The Challenge

The rain had stopped less than an hour before the motorcycles arrived.

Water still clung to the cracked pavement outside Black River Customs, reflecting the yellow glow of the garage lights. The smell of wet asphalt mixed with gasoline, hot metal, and the faint sweetness of coffee drifting through the open side door.

It was nearly eight in the evening.

Most businesses in the industrial district had already closed.

Black River Customs had not.

The garage had always stayed open late for people who lived on two wheels. Riders came there when their motorcycles refused to start, when an engine made a strange sound, or when they simply needed somewhere to sit after a long day.

That night, however, something unusual was happening.

Seven motorcycles rolled into the parking lot.

Then three more.

Then another five.

The riders dismounted almost together.

Black leather vests.

Heavy boots.

Bandanas.

Old military jackets.

Tattoos.

Silver rings.

They were members of the Iron Wolves, a local motorcycle club that had been riding together for more than twenty years.

At the center of them stood Marcus Vale.

Marcus was fifty-two years old, broad-shouldered, gray-haired, and intimidating without trying to be.

He had spent most of his adult life riding motorcycles.

He had crossed deserts.

He had ridden through mountain snow.

He had broken bones and repaired engines beside highways.

He trusted very few people.

And when it came to motorcycles, he trusted almost nobody.

Tonight, however, even Marcus looked frustrated.

His motorcycle sat beneath the brightest lamp in the garage.

It was a custom-built black cruiser worth more than some people's houses.

The engine had been rebuilt from the ground up.

The fuel system was custom.

The electrical system had been modified.

The transmission had been upgraded.

Every visible piece of chrome had been polished until it reflected the fluorescent lights.

The machine was beautiful.

It was also dead.

Completely dead.

Marcus stood beside it with his arms crossed.

Three mechanics had already worked on the motorcycle.

The first had blamed the battery.

The second had blamed the fuel injection.

The third had spent almost an hour tracing electrical connections.

None had found the problem.

The engine would turn.

It would cough.

Sometimes it would start for two or three seconds.

Then it would die.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Marcus looked at the mechanics.

"Anything?"

One of them shook his head.

"Not yet."

"Not yet?"

The mechanic sighed.

"We've been on it for four hours."

Marcus looked at the clock.

"Five."

Nobody answered.

He reached into the pocket of his leather vest.

He pulled out a thick envelope.

Then he slapped it onto the workbench.

The envelope landed with a heavy sound.

Several riders looked over.

Marcus opened it.

Cash.

A lot of it.

Five thousand dollars.

A low whistle came from somewhere behind him.

Marcus looked around the garage.

"I'll make this simple."

Nobody spoke.

"Five thousand dollars to whoever can tell me what's wrong with my bike."

One of the mechanics laughed nervously.

"You mean whoever fixes it."

Marcus shook his head.

"No."

He pointed at the motorcycle.

"I want the person who can tell me why it won't stay running."

The garage became quiet.

That distinction mattered.

Anyone could replace parts.

Anyone could guess.

But diagnosing a difficult machine was different.

It required understanding.

Marcus picked up a wrench.

"This bike has been worked on by people who charge two hundred dollars an hour."

He tossed the wrench onto the bench.

"They couldn't solve it."

One of his friends laughed.

"Maybe the bike just hates you."

The others laughed too.

Marcus smiled.

Then a voice came from the far end of the garage.

"Maybe you're all looking in the wrong place."

The laughter stopped.

Everyone turned.

A young man stood beside a shelf of spare parts.

He was holding a small metal tray.

He looked completely out of place.

He was perhaps nineteen years old.

His dark hair was untidy.

His shirt had grease stains across the chest.

His jeans were faded.

His boots were old.

He didn't wear a leather vest.

He didn't have tattoos.

He wasn't part of the Iron Wolves.

He looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong building.

Marcus stared at him.

"Did you say something?"