"You just saved me probably 10 minutes of eyeballing this by feel,"" Ethan said, already fitting the gauge into place. "Thank you," Cutter, who two hours earlier had been ready to send this kid packing at the front gate, straightened slightly at that, something like pride flickering across his face before he stepped back to give Ethan room again. The gauge changed everything. Ethan's movements sharpened the file working now with exact measured precision instead of careful estimation cross-referencing the readout every few seconds against numbers scrawled on Marlene's torn legal pad. "35 minutes," Dutch said.
"I'm close," Ethan said. "I need this last adjustment to be exact. If I rush it now, I could undo everything." "You don't have to explain yourself, kid," Sal said, and there was something different in his voice now, none of the skepticism from hours earlier left in it. "Take the time you need.
We'll manage the clock." Marcus watched all of it unfold. The file moving in impossibly small increments. The gauge readout shifting by fractions. Ethan's jaw tight with focus and felt something strange settle over him that he hadn't expected to feel in the middle of the worst week of his professional life.
Calm, not because the danger had passed, because he'd finally stopped fighting the truth that had been sitting in front of him all afternoon. This boy, whoever he was, wherever he'd come from, understood this machine better than anyone who'd ever touched it, including Marcus himself. 25 minutes, Dutch said. Almost there, Ethan murmured more to the engine than to anyone listening. Almost.
Marlene's phone buzzed again, and this time she read it fast, her face tightening in a way that made Marcus' stomach drop before she'd said a word. "What?" he asked. "Precision Dine Technologies' lawyer just filed an amended motion," she said, scrolling quickly. They're not just asking for an injunction anymore. They're asking the court to authorize immediate seizure of the vehicle effective the moment the ruling comes down.
No grace period, no 24-hour notice. They can do that, Dutch asked. They can ask for it. Doesn't mean they'll get it. Marlene's jaw was tight.
But if the judge grants it, officers could be standing at that gate within the hour of the ruling. Not tomorrow. Today. The words landed on Ethan. even in the middle of his concentration. And for one brief, dangerous second, his hand paused over the valve.
"Don't," Marcus said quickly, seeing it happen. "Don't let that get in your head right now. Whatever's happening across town, it's not happening in this garage yet. Finish what you're doing." Ethan took a breath, steadied himself, and returned to the work.
But something in the room had shifted. The abstract threat of a courtroom two hours away had suddenly become a countdown with teeth, and everyone could feel it. 20 minutes," Dutch said, voice lower now, like even he understood the weight of saying it out loud. "I need three more minutes on this valve," Ethan said. "Then I need to test it.