Alonzo drove the lead Harley, Miggy clutching him around the waist, hanging on for dear life. The rain continued to fall as steam spiraled up from the highway, making it hard to see. Alonzo cursed the sudden absence of lightning. When he needed light, where was it? Even with the fog lights on, the steam continuing to spiral upward in gigantic swirls from the road almost blinded him. His guts churned.

Miggy could feel his friend’s tenseness. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts travel to the magical place he hoped to live in one day, where he would sleep on silk sheets and have a refrigerator full of good, nourishing food and tons of cold beer. The magical place where the closets would be full of designer clothes and aftershave lotion that would drive women insane.

It wasn’t going to happen, and he knew it. The rest of the gang believed it—even Alonzo believed it—but he didn’t. He wondered if that meant he was smarter or stupider. Three eyeballs! Miggy shuddered just as Alonzo slowed down, which meant they were close to where they were going to stash the Harleys. The plan was to make it the rest of the way on foot.

If ever there was something to be thankful for, it was the rain coming down like a waterfall, which meant no one would be looking out their windows at this hour of the night. Maybe Alonzo knew what he was doing after all, and they would be safe. But Miggy didn’t believe it for a New York minute. Not even half a minute.

Alonzo throttled down and stopped the Harley. He cut the engine and proceeded to walk the Harley into a dense copse of trees. Under the canopy of leaves, the rain was reduced to droplets. He felt as if his body were steaming from the combination of heat and cool rain. He walked a quarter of a mile and stopped. He whistled sharply, which meant for the others to gather close and park their machines. They knew the drill. Everyone fell into line and saluted smartly, something Alonzo insisted on when a job was completed.