At the simulated road speed around seventy-five miles per hour, the Knucklehead continued running smoothly. The instrument showed eighty, then ninety, and finally an indicated one hundred miles per hour on the dyno rollers before Jonah called an end to the controlled test, watching the measurements with an expression that refused to become celebratory. The bike's engine sounded strong, and for the first time Caleb could hear that strength without imagining the frame tearing itself apart beneath a rider. But Jonah still insisted the shop test did not replace structural verification and a cautious return-to-service process.
Grip accepted the distinction. The fact surprised Caleb more than the engine's clean sound. He had expected the big man to demand an immediate ride to prove his authority; instead, Grip watched the machine from beside Jonah and allowed the test to end when the older specialist said it should. It was the first unmistakable evidence that the day's events had changed more than the Knucklehead.
When the engine stopped, the street erupted in a rumble of motorcycle exhaust and voices. Some men applauded, others revved their bikes, and the rolling mechanical noise shook dust from the rafters. Caleb looked toward the open bay and saw headlights spilling across the pavement. The men outside understood only that the famous red Knucklehead had sounded healthy again; the danger hidden beneath its paint remained known to a much smaller group.
Grip rested one hand on the seat. He looked at Caleb with an expression the boy could not name. 'You did something every other shop missed,' he said. 'And you took the risk of telling me what I didn't want to hear.'
Caleb was too tired for modesty. 'It wasn't safe,' he said. 'I couldn't let it go.'
Grip nodded once. 'I know that now.'
The celebrations outside lasted only a minute before Iron Jack raised his hand and signaled for quiet. He knew the difference between a motorcycle being repaired and a mystery being solved, and the second matter had not progressed beyond suspicion. Dutch had gone to find Skinner nearly an hour earlier. Nobody had told Caleb what the enforcer had learned, and the absence of news had begun to weigh on him more heavily than the presence of the men outside.
Iron Jack stepped toward the workbench and asked to see the recovered frame insert again. Caleb uncovered it, and the president examined the numbered evidence photographs beside it. He seemed less interested in the engineering than in the timing, asking exactly when the old paint had been removed, where the alteration had first become visible, and whether Caleb had handled anything with bare hands. Caleb answered carefully, appreciating that the questions treated the piece as evidence rather than a weapon for settling a personal score.
'You're going to let me take this?' Crowley asked.
'No,' Caleb replied before his caution could stop him. 'Not until we've made a proper record of who has it and what condition it's in. If you want a copy of the photographs, I'll make one.'
A large man beside the door gave a humorless snort. 'You telling Jack what he can take?'
'I'm telling him the only way I know to make sure the truth survives,' Caleb said.