Rusty stared at him.
"That locker hasn't been opened in years."
"Then open it."
The basement smelled of dust, oil, and damp concrete.
They found locker forty-two behind the old paint booth.
Rusty broke the rusted padlock.
Inside were boxes.
Old manuals.
Tools.
Motorcycle magazines.
And, beneath a faded canvas sheet, a wooden crate.
Leo knelt.
His hands trembled slightly.
He opened it.
Inside were custom-machined engine parts wrapped in oil-treated cloth.
Pushrods.
Gears.
Valve components.
Everything carefully labeled.
Leo picked up a strip of masking tape.
There were four words written in black marker:
DUTCH'S WIDOWMAKER — SPARES
Rusty stared.
"What are the odds?"
Leo smiled faintly.
"My dad always said you never throw away parts for a motorcycle you built yourself."
Rusty looked at the boy.
"Your father knew this bike might need them."
Leo nodded.
"He knew."
The men carried the parts upstairs.
For the first time, Rusty began to believe they might actually succeed.
Two Degrees of Failure
Thursday became a battle against time.
The custom pushrods were installed.
The valve geometry was corrected.
The cam timing was adjusted.
The ignition was advanced twelve degrees beyond the factory setting.
The hidden security switch was restored.
The battery was charged.
But Leo refused to start the engine.
"Why not?" Big Dave asked.
"Because we don't know if everything is right yet."
"We've checked it twice."
"Check it three times."
Dave smiled.
"You're tough."
Leo looked at the motorcycle.
"My dad was tougher."
That afternoon, Rusty watched Leo examining the engine.
"Your father taught you all this?"
"Not all of it."
"What else?"
Leo smiled.
"He taught me to listen."
"Listen to what?"
"Machines."
Rusty laughed softly.
"Machines don't talk."
Leo shook his head.
"They do."
He placed one small hand on the engine casing.
"You just have to know how to listen."
The Final Test
Friday morning arrived.
The motorcycle stood beneath the fluorescent lights, clean and polished.
For the first time in months, the FXR looked alive.
At 11:45, motorcycles began arriving outside.
One.
Then five.
Then twenty.
The Hells Angels had returned.
Jim Mercer entered the garage at exactly noon.
Nobody spoke.
He looked at Rusty.
Then at the mechanics.
Then at Leo.
Finally, his eyes settled on Dutch's motorcycle.
"Well?"
Rusty stepped aside.
"The boy did it."
Jim looked at Leo.
Leo said nothing.
Jim climbed onto the FXR.
He inserted the key.
The headlight came alive.
He pulled the clutch.
Pressed the starter.
The engine turned.
But it didn't start.
Nothing.
The bikers shifted behind him.
Rusty's stomach dropped.
Jim slowly removed his thumb from the starter.