Fletcher nodded. Chad pressed the button. The V12 turned over. The roar filled the service bay. Deep, full, even.
No stutter, no hesitation. The hybrid system engaged seamlessly. The e-motor relay clicked once, clean, decisive, and held. The dashboard showed a single green status light where six red fault codes used to live. The cooling fan spun up to their correct cycle.
The battery temperature read nominal. The idle was smooth, steady, perfect. A low, contented hum, like a heartbeat finally finding its rhythm. Chad stared at the diagnostic screen. Every parameter green, every threshold normal.
Zero fault codes. " How long did that take?" Todd whispered. Chad looked at his watch. His eyes went wide.
4 minutes. He did it in 4 minutes. Through the glass partition, the showroom erupted. The two customers started clapping. The receptionist covered her mouth with her hand.
The salesman just stood there, shaking his head. Eleanor Ashford hadn't moved. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, watching Fletcher with an expression that was hard to read. It wasn't surprise. It was recognition.
The look of someone who had just found something they had been searching for without knowing it. Dale lowered his phone. He had filmed the whole thing. And behind everyone, standing alone by her desk, Victoria Whitmore stared through the glass at the young man she had called trash. The young man she had tried to arrest.
The young man who had just done in 4 minutes what two factory engineering teams and $200,000 could not do in 3 weeks. Her face was blank. But her hands were shaking. Victoria didn't clap. She didn't congratulate.
She pushed through the service bay door and walked straight toward the Pagani like a prosecutor approaching the stand. " Anyone can start an engine," she said. " That doesn't mean it's fixed. I want a full road test. Every system, every mode.
If one single warning light comes on, I'm calling the police." She was grasping for anything now, any crack, any excuse to prove that the boy she had called trash was exactly what she said he was. Eleanor looked at Fletcher. " Can you drive it? Yes, ma'am.
Victoria laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. He probably doesn't even have a license. Fletcher pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out his Illinois driver's license, held it up without a word. Valid, clean, no points. Victoria's mouth tightened.
She had nothing left to throw. " The test track," she said to Chad, "behind the building, full circuit. I want every system engaged." Whitmore Motors had a private test loop behind the dealership, a quarter-mile strip of smooth asphalt that Victoria used for client demonstrations. Today, it would be Fletcher Caine's proving ground.