Thea
Three days. That was how long it took me to completely dismantle, clean, and recalibrate the aftermarket intake on Miles’s custom Harley.
It had been meticulous, painstaking work. I had flushed every trace of fine dust from the intake valve, hand-sanded a microscopic burr on the throttle housing, and reprogrammed the fuel mapping so the custom parts finally communicated with the engine block instead of fighting it.
I wiped a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead with the back of my gloved hand and stepped back.
With a turn of the key and a firm press on the ignition, the heavy machine roared to life.
It didn’t hesitate. It didn’t stutter. The sound echoing off the cinderblock walls of the shop wasn’t just loud—it was a deep, rhythmic, terrifyingly crisp thunder. The exact frequenc
