had died in his sleep.
No crash.
No violence.
No dramatic final ride.
His heart simply stopped sometime before dawn.
The memorial ride scheduled for Saturday was expected to draw close to a thousand motorcycles.
Riders were coming from Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, and Southern California.
According to club tradition, Dutch’s own motorcycle would lead the procession.
But the FXR would not start.
When Jim brought it into the garage, Rusty expected something minor.
A motorcycle that old always needed something.
Instead, two weeks disappeared.
The carburetor came apart.
Nothing.
The ignition module was replaced.
Nothing.
New plugs.
New wires.
New coil.
Nothing.
The stator was tested, then replaced.
The rotor came off.
Connections were traced.
Grounds cleaned.
Compression checked.
Valve operation inspected.
Fuel drained and replaced.
Nothing.
Every time they believed they had found the problem, the FXR proved them wrong.
The most confusing detail was the battery drain.
Something in the motorcycle was consuming electrical power during cranking, but the usual culprits tested within range.
Rusty brought in two mechanics from another shop.
Then an older Harley specialist from San Jose.
Then a retired technician who had worked on FXRs when they were still sitting new on dealership floors.
Nobody solved it.
Wednesday afternoon arrived.
Friday noon was the deadline.
Rusty had less than forty-eight hours.
The front garage door rolled upward at eleven minutes past two.
A low wave of engine noise entered before the riders did.
Leo looked up from his broom.
Jim Mercer walked into Apex Iron Works with four men behind him.
Conversation stopped.
Rusty immediately wiped his hands.
“Jim.”
Jim’s eyes found the motorcycle.
“How bad?”
Rusty glanced toward his mechanics.
Nobody volunteered.
He walked toward Jim.
“We’re still tracing it.”
Jim did not react.
“That means?”
“It means we haven’t fixed it.”
Jim stepped toward the FXR.
His scarred left hand settled on the old leather seat.
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
Rusty knew there was nothing theatrical about the gesture.
Dutch had owned the motorcycle longer than some of the men in the room had been alive.
Jim had probably ridden beside it for hundreds of thousands of miles.
He could remember who had sat on it.
Where it had been.
What roads it had crossed.
The machine was not worth a fortune.
Not financially.
But money was irrelevant.
“This bike leads Saturday,” Jim said.
Rusty nodded.
“I understand.”
Jim turned.
“Do you?”
Rusty’s jaw tightened.
“I’ve had five men on it.”
“I asked whether you understand.”
Rusty held his gaze.
“Yes.”
Jim looked at the motorcycle again.