Riley’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands began to shake, just slightly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the worn, yellowed photograph.
She walked up to the President and held it out. "Was his name Raymond Cole?"
The President took the photo, looking at the scarred hands holding the torque wrench. He looked from the picture to Riley, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the shape of her knuckles, and the fierce, stubborn fire in her eyes.
"Yeah," the President said softly. "Ray was a legend. He was my brother."
The silence in the garage was absolute. Fifty hardened men stared at the scrawny, nineteen-year-old girl standing in the center of the room.
Stone stepped forward, looking down at her. The harshness in his face was entirely gone. "You're Ray's kid."
"I am," Riley said, her voice steady.
The President held out the silver ring from the cylinder, then looked at the disassembled engine on the tarp. "You think you can put it back together without the secret compartment? Make it run?"
"I know I can," Riley said.
The President nodded slowly. "The ten grand is yours. But if you want it, there's a permanent spot in this garage for you. A bed, hot meals, and all the engines you can handle. You're family now."
For the first time in seven months, Riley Cole smiled. She looked at the engine parts spread out before her, no longer a puzzle, but a legacy.
"I'll need a new set of socket wrenches," she said.