Maybe he was asking permission.
Maybe neither.
He turned the key.
The electrical system came alive.
Headlight.
Indicators.
Neutral lamp.
Everything looked right.
Jim put his thumb on the starter.
Rusty stopped breathing.
Tommy clasped both hands behind his head.
Big Dave crossed his arms so tightly his knuckles turned pale.
Pete stared at the battery meter.
Leo stood beside the left side of the motorcycle.
Jim pressed the starter.
The motor spun.
Whirr.
Whirr.
Whirr.
Nothing.
Rusty's face emptied.
Big Dave shut his eyes.
Tommy whispered, “No.”
Pete looked down at his meter.
The riders behind Jim shifted.
Jim released the starter.
The engine stopped turning.
Silence.
Not angry silence.
Worse.
Grieving silence.
Jim stared at the controls.
For two days he had allowed himself to believe.
Rusty stepped forward.
“Jim—”
“You forgot.”
Leo's voice was small.
Nobody moved.
Jim looked down.
“What?”
Leo pointed toward the left fuel tank.
“The switch.”
Jim froze.
Leo stared at him.
“Mr. Dutch's trick.”
For half a second, Jim looked embarrassed.
Then memory hit him.
Something from decades earlier.
A motel parking lot.
Dutch slapping his hand away from the ignition.
Not yet, idiot.
Jim reached underneath the tank.
His thick fingers searched.
Nothing.
He shifted.
Then found it.
Tiny.
Hidden.
Click.
Pete whispered, “There.”
The electrical reading stabilized.
Jim looked at Leo.
The boy nodded.
“Now.”
Jim pressed the starter.
The engine turned once.
Twice.
Then caught.
The explosion of sound inside Apex Iron Works was enormous.
The FXR did not simply start.
It woke violently.
Combustion slammed through the old V-twin in a deep, uneven rhythm that shook tools on the wall.
The straight exhaust filled the garage with a thunderous mechanical pulse.
Dust fell from a ceiling beam.
Someone shouted.
Someone else laughed.
Rusty covered his ears and then realized he was laughing too.
Tommy slapped Big Dave hard enough to make the giant stumble.
Pete stared at the battery meter like it had personally apologized to him.
And Jim Mercer sat on Dutch Sullivan's motorcycle without moving.
The sound went through him.
Thirty years collapsed.
He was back in Reno.
Back outside the motel.
Dutch screaming over the engine.
Arty wiping grease from his face.
Young men with no idea how quickly years disappeared.
Jim blipped the throttle.
The engine answered instantly.
Not smooth.
Dutch had never wanted smooth.
Heavy.
Aggressive.
Alive.
Jim's vision blurred.
He blinked.
Did not care who saw.