He took the MacArthur Causeway across Biscayne Bay and on to I–95 South, breezing by traffic at seventy miles an hour all the way down through the city to where the interstate merged with Route 1 and became the South Dixie Highway. There he opened up the bike, shooting along past Pine Crest and Perrine and heading for Florida City, at the southernmost tip of the sprawling city. At a strip mall complete with a Denny’s, a Comfort Inn and a Texaco station, he pulled the Fireblade to a halt under a stand of palms. Searching for the golden arches, he pulled out onto the highway and drove into a fast-food take-out lot a little further on.

There he waited, resting with his butt on the bike seat, arms crossed over his chest. He could feel the heat on his forehead as he stared back at the road, searching for the arrival of the man he’d called on his phone. Quite a large number of vehicles passed through the drive-thru before he saw the silver Land Rover he was expecting.

He stood still, waiting for the large vehicle to come to him. He could see three men inside, indistinct shadows, two in the front and one in the back. The Land Rover drew alongside the bike and he exchanged a nod with the passenger. Guy had a nasty bruise under his eyes. Like Rickard’s, the swelling on this man’s face was courtesy of Joe Hunter. Rickard hopped back on the Fireblade and peeled out of the lot, the Land Rover following to somewhere less public.

Next stop, the Florida Keys. Rickard read signs on the road, but he’d no intention of traveling so far. He found an agricultural trail just outside of town and pulled onto the track. His wheels kicked up dust as he sped down it with the Land Rover following close behind.

He found a place where the track widened out, a grassy shoulder on one side next to an irrigation channel. A wide field of tall grass spread away to the distant horizon on his right, but the other side of the trail was bordered by spindly trees choked with Spanish moss. There were also gumbo limbo trees, with weird twisted trunks and bark like leather.

Putting the bike on its stand on the grassy shoulder, he moved to the road as the Land Rover passed by. He watched the driver throw the big vehicle into reverse and then pull in near the bike. Rickard stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching closely as all three men got out, dust settling around them.