Sophie giggled.
The sound surprised both of them.
Marcus led her away from the Harley.
They stood near the blue car.
He kept himself between Sophie and the motorcycle.
Then he noticed something else.
A security camera mounted under the diner's roof.
Its lens pointed directly across the lot.
Good.
Very good.
Less than nine minutes later, engines rolled through the intersection.
Sophie turned.
Four motorcycles entered first.
Then two more.
Then a dark pickup carrying tools.
The sound was thunderous enough to make diners look through the windows.
Marcus watched six members of the Desert Kings park away from his Harley.
Nobody needed to be told not to touch it.
Diesel Martinez climbed out of the pickup.
Despite sharing Sophie's surname, there was no relation. Diesel's real name was Daniel Martinez, though almost nobody outside government paperwork used it anymore.
He was fifty-four, broad-shouldered, with graying hair tied behind his head and the hands of a mechanic who could identify an engine problem by sound alone.
Snake followed him.
Snake was even larger than Marcus, though softer around the middle, with tattooed forearms and a surprisingly gentle face.
Flash came last, already holding a tablet and portable diagnostic equipment.
"What've we got?" Diesel asked.
Marcus nodded toward Sophie.
"Witness."
All three men looked down.
Sophie instinctively moved closer to Marcus.
Diesel softened.
"Hey."
"Hi."
"You saw somebody working on the bike?"
She nodded.
"Can you tell me where?"
Sophie pointed.
"Mostly there. Then he moved over there."
Diesel crouched near the Harley without touching it.
"Front brake?"
"Maybe."
He looked at Marcus.
"I'll check everything."
"Everything."
Marcus stepped back.
The men worked systematically.
No engine start.
No unnecessary movement.
Photographs first.
Close-ups.
Tires.
Brake lines.
Calipers.
Bolts.
Fuel system.
Electrical wiring.
Axles.
Steering.
Sophie watched every movement.
Her father had once worked like this.
She remembered clean rags.
A metal toolbox.
The smell of oil on his hands.
She remembered sitting on an upside-down bucket in his garage while he explained things she had been too young to fully understand.
Never rush around a motorcycle.
Look twice.
Touch once.
If something feels wrong, stop.
Sophie had forgotten hundreds of things her father had taught her.
But she had remembered that.
Diesel suddenly stopped.
Nobody spoke.
Marcus saw the change in his face.
"What?"
Diesel leaned closer.
Then looked up.
"Nobody moves the bike."
Marcus's jaw tightened.
"What'd you find?"
"Front brake line."
Sophie stopped breathing.
Diesel pointed without touching.
A thin cut crossed part of the hydraulic line.
It was not completely severed.
That made it worse.
Someone had deliberately cut only partway through.
Marcus crouched.
"How deep?"
"Enough."
"Would it hold here?"
"Probably."
"How long?"
Diesel shook his head.
"Could be one hard stop. Could be two miles. Could be twenty."
Marcus stared at the line.
Diesel continued.
"Heat, vibration and pressure would finish it."
"At speed?"
"You'd squeeze the brake lever and get nothing."
The parking lot became silent.
Marcus imagined the route he had intended to take.
Rosy's Diner sat less than three miles from Highway 18.
Marcus normally accelerated onto the highway and stayed there for almost thirty miles before reaching the clubhouse.
Seventy miles an hour.
Sometimes more.