The Young Mechanic And The Mystery Of The Red Flame Harley
CHAPTER 4: THE FIRE IN THE ALLEY
The heat from the exploding tool shack hit Jesse’s back like a physical blow, blistering the fabric of his canvas work shirt. Thousands of gallons of dried wood, kerosene cleaning solvents, and vintage motor oil inside Bay 4 ignited in a catastrophic fireball, sending roars of flame bursting through the corrugated tin roof fifty feet into the night sky. The concussive blast blew the shop’s side windows outward, showering the alley with jagged shards of glass and raining burning embers onto the concrete apron.
Through the blinding smoke and swirling sparks, Jesse saw Pop Callahan struggling against two private security guards. The old veteran swung his iron pry bar with wild, desperate fury, keeping the mercenaries at bay, but Brock Miller was circling behind him with a heavy lead pipe raised to strike.
“Pop! Look out!” Jesse screamed.
Jesse charged forward, driving his heavy sixteen-inch steel wrench like a club into Brock’s shoulder. The impact sent the enforcer stumbling sideways into the burning exterior wall of the depot, howling in pain as the hot tin scorched his flannel sleeve. Jesse caught Pop by his Navy jacket, hauling the coughing, smoke-blinded old man toward the cherry-red motorcycle.
“We can’t outrun their Suburbans on foot!” Jesse shouted over the deafening roar of the inferno. “We have to take the Harley!”
“The ignition key!” Pop wheezed, clutching his bruised chest as smoke billowed around them. “The master key was in my desk… inside the burning office!”
“Dad didn’t need a key to start his masterwork!” Jesse yelled back, his mind working with terrifying clarity.
Jesse dropped beside the left side of the engine. His hands moved with instinctive certainty, remembering the lessons Luke Campbell had drilled into him in their backyard shop ten years ago. Beneath the custom teardrop air cleaner was a hidden manual compression release valve and a secondary magneto bypass lever machined from aircraft-grade aluminum. Jesse flipped the magneto toggle up, depressed the compression release with his thumb, and threw his entire weight onto the heavy steel kickstarter.
CLACK-WHIRR.
The engine turned over once, coughing out a puff of blue exhaust smoke.
“Croft’s men are flanking through the gate!” Pop warned, pointing toward the end of the alley where four armed security guards were advancing with drawn sidearms, their laser sights cutting through the thick smoke.
Jesse leaped onto the kickstarter a second time with everything he had.
BOOM-ROAR.
The custom dual-carburetor shovelhead engine erupted into life with a ferocious, window-rattling roar that shook the very foundation of the depot. The experimental centrifugal supercharger spun up instantly, emitting an ear-piercing mechanical whistle that sounded like a jet turbine winding up on a carrier deck. The deep candy cherry-red paint glowed like molten iron in the reflection of the blazing building.
“Mount up, Pop!” Jesse roared, swinging his leg over the custom solo saddle.
Pop Callahan scrambled onto the pillion seat behind Jesse, wrapping his weathered arms tightly around Jesse’s waist. Jesse grabbed the chrome drag bars, pulled the heavy hydraulic clutch lever, and slammed his boot down on the shifter peg into first gear.
He dumped the clutch and pinned the throttle.
The wide rear tire bit into the concrete, smoking violently and throwing a rooster tail of burning asphalt and sparks directly into the faces of the advancing security guards. The machine leaped forward with terrifying acceleration, shooting out of the narrow alleyway onto the open depot apron like a missile.
Behind them, Julian Croft’s two black Suburbans immediately swung around the delivery bay, their V8 engines screaming as they gave chase, high beams blinding Jesse in the rearview mirrors.
“They’re on our tail, Jesse!” Pop yelled into Jesse’s ear over the howling wind. “The main street gate is locked with heavy chains! We can’t punch through!”
Jesse didn’t head for the street gate. He knew this industrial yard better than any surveyor in Indiana. He steered the roaring red motorcycle straight toward the abandoned railroad tracks of the southern freight spur.
The tracks ran parallel to the Wabash River, cutting through a narrow cut in the limestone bluffs that led toward the old gravel quarries. The wooden ties were rotted, overgrown with thick brambles and rusted iron rails, but the custom dual-springer front suspension of the Campbell chopper soaked up the brutal impacts with effortless grace.
Behind them, the lead Suburban attempted to follow them onto the rail bed. But the heavy five-ton SUV was far too wide and low. The vehicle’s front axle slammed violently into a raised steel switch-frog, tearing the steering assembly off its mountings in a catastrophic shower of sparks and flipping the massive truck onto its side across the rails.
The second Suburban skidded to a halt, blocked by the burning wreckage of the first.
“We lost them!” Pop shouted with a breathless laugh of triumph.
“Not yet, Pop,” Jesse replied grimly, glancing into the handlebar mirror.
A mile down the river highway, running parallel to the railroad tracks on the opposite bank, the sleek black Maybach limousine was accelerating at breakneck speed, its headlights tracking the red motorcycle’s course along the bluff. And ahead of them, where the railway spur ended at the abandoned limestone quarry, Brock Miller’s lifted four-wheel-drive pickup truck was already barreling down the gravel access road to cut off their only exit.
Jesse leaned forward over the handlebars, feeling the supercharger’s high-pitched whistle vibrating through his bones.
“Hold on, Pop,” Jesse whispered, opening the dual carburetors wide. “Let’s see what my dad really built.”
