Garrett’s smile vanished.
The motorcycle that fifteen experienced mechanics couldn’t repair was suddenly running smoothly, its engine rumbling with a steady rhythm that hadn’t been heard in weeks.
Owen stepped back, wiped his hands on a rag, and looked at the timer.
Two minutes and eleven seconds remained.
“Three minutes would’ve been enough,” he said quietly.
Nobody laughed.
Garrett stared at the running motorcycle as though he’d just witnessed the impossible.
Razor slowly removed his sunglasses.
“What the hell…”
Garrett rushed forward, twisted the throttle, and listened as the engine responded perfectly.
He shut it off.
Started it again.
Then again.
Every time, the Harley roared to life.
The silence inside the clubhouse became unbearable.
Owen closed his toolbox.
“Five thousand dollars,” he said.
Garrett turned toward him, his expression darkening.
“You think I’m giving five grand to some dirty little street rat?”
Owen didn’t move.
“You made the bet.”
Garrett stepped closer, towering over the teenager.
“Hells Angels don’t lose bets. Not to garbage like you.”
Several bikers began moving toward Owen.
But before anyone could touch him, an older man sitting in the back of the garage suddenly stood up.
His name was Victor Kane, one of the oldest members of the club.
He had been silent the entire time.
Now his face had gone pale.
“Wait,” Victor said.
He walked toward Owen, staring at the small silver pendant hanging around the teenager’s neck.
“Where did you get that?”
Owen instinctively touched the pendant.
“It belonged to my father.”
Victor’s expression changed completely.
“What’s your father’s name, son?”
Owen hesitated.
“Daniel Carter.”
The old biker stumbled backward.
Garrett frowned.
“Victor? What’s wrong?”
Victor looked from Owen to the motorcycle, then back to Garrett.
“That boy’s father,” he said, his voice trembling, “is the reason you’re alive today.”
The garage fell silent once again.
And suddenly, the five-thousand-dollar bet was no longer the biggest secret in the room.