The Bet
“I bet five thousand dollars nobody here can fix my bike.”
Garrett Steel slammed a thick roll of cash onto the table.
The money landed hard enough to make the bottles beside it tremble.
Around him, the parking lot of the Iron Rail went quiet.
Fifteen minutes earlier, everyone had been arguing about what was wrong with Black Fury, Garrett’s beloved 1972 Harley-Davidson Shovelhead. Three experienced mechanics had already tried.
Three failures.
Garrett stared at the dead motorcycle as if it had personally betrayed him.
Then a quiet voice came from the edge of the parking lot.
“I can fix it.”
Garrett slowly turned.
An eighteen-year-old boy stood there.
Skinny.
Grease-stained.
His shirt was faded, his shoes were splitting at the soles, and an old backpack hung from one shoulder.
Garrett looked him up and down.
Then he laughed.
“Who let this kid in here?”
The boy didn't move.
“My name is Owen.”
Garrett walked toward him.
“You think you can fix my Harley?”
“Yes.”
Garrett grabbed Owen by the throat and slammed him against the wall.
“You smell like a sewer, boy. Don't breathe near my Harley.”
Laughter erupted behind him.
Someone kicked Owen's toolbox across the concrete.
Wrenches and sockets scattered everywhere.
Owen slowly bent down.
He picked up his father's old wrench.
Then he looked at Black Fury.
“Give me five minutes.”
The laughter became louder.
Garrett grinned.
“Hells Angels don't lose bets.”
He pointed at Owen.
“Especially not to garbage like you.”
Owen tightened his grip on the wrench.
None of them knew who they were dealing with.
They were about to find out.
Black Fury
The Iron Rail sat at the dead end of Michigan Avenue, where Detroit seemed to run out of patience.
There were no bright signs.
No polished entrance.
Just a concrete building, a cracked parking lot, cigarette smoke, leather jackets, and rows of Harley-Davidsons standing beneath the summer sky.
Every year, members of the Detroit Hells Angels chapter gathered there.
And every year, Garrett Steel stood at the center.
Fifty years old.
President of the Detroit chapter for eleven years.
A man who settled disagreements with his fists and rarely had to repeat himself.
But there was one thing Garrett respected more than almost anything else.
Black Fury.
The 1972 Harley-Davidson Shovelhead had belonged to his father.