PART 3:

“That’s a let me think about it.” Nate walked back to the car, popped the hood, and stared down into the engine bay. The Valkyrie’s engine was a work of art, a 6.5-liter V12 that produced 1,160 horsepower, surrounded by carbon fiber and exotic metals and electronics worth more than most people’s houses. Nate stood there for a long time, his eyes moving over the engine like he was reading poetry.

Finally, he spoke without looking at her. “If I do this, if I try to do this on your timeline, I’m not making any promises. Maybe I find it in 6 hours. Maybe I don’t find it at all. Maybe I find it and discover the part I need won’t be here until next week.” “But you’ll try.” “I’ll try.” He closed the hood with more care than she’d ever seen anyone handle her property.

Then he turned to face her again, and this time there was something different in his eyes. A challenge. “But I have a condition.” Claire Montgomery did not accept conditions. She gave them. “What?” The word came out sharper than she intended. Nate Rhodes looked at her, and for just a moment she saw what might have been a smile ghost across his face.

“If I fix this car, and I mean really fix it, so it runs perfectly, you have to do something for me.” “Name it.” “I’ll tell you when I fix the car.” “That’s not how negotiations work, Mr. Rhodes.” “It is when you’re the one who needs something, Miss Montgomery.” They stared at each other across the hood of the Aston Martin, and Claire Montgomery felt something she hadn’t felt in years.

Someone treating her like a person instead of a checkbook. She should have walked away. Should have called a tow truck, taken the car to the dealership in San Francisco, flown down in her private helicopter, should have reminded this nobody mechanic that she didn’t negotiate with people who worked on their backs in the dirt.

Instead, she heard herself say, “Fine. Fix the car. Name your price.” Nate nodded once, then walked to the service bay’s tool cabinet. When he came back, he was carrying a tablet and what looked like a small laptop. He set them on a rolling cart next to the Valkyrie and got to work without another word. Claire stood there for a moment, uncertain.

She wasn’t used to being dismissed, especially not after making a deal. But Nate Rhodes had already forgotten she existed. His entire focus was on the car, on the diagnostic screen, on whatever invisible problem he was hunting. She turned to leave, her heels clicking on the concrete. “Miss Montgomery?” His voice stopped her at the door to the waiting room.

“What?” “This is going to take a while. The waiting room’s not comfortable. You should go home, come back tomorrow.” “I’ll decide what I should do, Mr. Rhodes.” “Suit yourself.” He plugged a cable into the car’s diagnostic port and turned back to his screens. Claire Montgomery stood in that doorway for a full minute, watching this man ignore her with the kind of complete indifference she’d only ever dreamed of having.

Then, against every instinct she had, she walked back to the waiting room, sat down in one of those terrible plastic chairs, and waited. 3 hours later, Claire was still waiting. She’d made 17 phone calls. She’d answered 43 emails. She’d reviewed and approved two acquisition proposals, denied three budget requests, and fired one regional manager who’d missed his quarterly targets.

She’d done more work from that plastic chair than most people did from their offices. But she hadn’t left. Through the window, she could see Nate Rhodes working. He moved with the kind of quiet efficiency that came from deep competence. No wasted motion, no frustration, just steady, methodical problem-solving. At one point, Jack Davies brought him what looked like a sandwich and a coffee.

Nate ate while staring at the diagnostic screen, his eyes never leaving the data scrolling past. At another point, two of the other mechanics came over to look at what he was doing. She could see them talking, gesturing at the engine bay, but she couldn’t hear the words. After a few minutes, they drifted away, shaking their heads.

The sun was setting by the time Nate straightened up from the engine bay, rolled his shoulders, and closed the hood. Claire stood up so fast her phone nearly fell off her lap. When Nate walked into the waiting room, he looked tired. Not defeated, just tired. There was a new smudge of grease across his forehead, and his hands were even blacker than before.

“Well?” Claire asked. “Found it,” Nate said. “Corroded ground connection in the battery junction box, creating intermittent voltage drops that cascaded through the control unit. The diagnostic computers couldn’t see it because it only manifested under specific load conditions. English, Mr. Rhodes. Rust on a wire.

I cleaned it, reinforced it, tested it. Your car will start now. Claire felt something unexpected bloom in her chest. Relief, maybe, or vindication. She’d been right to trust him. “Show me.” She said. They walked back to the service bay together. The other mechanics had mostly left for the day, heading home to families and lives that didn’t involve electronic automotive systems.

The garage felt bigger in the gathering darkness, emptier. Nate opened the driver’s door and gestured for her to get in. Claire slid behind the wheel and for the first time in 48 hours, she felt like herself again. This car fit her like a second skin. She knew every curve, every response, every sound it should make.

She pressed the start button. The engine roared to life with a sound like God clearing his throat. A deep, visceral bellow that climbed to a howl as the tachometer needle swept toward red line. Then settled into a purr so perfect it made her heart ache. Claire Montgomery felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them away angrily.

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