He was fifty-nine years old and built like someone who had spent most of his life lifting things other people required equipment to move. His beard had gone almost entirely iron gray. The skin around his eyes carried deep lines from sun, wind, age, and years of squinting down open roads.
His leather vest was old.
Nothing about it looked decorative.
Behind him came six other riders.
A flatbed truck followed.
Dutch's FXR sat strapped to the bed even though it had never technically left Apex's possession. Jim had insisted on having it unloaded that morning so the club could inspect it, then returned it after confirming that it was still dead.
Now it looked almost accusatory.
The truck stopped.
Jim shut off his engine.
One by one, the others did the same.
Silence came back in layers.
First the exhaust roar vanished.
Then only cooling metal remained.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Jim removed his gloves.
“Tell me she's breathing.”
Rusty had rehearsed several versions of his answer.
Every one disappeared.
“No.”
Jim stared at him.
Rusty swallowed.
“I've had three of my best guys on it for two weeks. We rebuilt the carburetor. We checked compression. We replaced everything in the ignition system that tested questionable. Pete traced the harness until he probably knows every wire better than the man who built it. We've gone through everything we can think of.”
Jim's gaze moved toward the motorcycle.
“And?”
“It won't fire.”
Jim stepped closer.
Rusty continued quickly.
“Mechanically, it shouldn't be possible. That's the problem. We have fuel. We have compression. We can produce spark under testing. The starter turns. But when everything is connected and we try to start it, something goes wrong.”
“What?”
“We don't know.”
Jim looked at Pete.
The old electrician shifted his weight.
“The battery drain is real,” Pete said. “Put a fully charged battery in it and something pulls it down fast. We've checked obvious grounds, damaged wiring, accessories, harness connections. Nothing explains the load.”
Jim looked toward Tommy.
Tommy lifted his hands.
“Carb is clean.”
Big Dave added, “Compression is good.”
Rusty forced himself to say the sentence.
“We're out of answers.”
Jim's jaw tightened.
Some of the riders behind him exchanged looks.
Bobby, one of the younger men, folded his arms.
Jim walked into the bay.
Nobody followed immediately.
He approached the FXR slowly.
The bike had been placed on its stand beneath the fluorescent lights.
Jim laid his hand on the seat.
His fingers remained there.
For a moment, he no longer looked intimidating.
He looked old.
“Dutch pulled me out of the gutter in ninety-four,” he said quietly.
Nobody interrupted.
“I had nothing. No money. No real home. Half the people who knew me figured I'd be dead or locked up before thirty.”
His thumb moved across a worn seam in the seat.
“Dutch didn't give speeches. Didn't tell me I was special. He made me work. Made me show up. Made me own every stupid thing I did.”
Jim looked toward the others.
“This machine was there through most of it.”
Rusty nodded.
“I understand.”
“No, you don't.”
There was no anger in Jim's voice yet.
Only grief.
“That engine was running the night my first boy was born. It was outside the hospital. Dutch sat on it for six hours because he said waiting rooms smelled like death.”
Someone near the entrance gave a quiet laugh.
Jim's mouth twitched.
“He rode it to funerals. Weddings. Court dates. Hospital visits. Every stupid run we should never have survived.”
Then Jim looked at Rusty.
“The memorial is Saturday.”
“I know.”
“It leads.”
“Jim—”
“It leads.”
Rusty rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
“I can't promise you that.”
The change in Jim's face was almost imperceptible.
But everyone felt it.
“I paid you five thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“I brought you Dutch's bike because everybody says Apex is the best.”
Rusty looked down.
“I know.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“That I don't know how to fix it.”
The words seemed impossible coming from him.
Jim took a slow breath.
“If a forty-year-old motorcycle beats this shop, then maybe this shop isn't what everybody says it is.”
“That's fair.”
“No.”
Jim stepped closer.
“Fair is giving you until Friday.”
Rusty looked up.
“Jim.”
“Friday. Noon.”
He pointed toward the FXR.
“I come back, and I want to hear that engine.”