Marcus didn't sleep that night. He sat in the garage alone long after everyone had gone home, running his hand along the tank of the Black Phantom, the way he might have laid a hand on the shoulder of a friend in the hospital. eight years. Eight years of late nights of arguments with Dutch about the budget of a hundred small decisions that had all led to this. A machine so advanced that it had defeated everyone who tried to understand it. Sitting silent in the dark like it was keeping a secret nobody could crack.
"What happened to you?" he said quietly to no one. "What are you not telling us?" The Black Phantom of course said nothing back. By the morning of the fourth day, Marcus had made up his mind. He called a meeting at the clubhouse. every member, no exceptions, and stood in front of them with a decision he'd wrestled with all night, sitting heavy in his chest.
"I'm putting up a reward," he said. "$5.9 million cash to anyone who can fix the Black Phantom." The room erupted. Dutch's mouth actually fell open. "Marcus, that's" Dutch stopped himself, glanced around at the other members, then lowered his voice like it would make the number smaller.
"That's everything. That's every dollar this club has access to plus half of what you've got personally. I'm aware of what it is, Dutch. Is it worth it for a motorcycle? Marcus looked at his oldest friend for a long moment.
And when he spoke, his voice had the particular steadiness of a man who had already made peace with a decision, however painful. It's not about the motorcycle anymore. It's about what happens to this club if we let a machine beat us. If we let the world watch us give up. He looked around the room at faces that had ridden beside him for decades.
We built something no one else could build. I am not going to let it die quietly in a garage because everyone decided the problem was unsolvable. Reaper standing near the back arms cross the way they always were finally spoke. And if nobody claims the reward, if the best minds in the country already failed, and this just sits here, Marcus didn't have an answer for that. He hated that he didn't have an answer for that. "Then I guess we'll find out how much $5.9 million is worth to a problem nobody can solve," he said and walked out before anyone could ask him anything else.
The announcement went public that afternoon, and within hours, the world Marcus Hail had spent 30 years building quiet, controlled run on respect and reputation turned into something closer to a circus. Phones rang constantly. Strangers showed up at the clubhouse gates claiming to be engineers, claiming to have a feeling about what was wrong, claiming all manner of things that Dutch had to physically turn away at the fence. A man from Tucson arrived with a briefcase and a story about working for NASA that fell apart the moment Sal Vitali asked him one technical question. A woman claimed she could diagnose the bike psychically if Marcus would just let her hold the keys for an hour.
Three separate people tried to sell Marcus replacement engines they swore were basically the same thing, which made S laugh out loud for the first time in days. A short, bitter sound with no humor in it at all. This is a joke, Reaper said, standing at the fence and watching another hopeful stranger get turned away. You put a number that big on the table, Marcus, and every con artist in the state comes crawling. Then we filter them out.
And how long does that take? How many more days do we lose to people who've never held a wrench in their life? Marcus didn't answer. He was watching a black SUV pull up to the gate, watching a man in an expensive jacket step out with the kind of confidence that made Marcus' stomach tighten before the man had even said a word.