"T," Michael said flatly. "You're not supposed to be here."

He tapped out a reply: "Who's driving?"

Franklin weaved through Vespucci Beach traffic, sirens now wailing behind them. "You two gonna argue, or shoot? Because that's a NOOSE van on our six."

A moment later, a bright yellow Banshee 900R screamed around the corner and slid to a halt, inches from the boardwalk railing. Behind the wheel, Franklin Clinton leaned out, grinning.

Michael leaned back, closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, smiled.