Dutch asked quietly once Reaper had walked off. "Sal already said this could take specialists. Real specialists. The kind that don't do house calls for free." "Then we pay them.
Pay them with what, Marcus, you already sunk everything you had into building that bike." Marcus looked at his old friend for a long moment. then I'll sink more. Dutch didn't argue. He just shook his head slowly, the way a man does when he loves someone too much to tell them they're making a mistake.
The first specialist arrived two days later, and his name was Dr. Victor Cole. He came with a black case full of diagnostic equipment that looked like it belonged in a hospital, a business card that listed three engineering degrees, and a way of talking that made everyone in the room feel slightly stupid before he'd even said anything useful. Custom bike, Victor said, circling the Phantom slowly hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting a museum piece. Handmade engine.
No factory documentation, I assume. Nothing you'd recognize, Marcus said. That's unfortunate. Victor crouched down, ran a gloved finger along a wire harness. You understand what you're asking me to do here, Mr.
Hail. You are asking me to diagnose a heart attack in a patient with no medical history. I'm asking you to fix my bike. I intend to. Victor smiled.
The kind of smile that had never once been wrong about anything. Give me 6 hours. 6 hours became 10. 10 became 16. By the second morning, Victor Cole, three engineering degrees, hospital-grade equipment, a smile that had never once been wrong, was standing in the garage looking like a man who'd aged 5 years overnight.
Well, Marcus asked, I've tested every sensor, every relay, every connection point on this vehicle. Victor's voice had lost its polish. By every diagnostic principle, I know this motorcycle should not be able to start at all. And yet, it starts perfectly every single time for exactly 60 seconds. So, what's wrong with it?
I don't know. There it was again. Those three words dressed up in a different accent this time, but meaning exactly the same thing. Marcus stood in the doorway of the garage and watched Victor Cole pack up his hospital-grade equipment. And something cold settled into his chest that he didn't like admitting to.
Fear. Not fear of losing money he'd have paid 10 times what he was offering if it meant the phantom ran again. This was a different fear. The fear that some problems simply didn't have solutions. that some things once broken stayed broken. News cameras were parked outside the clubhouse gates by the third day.