The problem practically jumps out at him. A bushing has caught against the rotating arm, leaving metal to rub against metal. He shakes his head at its simplicity, and reaches into his tool pouch, pulling out his wrench. Making sure to lash the lead, he twists around the side and starts to--
--loosen the long hinge bolt--
“Hey, anybody there? Earth to Raymond...”
He wants to ignore the call, revel in the moment, but a hand wraps around his ankle and yanks him out from under the Audi.
“Hey, come on, maaaan...that old lady, Mrs. Weathers, is asking about her car. Ya got it figured out yet?”
His boss, Dennis – or, “Rooster” as everyone calls him, with all the strutting he does around the garage – stands over him, hands on his hips. He’s a tall skinny kid, a good 25 years younger than Raymond, who can’t seem to get the hang of shaving or combing his hair, and spits while he talks. But his uncle owns the shop, so...
“Yeah. It’s a bushing on the tie-rod. Just a couple more minutes to slip on a new one. Probably have to check the alignment.”
“Good. So get with it...” Rooster gives a swift kick to the bottom of Raymond’s shoe and disappears back in the office.
With a deep sigh and a shake of the head, Raymond rolls the creeper back under the car.
It’s then, not too far off in the distance, he hears the roaring locomotive fast approaching. As it closes in, the rumble of the tracks reverberate into the trestle pillars, and it shakes him to the very marrow of his bones. Dangling from his rope, 500 feet above the raging river below, Special Ops Agent Raymond Mason realizes he only has a matter of seconds to get the pivot bolt back into the support arm, or the President’s train will go crashing into the canyon in a flaming heap...