The Dead Machine
The midday sun hammered the cracked asphalt of Oakland, California, turning the road outside Apex Iron Works into a shimmering sheet of heat.
Then came the motorcycles.
One after another, they appeared at the end of the industrial street, their chrome flashing beneath the brutal California sun. The deep thunder of their V-twin engines rolled between the warehouses like distant artillery.
At the front rode Jim Mercer.
Forty-something years of hard living had turned Jim into a man people remembered. He was enormous, broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, and covered with the scars and tattoos of a life that had rarely been gentle.
But that afternoon, Jim had not come looking for trouble.
He had come looking for a miracle.
Behind him, strapped securely to a heavy flatbed truck, was an old black Harley-Davidson FXR.
The motorcycle looked terrible.
Its paint was chipped. Its chrome was scarred with rust. Dust covered the engine, and one side of the fuel tank carried a long scratch that disappeared beneath layers of faded black paint.
To most people, it looked like an abandoned relic.
To Jim Mercer and the men riding behind him, it was something else entirely.
It was Dutch Sullivan's motorcycle.
Three months earlier, Dutch had died.
For decades, he had been one of the most respected men in the club—a leader, a fighter, a mentor, and, above all, a friend.
The club was preparing a memorial ride in his honor.
Nearly a thousand motorcycles were expected to travel down the California coast that Saturday.
Tradition demanded that Dutch's FXR lead the procession.
There was only one problem.
The motorcycle was dead.
Not ordinary dead.
Impossible dead.
Jim stopped his motorcycle outside Apex Iron Works and climbed off.
Rusty, the owner of the garage, was waiting beside the open bay doors.
The expression on his face told Jim everything.
"Tell me she's breathing," Jim said.
Rusty swallowed.
"Jim..."
"Tell me."
Rusty glanced toward the flatbed.
"We can't get her running."
The men behind Jim became silent.
Rusty wiped his hands on a dirty red rag.
"Three of my best mechanics have been working on it for two weeks. We've rebuilt the carburetor. Replaced the ignition system. Changed the wiring harness, stator, rotor, coil, battery—everything."
He pointed toward the FXR.
"We checked compression. Valve clearance. Fuel delivery. Spark. Everything."
"And?"
"The engine cranks."
Rusty paused.
"It just won't start."
Jim stared at him.
"What about the kick starter?"
Rusty's jaw tightened.
"It kicks back hard enough to break a man's ankle."
Jim stepped closer.
"And the battery?"