There's always risk when you're pushing an engine's tolerances, but I've done the math three times now, and I'm confident in the number. I wouldn't touch it otherwise. 75 minutes, Dutch said quietly. Marcus looked around the garage one last time at Marlene's tense, calculating expression, at Sal's grudging respect at Reaper, standing closer to the bike now than he had all week, arms finally uncrossed at Denise's camera, still rolling, capturing every second of a decision that could either save everything or destroy it entirely. And then he looked at Ethan Carter, 17 years old, hands steady despite the impossible weight now resting on them, and made the only choice that felt true to everything the last four hours had taught him.
"Do it," Marcus said. "I trust you." Ethan held his gaze for one long second. Something passing between them that neither of them would ever fully be able to explain to anyone else afterward. a kind of trust that had nothing to do with age or credentials or diplomas on a wall and everything to do with a boy who'd told the truth every single time he'd opened his mouth that day. Then he turned back to the engine, picked up his tools, and got to work on the final most dangerous fix of all. While somewhere across town, a judge was already preparing to decide whether any of it would even matter.
"60 minutes," Dutch said, and his voice had gone tight in a way that made everyone in the garage flinch. Ethan didn't answer. His hands were deep in the housing around the pressure valve, a small metal file working in tiny, deliberate strokes against a component no bigger than a thumb, and the concentration on his face had a stillness to it that Marcus had only ever seen in men three times his age. "Talk to me," Marcus said quietly. "How's it looking?"
"Looking like I need you to stop talking to me," Ethan said, not unkindly, but firm enough that Marcus actually took a step back. Marlene caught his arm gently. "Let him work. I'll keep tracking the courthouse. She'd set up near the workbench with her laptop open, a legal pad covered in notes beside it, phone propped against a toolbox so she could watch the screen without holding it.
Every few minutes it buzzed and every time it did, the whole garage seemed to hold its breath, waiting to hear what she'd say. "Anything?" Reaper asked, unable to help himself. "Nothing yet. Hearing still set for 2 hours from when Dutch got the call."
That gives us, she checked the time, just under an hour before the judge even walks into the room. And after the hearing, Sal asked, "How fast could the injunction actually take effect?" "Could be immediate," Marlene said. "Could be delayed 24 hours for procedural notice. I've seen both.
I'm not going to lie to any of you and pretend I know which way this particular judge leans." She glanced toward Ethan, which is exactly why speed matters right now more than anything else in this garage. Ethan's hands didn't slow. If anything, they moved with more precision, more control, like the pressure of the countdown had burned away the last of his nerves and left only the work itself.
45 minutes, Dutch said 10 minutes later, and this time nobody responded at all. The silence had become its own kind of language. It was Cutter, the prospect, who'd almost turned Ethan away at the gate that morning, who broke it, stepping forward with something in his hands that made everyone turn. Found this in the supply closet," he said, holding out a small precision gauge, the kind used for measuring exact pressure thresholds. Wasn't sure if it would help, but figured it couldn't hurt to ask.
Ethan looked up, and for a brief second, something like real gratitude crossed his exhausted face. "That's exactly what I needed. Where'd you even find this back corner, buried under some old parts nobody's touched in years?" Cutter set it down carefully within reach. Figured a shop this size had to have something like it somewhere.