Inside, Jonah finished another round of inspection and gave Caleb a list of work that would need specialist verification before full road service. The altered frame had been stabilized and the engine fault no longer appeared under the controlled conditions they had used, but Jonah insisted that the shop's documentation clearly state what remained unverified. Caleb wrote it on the invoice without a single euphemism. Grip signed beneath the restrictions after reading them.
'Never thought I'd pay ten grand for a man to tell me to slow down,' he said.
'It's an expensive lesson,' Caleb replied.
Grip looked at the repaired section and shook his head. 'Could have been more expensive.'
Before the convoy moved, the men gathered briefly outside the bay to hear Iron Jack. He told them that the Nevada run would proceed on schedule, but that the red Knucklehead was being handled according to the specialist's instructions and was not to be treated like a machine cleared for open-highway racing. A few riders seemed disappointed, though most had already heard enough rumors about the concealed defect to understand why the president's tone was final. Crowley told them there would be no discussion of blame until the evidence had been examined properly.
Skinner stood away from the group beside Dutch. His face was expressionless, and Caleb could not decide whether the man looked guilty, frightened, or merely furious at being accused. The difference mattered. Caleb caught Skinner watching him once, and the look sent a brief chill down his spine, but no words passed between them.
Grip wheeled the Knucklehead toward the doorway. He swung one leg over its saddle, checked the controls, and started it with a practiced motion that looked effortless after the difficult work of the afternoon. The engine settled into a deep, even idle. For a moment, Caleb could almost hear Aaron's approving grunt from the office doorway.
Outside, the crowd of riders opened a path. Iron Jack took position near the front of the formation, and Grip eased the red machine forward at walking speed into the warm Bakersfield night. The scarred repair section caught the last of the shop lights as the bike moved past Caleb, a plain mark on a famous machine that now carried an unfamiliar meaning. The motorcycle was not prettier for what it had endured, but it was more honest.
Grip stopped beside the threshold and looked back at the boy. 'You keep the doors open, Caleb. Our bikes need somebody who tells us the truth.'
Caleb hesitated. 'I can't promise I'll always have the answer.'
'You don't have to,' Grip replied. 'Just promise you won't pretend.'
'I can promise that.'
Grip raised one fist. Across the industrial park, engines fired in waves, their exhaust notes building into a massive, rolling thunder that swallowed the ordinary night sounds. The formation began to move, red taillights joining in a long ribbon down the cracked street. For a few seconds the shop trembled as if the earth itself were answering the engines.