Reaper's voice climbed. Marcus, three specialists spent four days and God knows how much of your money and this kid is standing here telling you he thinks he can fix it. I said I think so because I haven't done it yet, Ethan said turning to face him directly for the first time. You want me to lie to you and say I'm certain I could do that? It'd sound better, but it wouldn't be true.
And I told Mr. Hail 5 minutes ago that I'd rather tell him the truth than what he wants to hear. That includes you, too. The garage went quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet this time. The kind that comes after someone says something nobody expected, and everyone's still catching up to how they feel about it.
Reaper stared at him for a long moment, and something in his hard, suspicious expression cracked just slightly, just enough to let a flicker of respect through the cynicism. "Huh," he said, and didn't finish the thought. Marcus felt something in his chest loosen for the first time in four days. "Not full relief, not yet, but the first crack of light through a door he'd started to believe was permanently shut. What do you need to actually fix it?"
"Time," Ethan said. and quiet and nobody standing over my shoulder telling me I'm running out of daylight. You've got both, Marcus said. Take whatever you need.
It was in that moment, right as Ethan turned back toward the bike, right as the garage began settling into something like cautious hope. For the first time all week, that a voice cut through the crowd from somewhere near the gate, sharp and unmistakably furious. "Marcus Hail!" Every head turned. Standing at the fence, having pushed past Cutter and two other prospects without so much as slowing down, was a woman Marcus recognized instantly, and whose presence made his stomach drop for an entirely different reason than anything that had happened all week.
"Denise," Marcus said, his voice suddenly careful in a way it hadn't been a moment ago. Denise Alvarez was a reporter who'd broken the original story about the Black Phantom's failure. And she'd been camped outside the clubhouse gates for three days straight, filing updates that had turned Marcus' private humiliation into a public spectacle watched by half the state. But she wasn't holding a camera now. She was holding her phone out in front of her.
And the expression on her face wasn't hunger for a story. It was something closer to alarm. You need to see this, she said. Now Marcus felt every ounce of the hope that had just started building in his chest go cold and still. See what Denise held up the phone and even from 10 feet away, Marcus could see the flash of a headline scrolling across the screen.
Something with his name in it. Something with a number attached that made his blood run cold before he'd even read the whole thing. "There's a claim going around," Denise said breathless like she'd run the whole way from wherever she'd first seen it. Somebody's saying the Black Phantom's engine isn't actually yours to fix. That it was built using stolen designs, patented technology from a company that's about to file a lawsuit that could shut this whole reward down before anyone's allowed to touch that bike again.
The garage erupted. S was on his feet. Dutch had gone pale. Reaper's face had twisted into something between fury and vindication, like a man who'd been waiting an all week for a reason to say, "I told you so." and had just been handed one wrapped in the worst possible bow. "That's a lie," Marcus said.