The Biker In The Garage And The Legacy Of Ben Reed
CHAPTER 3: THE WOLF AT THE BAY DOORS
The heavy diesel engine outside idled with a deep, menacing lope—the sound of an eight-cylinder turbocharged Caterpillar motor built for hauling commercial earth-moving equipment. Heavy headlights threw the long, barred shadows of the shop window frames across the concrete floor, illuminating Hank, Deke, and young Sam in sharp, theatrical contrast.
Hank placed his hand gently on Sam’s shoulder, guiding the boy behind the heavy steel plate of the tire-mounting station.
“Stay low behind the iron, Sam,” Hank commanded in a quiet, steady voice. “Don’t make a sound until I tell you.”
Hank walked to the small pedestrian side door of the garage bay. He unlocked the deadbolt with a slow, deliberate click, pushing the heavy wooden door open three inches.
Standing on the illuminated gravel apron, framed against the blinding chrome grille of a lifted black GMC Sierra 3500 dually, was Garrett Caine.
Caine was forty-eight, broad-chested, wearing an expensive sheepskin-lined rancher coat over an embroidered western shirt and polished ostrich-skin boots. His sandy-gray hair was styled neatly beneath a custom black felt cowboy hat, and he carried a heavy, silver-tipped cattleman’s cane in his right hand. Flanking him on either side were two uniformed county sheriff’s deputies, both wearing ballistic vests with tactical shotguns held at the low ready.
“Evening, Becker,” Caine said, his voice carrying the smooth, synthetic warmth of an elected official addressing a constituent. “I see you’ve got the bay doors barred up tight. A bit late for retail mechanical service, isn’t it?”
Hank stepped fully out onto the gravel, closing the pedestrian door behind him and resting his weight against the jamb. His arms hung loose at his sides, inches from the concealed .45 beneath his leather vest.
“We close when the work is done, Caine,” Hank said, his gravelly voice flat and unyielding. “What are you doing on my commercial lease with armed deputies?”
“I’m here to retrieve my property, mechanic,” Caine said, stepping forward until the polished tip of his cane clicked against the asphalt three feet from Hank’s boots. “My stepson took my vintage Plymouth off the ranch without my authorization. He’s a troubled minor with a documented history of emotional disturbances. His mother and I have been beside ourselves with worry. Sheriff Wilkes here was kind enough to trace the vehicle’s location.”
“The boy didn’t steal anything,” Hank said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “He brought the car in for emergency brake service. The master cylinder was contaminated with agricultural defoliant, and the right rear bleeder valve was backed out by hand. Under South Dakota commercial automotive code, I have an administrative mechanic’s lien on any vehicle deemed unsafe for public highway transit until a certified state inspector reviews the tampering.”
Caine’s polished smile vanished instantly, replaced by the ugly, arrogant sneer of a feudal lord whose authority had been challenged by an inferior.
“Don’t quote motor vehicle statutes to me, grease-monkey,” Caine hissed, leaning in until the smell of his expensive cologne and bourbon hit Hank’s face. “I sit on the county transportation commission. I approve the zoning permits for every commercial garage between here and Rapid City. You open that bay door and hand over that boy and those keys, or I’ll have the county health board padlock your tanks before sunrise.”
Hank didn’t move an inch. His broad chest remained an impassable wall of bone and leather.
“You aren’t touching that car, Caine,” Hank said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and cold that the two deputies behind Caine shifted their boots uneasily on the gravel. “And you aren’t laying a finger on Ben Reed’s son.”
Caine’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, then narrowed into vicious amusement. He stepped in closer, speaking in an intimate, poisonous whisper that the deputies behind him couldn’t hear:
“So the brat told you,” Caine murmured with a mocking smile. “Ben Reed was an arrogant fool who thought an engineer with a drafting pen could tell a corporate conglomerate how to harvest grain. I crushed Ben inside that combine header seven years ago, mechanic. I listened to his ribs snap under the feeder chain, and the county coroner called it a tragic operator error. I took his patents, I took his ranch, and I took his wife. I will crush this boy just as easily, and there isn’t a single judge in this state who will stop me.”
Hank’s right fist clenched until the leather of his glove groaned. For a fraction of a second, every combat instinct screamed at him to drive his knuckles through Caine’s teeth and snap his neck against the truck bumper. But he looked past Caine’s shoulder, saw the two deputies with fingers on their shotgun triggers, and forced his fury into cold, tactical discipline.
“Get off my property, Caine,” Hank said quietly. “While you can still walk off it under your own power.”
Caine smiled coldly, tapping his cane against the ground. “You have until dawn, Becker. At eight in the morning, the sheriff arrives with a signed emergency child welfare warrant and an order to seize the vehicle. If the boy isn’t on my ranch by breakfast, you’ll be sharing a federal cell with the other felons.”
Caine turned on his heel, climbed into the leather cab of his heavy dually, and tore out of the gravel lot, his rear tires kicking up a cloud of choking prairie dust that hung thick in the moonlight.
