Chapter 7 - Inside the Iron Gates
The heavy steel security gate of the Iron Eagle garage clanged shut, the padlock clicking securely into place. Inside, the massive workspace was bathed in the warm, amber glow of overhead halogen lamps. Jack had insisted on towing the vintage Triumph from the barn under the cover of night, hauling it safely into the center bay of the shop.
Maeve stood by the workbench, carefully laying out the contents of her father’s leather-bound notebook page by page. The detailed sketches of the carburetor rebuild matched the greasy metal parts soaking in the solvent tank nearby. Vance stood across from her, carefully scrubbing a cylinder head with a wire brush.
"Your old man had hands like a surgeon," Vance muttered, glancing up at Maeve with a rare, approving nod. "Look at the porting work on this intake. You don't see craftsmanship like this anymore. Everything today is mass-produced plastic junk."
"He spent every evening in that barn after I went to sleep," Maeve said softly, her hands resting on the worn leather cover of the journal. "I used to sit on that old stool and hand him wrenches before I was even old enough to ride a bicycle."
Bo walked over carrying a steaming mug of black coffee, setting it gently down next to her elbow. "He loved you fierce, kid. Every note in this book... half of it is technical specs, and the other half is notes on how to pay for your college tuition."
Maeve blinked back fresh tears, looking up at the bulky biker. "Why didn't he ever talk about the club? Why did he keep all of this hidden away?"
"Because once you're in that life, Maeve, you never really leave," Jack said, stepping out from the parts room with a freshly rebuilt oil pump in his hands. He set it down on the workbench with a heavy thud. "Even when you walk away, the past has a habit of tracking grease all over your clean floor."
Before anyone could reply, the heavy exterior security lights outside suddenly flickered and died, plunging the alleyway into absolute darkness. The interior fluorescent lights buzzed loudly, their glow dimming as a heavy electrical surge rolled through the building.
Jack froze. He dropped the wrench he was holding, the metallic clatter echoing sharply off the concrete floor.
"Cut the work lights," Jack whispered, his voice razor-sharp.
Vance lunged for the breaker panel on the wall, flipping the main switch down. The garage instantly went pitch black, save for the faint, flickering amber glow of a single neon sign buzzing softly in the front window.
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From outside, the slow, rhythmic crunch of heavy boots approached the side entrance, stopping directly in front of the reinforced steel door.
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