“No.”
“You live here?”
Leo avoided the question.
“You’ve got a ruptured line and damage lower down. Starting it like that is making things worse.”
The biker barked out a short laugh.
“You always walk out of abandoned buildings and tell strangers what’s wrong with their motorcycles?”
“Usually there aren’t strangers.”
“Kid.”
The man pointed toward the garage.
“Go back inside.”
Leo almost obeyed.
Then he looked at the rider’s shoulder.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
“And if whoever put you off the road comes back, you aren’t riding anywhere.”
The humor left the biker’s face.
Leo had guessed correctly.
“Who says somebody put me off the road?”
“The right crash bar is scraped. Left saddlebag is gone. Your shoulder took impact. Front tire’s still good.”
Leo swallowed.
“You didn’t lose control.”
The biker studied him more carefully.
“What are you, seventeen?”
“Yes.”
“You a cop’s kid?”
“No.”
“Mechanic?”
Leo looked at the Harley.
“My dad was.”
The biker followed his gaze.
“You think you can fix this?”
“I think I can get it running.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
Leo nodded.
“It isn’t.”
That answer seemed to matter.
The biker glanced toward the highway.
Darkness was almost complete.
“You have tools?”
“A few.”
“What kind?”
“Mostly terrible.”
For the first time, the man smiled.
“Honest.”
Leo pointed toward the garage.
“I have scrap too.”
The biker looked toward the empty road one more time.
Then grabbed the handlebars.
“Name’s Jack Sullivan.”
Leo noticed the patch on his chest.
SULLY.
SERGEANT AT ARMS.
“People call you Sully.”
“They do.”