Rain hammered the garage roof harder as silence spread through the Black Vultures compound.<\/p>\n
Caleb Mercer stood beside the ruined Harley gripping the wrench tightly, refusing to look away from the men surrounding him.<\/p>\n
The mechanic crossed his arms slowly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou even know what you\u2019re looking at, kid?\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb nodded once.<\/p>\n
\u201cShovelhead engine. Late seventies frame.\u201d His eyes drifted across the rusted bike carefully. \u201cFuel line\u2019s cracked\u2026 and somebody stripped the ignition.\u201d<\/p>\n
Several bikers exchanged quiet looks instantly.<\/p>\n
The mechanic\u2019s smirk disappeared.<\/p>\n
Because he was right.<\/p>\n
Every word.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did your mother tell you about Daniel Mercer?\u201d another biker asked from the shadows near the tool racks.<\/p>\n
Caleb hesitated.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot much.\u201d His voice lowered. \u201cJust that he used to belong here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Thunder rolled across Missouri.<\/p>\n
The mechanic stared at the boy for several long seconds before stepping closer.<\/p>\n
\u201cDaniel Mercer didn\u2019t \u2018belong\u2019 here,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cHe built half this club.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb looked back at the old Harley.<\/p>\n
Rainwater dripped from the garage doorway while the storm darkened the yard outside.<\/p>\n
Then the mechanic pointed toward the bike.<\/p>\n
\u201cStart with the carburetor.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb crouched carefully beside the Harley.<\/p>\n
Hands shaking slightly.<\/p>\n
But not from fear anymore.<\/p>\n
From recognition.<\/p>\n
Like he\u2019d touched these parts before.<\/p>\n
The mechanic noticed instantly.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo who taught you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb stopped moving for a second.<\/p>\n
Then answered softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy dad.\u201d<\/p>\n
The entire garage went still.<\/p>\n
One biker muttered under his breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s impossible.\u201d<\/p>\n
Because Daniel Mercer had supposedly died twelve years earlier in a warehouse fire outside Kansas City.<\/p>\n
No body was recovered.<\/p>\n
But nobody from the Black Vultures ever spoke his name afterward.<\/p>\n
The mechanic slowly knelt beside Caleb now, voice lower than before.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen\u2019s the last time you saw him?\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb\u2019s fingers tightened around the wrench.<\/p>\n
\u201cThree nights ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
Every biker in the garage froze.<\/p>\n
Outside the compound fence, the black SUV continued idling beneath the rain.<\/p>\n
Watching.<\/p>\n
Waiting.<\/p>\n
The mechanic\u2019s expression darkened instantly.<\/p>\n
\u201cKid\u2026\u201d he whispered carefully. \u201cIf Daniel Mercer\u2019s alive, you need to tell us where he is right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb looked up slowly.<\/p>\n
Fear returned to his face for the first time since arriving.<\/p>\n
Then he whispered the words that made every biker inside the garage reach for weapons without thinking.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me somebody inside this club betrayed him.\u201d<\/p>\n
At that exact moment\u2014<\/p>\n
The black SUV\u2019s headlights switched on across the street.<\/p>\n
And the engine revved hard beneath the storm.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Rain hammered the garage roof harder as silence spread through the Black Vultures compound. Caleb Mercer stood beside the ruined Harley gripping the wrench tightly, refusing to look away from the men surrounding him. The mechanic crossed his arms slowly. \u201cYou even know what you\u2019re looking at, kid?\u201d Caleb nodded once. \u201cShovelhead engine. Late seventies […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":3079,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3076","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-trending-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3076","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/7"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3076"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3076\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3079"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3076"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3076"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storytimes.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3076"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}