Page 1 of Agor the Merciless
Chapter One
The engine growled, its irregular stutter breaking the rhythm of the garage’s noise. Tools clanged against metal, impact wrenches whined, and classic rock blared from a radio caked with grime. Zoe Cross leaned over the pickup truck’s open engine bay, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that brushed her shoulders.
Cross & Sons Auto existed in permanent twilight. Sunlight fought through grimy windows, casting shadows across the oil-stained floor. The air reeked of gasoline fumes.
Zoe closed her eyes. The engine spoke in its own language – knocks, whines, and rumbles that told stories of wear and damage. She traced the valve cover, her touch mapping vibrations that didn’t belong. Most mechanics relied on diagnostic computers. Zoe used her instinct.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Tell me where it hurts.”
The engine coughed again. This time, a delay in the firing sequence was unmistakable. She snapped her eyes open and reached for a socket wrench. Grease worked its way under her fingernails and into the creases of her knuckles. Her biceps flexed as she loosened a bolt, the muscle definition clear through her rolled-up sleeves.
“Number three injector,” she murmured, her fingers moving over the fuel rail. “You couldn’t hide from me.”
She worked in silence, removing the faulty part. Three minutes later, she slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, the stutter gone, replaced by a smooth purr. Satisfied, she climbed back out, circled around to the front of the truck, and closed the hood with a thud.
“Would you look at that, Rick?” Her father’s voice cut through the sound of the engine. “She actually figured it out. Guess all that time tinkering isn’t a total waste.”
Zoe didn’t turn around. She knew their faces without looking – her father leaning against the office doorframe, arms crossed over his chest; her older brother Rick beside him, mirroring the posture their grandfather had passed down through generations of Cross men.
“Yeah, Dad.” Rick’s words dripped with false concern. “I feel for poor Mark, having to put up with all this. Not very ladylike, is it?”
“How much longer on the Harrison truck?” Her father’s boots thudded across the floor as he stepped closer. “We’ve got three more waiting.”
“Done.” Zoe wiped her hands on a rag hanging from her back pocket. “Running perfect now.”
“Guess you’re good for something after all.” Her father chuckled. “Mark coming by later? The boy’s got the patience of a saint.”
“I wonder what his buddies at the bank think,” Rick added. “Dating a grease monkey like you.”
“Think he makes her wash her hands before she touches him?”
They laughed.
“I’ll call Harrison.” Zoe tossed the dirty rag from her back pocket onto a pile of others, grabbed a clean one from the workbench, and wiped her hands more thoroughly, walking toward the small glass-walled office without meeting their eyes.
“You’ve got engine oil on your cheek.” Rick pointed out. “Might want to clean up if you’re seeing Mark tonight. A man likes his women to look like women, not mechanics.”
She clenched her jaw. At this point, their words were noise she had learned to ignore. But they echoed what Mark said in his gentler, more devastating way.
Babe, you know I support your... hobby. But maybe don’t talk about carburetors at dinner with my colleagues? It can beintimidating. Not very attractive when you know more about cars than the guys do.
Mark with his clean fingernails and pressed shirts. Mark who called her “his little tomboy” with a laugh. Mark who introduced her as, “Zoe, she works at her dad’s garage” instead of, “Zoe, the best mechanic in the county.”
Maybe they were right. Maybe she should try harder to be what Mark wanted. The alternative looked like the empty apartment she returned to every night, with its second-hand furniture and bare walls. At least with Mark, she wasn’t alone. At least with Mark, she had a shield against evenings filled with only her spiraling thoughts.
She dialed Harrison’s number from the cracked phone on the desk, arranged for him to pick up his truck, then leaned against the desk and rubbed her temples. The Harrison truck was fixed. Three more waited. The work, at least, made sense.
Zoe grabbed her toolbox from beside the office door and made her way back into the main work area. Her father and Rick had disappeared into the break room, their laughter mingling with the sound of a sports game on TV. She glanced at the three vehicles waiting for her attention: a minivan with transmission issues, an SUV needing brake work, and a Chevrolet with an oil leak.
She chose the Chevy, setting her toolbox down beside the car and rolling the hydraulic lift into position. After securing the lift arms under the vehicle’s frame, she hit the button to raise it to working height. Once it was elevated, she pulled her creeper board from under a workbench, lay back on it, and kicked off with her feet to slide under the Chevrolet on lift number three. The floor felt cold through the thin fabric of her coveralls as she positioned herself under the chassis. Above her, the undercarriage of the car told its own story of neglect – rust patches spreading like disease, fluid stains marking past leaks.
Her gaze was fixed on the lift mechanism instead of the car. She’d seen the problems worsening for weeks with growing concern. The main cable stretched taut under the weight of the Chevy, with frayed strands splaying from the metal like split hairs.
“Someone should replace that,” she muttered.
She reached up with her wrench to inspect a leaking transmission seal just as the radio switched to a Zeppelin song, guitars wailing through the otherwise empty garage.
The sound that followed wasn’t music.
