"Who hasn't heard of him?" The old man laughed, adjusting a wrench in his stretched-out jeans pocket that kept shifting and threatening to fall out. "That swindler buys up all the junk that shines and looks appealing, then sells it off as brand new."
"I'll beat the stupid out of him," I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my anger.
"Oh come on, cool your jets!"
The young man approached the motorcycle (which Selena had already unhitched from the trailer) and gave it a quick once-over.
"This 'warrior' has plenty of life left. After repairs, it'll be good as new. Hell, I'd bet a pint of ale this bike sat in Kurt's place for ages."
"Why's that?" I grumbled, still riding my aggressive emotions.
"Kurt can't ride for shit," the old man chuckled, "but apparently his act as a hardcore biker works, since you fell for it."
The men burst into even louder laughter, and even Selena and Oscar turned away to avoid provoking me with their snickering.
"How long will it take you to find and fix the problem?" I asked, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the nagging urge to wipe those smirks off their faces.
"These things can't be rushed," the old man scratched the back of his head. "We're looking at three days of work."
"Three?" I was stunned. "You got some kind of waiting list or something?"
"We're always swamped with work," the old man said, offended. "We're the only mechanics around here all the way to the city."
I peered into the building—which looked more like a shipping container for valuable cargo than a proper repair shop.
"It's empty in there," I pointed out. "You don't have a single car."
"Why don’t you step inside first, smartass?" the younger guy egged me on, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger.
I didn’t resist and strode confidently into the container, pretending not to notice his crude gesture.
"Hanging up a sign and grabbing a wrench doesn’t make you a mechanic. Amateurs…" I muttered under my breath as I stepped inside.
The moment I entered, I was hit by a wave of cool dampness and the smell of motor oil mixed with cleaning products. I turned to the right—and couldn’t believe my eyes.
The space was big. No, it was enormous. Inside, everything was divided into sections by concrete partitions. I stepped carefully across the perfectly clean floor, staring at the assortment of vehicles like I was in a museum—ranging from the latest models to long-forgotten relics.
"Well?"
The young man fell into step beside me, popping a toothpick into his mouth with evident satisfaction.
"You fix all these yourselves?" I managed. "Where’d so many vehicles come from in the middle of nowhere? There’s not a soul for kilometers."
"More tourists than you’d think," he shrugged. "Name’s Ned, by the way. That’s my dad—Franklin. But he hates the full name, thinks it’s too pompous, so just call him Frank."
"Pleasure, Ned," I shook his hand. "Good to know."
After what I’d just seen, my trust in these guys was skyrocketing.
The others caught up, and Oscar pointed deeper into the station, toward an area we hadn’t reached yet.
"Is that… a helicopter?" Selena asked, incredulous.
"We’ll take on anything that needs restoring—except people, of course," Frank declared solemnly. "Not for free, naturally."
"About that… I don’t have cash on me. Truth is, I got the bike on credit to begin with," I admitted, shoulders slumping.
