The road began a long decline toward a suspension bridge over the river. Cecil drove in silence until they arrived at the bridge. But he was like a kid in a car-he couldn't help himself. He had to talk.
'Pennybacker Bridge,' Cecil said. 'No part of the bridge touches Lake Austin.'
'Looks like a river.'
'It is. The Colorado River.'
'Then why do they call it Lake Austin?'
' 'Cause it's in Austin.'
'Cecil, shut up and drive.'
They drove over the bridge and through another limestone canyon, then the motorcycle abruptly exited the highway.
'He's getting off.'
'I got him.'
The motorcycle blew through the green light and turned left under the highway. The street sign read FM 2222. They caught the red light behind three other cars.
'Go around.'
Harmon gave him hell, but Cecil Durant was a skilled driver. He had never let Harmon down, and he wouldn't today. Cecil maneuvered the Crown Vic around the other cars to the right, drove onto the grass shoulder, then ran the red light and cut through the intersection and left under the highway.
'Nice work, Cecil. He's heading west.'
Cecil accelerated, but the motorcycle was nowhere in sight.
'Maybe he turned back.'
'Where are they?'
They passed several boat shops and shopping centers then stopped at a light at River Place Drive. A huge black Hummer pulled alongside; a cute blonde was driving. She smiled down at Harmon.
'You know,' Cecil said, 'with gas prices and global warming, driving one of those is just irresponsible.'
'Yep. But she's a real doll.'
'The Hummer?'
'The driver.'
When the light turned green and the Hummer accelerated off like it was the Indy 500, Harmon spotted the black motorcycle.
'There.'
Prescott had pulled over in the parking lot at the 3M plant. He was leaning over and fiddling with the engine again, but when they turned in, he sped across the lot and back onto the road heading west again. The motorcycle flew through the intersection at FM 620, then the road reduced down to two tight lanes and became severely winding with steep descents. The girl hung on for dear life as they hit eighty and didn't slow for the curves.
'You know,' Cecil said, 'it's really not safe for her to be riding that motorcycle without a helmet. She's just a kid.'
'Cecil, we're trying to kill her.'
Cecil nodded. 'Good point.'
A few minutes later, they passed a sign for Hippie Hollow on the left.
'That's a famous beach,' Cecil said. 'Maybe we can stop in for a look on the way back.'
'No.'
'It's a nude beach.'
'Well, maybe for a minute.'
They stayed with the motorcycle until the blue water of a large lake came into view.
'Lake Travis,' Cecil said. 'Named after William Barrett Travis. He died at the Alamo. Sixty-three miles long. Some places are two hundred feet deep. I read that, too.'
'Well, Cecil, that's very interesting. But right now-'
'Shut up and drive?'
'Exactly.'
The road turned into a gut-wrenching roller coaster. Another steep decline was followed by several hairpin turns on the narrow road. They had to slow down, but Prescott didn't. He seemed intent on doing their job for them. A sheer rock ledge rose on their right; a steep cliff dropped off on their left down to the lake. Harmon breathed a sigh of relief when they came to a T-junction at Farm-to-Market Road 2769.
Prescott turned left and accelerated past a marina. They followed but lost sight of the motorcycle as the road made a series of S turns; the speed limit was only twenty miles an hour. The lake was to their left, thickly treed terrain to their right. Cecil negotiated the turns like the professional he was. They accelerated past Geronimo Street, Pocahontas Trail, and Navajo Pass and climbed to a high point above the lake. They came into a small town called Volente and drove past the Volente Beach and Water Park. The road turned winding again, but the motorcycle was just ahead.
Prescott had engine trouble.
The road tracked the lakeshore, cutting in and out around little coves down below, and was protected only by intermittent low guardrails. They were now high above the lake, and they were alone. No other cars were in sight.
'Now, Cecil.'
Cecil accelerated and got directly behind the motorcycle.
'He can't get enough power.
Harmon rolled his window down and stuck the Glock out. He fired several times, but apparently missed.
'Damn, I thought for sure I hit her. Get on him.'
They made several hard curves, then caught up again on a short straightaway. Harmon fired three more rounds directly at the girl's black jacket. But she held on. Another curve put them right on a ridgeline with the lake directly below them. Prescott kept glancing back.
'I can take her from here.'
Harmon leaned out the window, steadied his arm on the side mirror, and sighted the girl in. He emptied the clip. Prescott jerked as if he'd been hit.
'I got 'em.'
The motorcycle weaved back and forth across the road. Prescott had lost control of the bike. He was slumped down, and the girl with him. But they weren't slowing down. They were going even faster. The motorcycle veered hard inland and then hard back toward the lake-and didn't veer back. The motorcycle, Prescott, and the girl drove straight off the road; the massive black motorcycle hung in the blue sky a long moment and then disappeared from sight.
'Shit!' Cecil said. 'They went airborne!'
'Pull over!'
Cecil skidded to a stop. Harmon jumped out and ran to the other side of the road. Cecil followed. They stood on a steep cliff above the lake. The motorcycle lay crashed on the rocks a hundred feet below. Harmon didn't see Prescott or the girl.
Cecil pointed. 'There!'
Prescott and the girl were floating face down in the water.
'She's dead,' Cecil said.
'I'll make sure.'
Harmon ejected the spent clip then loaded another into the Glock. He fired thirteen rounds at the girl. The bullets splashed into the water around her body, but several made direct impact into her black jacket.
'Now Baby X is dead.'
'What about Prescott?'
'Looks dead to me,' Harmon said. 'But I wasn't paid to kill Prescott. Only the girl.' Harmon spotted a car coming. 'Let's get out of here. We hurry, we can make the noon flight back to Jersey. I'm sick of Texas.'
'Are we going back to kill the Mexican that took your gun?'
'Cecil, we're professionals, just like lawyers and accountants. We don't kill out of revenge or passion or personal enjoyment. We kill because we're paid to kill. We're not being paid to kill that Mexican either, so we're not
