Caleb added:
“You’re welcome.”
Iron Jack laughed again.
Grip shook his head.
“Kid’s got nerve.”
Caleb rolled the motorcycle toward the dynamometer.
His exhaustion returned all at once.
His arms felt hollow.
But the test mattered most.
They secured the bike.
Caleb checked the straps.
Grip climbed onto the saddle.
Caleb stood at the controls.
“Start it.”
Grip turned the ignition and brought the old engine to life.
The Knucklehead erupted.
The sound filled the bay.
People outside moved closer.
Caleb watched the gauges.
“Bring it up slow.”
Grip accelerated.
Forty.
Fifty.
Sixty.
Everything remained stable.
Caleb stared at the frame.
Seventy.
His chest tightened.
Seventy-three.
Seventy-four.
Then seventy-five.
Nothing.
No stutter.
No violent oscillation.
No electrical failure.
The engine remained hard and clean.
Grip looked at Caleb.
Caleb raised one finger.
“Hold it.”
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Still clean.
Caleb nodded.
“Higher.”
Grip rolled on more throttle.
Eighty.
Ninety.
The motorcycle stayed composed.
Caleb watched every gauge.
Every movement.
Every sound.
At one hundred miles per hour indicated, he finally raised his hand.
“That’s enough.”
Grip eased off.
The engine settled.
Caleb killed the test.
For one perfect second there was silence.
Then the street erupted.
Hundreds of engines fired almost simultaneously.
The industrial park shook beneath a thunderous mechanical celebration.
Caleb laughed.
He could not stop himself.
He leaned against the dyno console, exhausted and greasy and bleeding through the tape around his knuckles.
Grip climbed down.
The two men looked at each other.
Grip extended his hand.
Caleb stared at it.
Then shook.
Grip’s grip was enormous.
But careful.
“You saved my life.”
Caleb shook his head.
“I fixed your bike.”
“No.”
Grip looked toward the removed frame piece sealed on the bench.
“You saved my life.”
Caleb had no answer.
Grip released his hand.
Then reached into his vest and removed a thick envelope.
He placed it on the bench.
Caleb looked at it.
“That doesn’t look like five.”
“It isn’t.”
“How much?”
“Ten.”
Caleb stared.
“I said five.”
“And I changed my mind.”
“I don’t need charity.”
Grip’s expression hardened.
“Good, because you’re not getting any.”
He tapped the envelope.
“Five for the repair.”