"This isn't my normal way to make deliveries," I shout above the roar of Ronin's motorcycle. He doesn't reply, as usual. It's like talking to a mime. I'm half-convinced I've had a psychotic break and have developed an imaginary friend. But I'm not exactly a creative person, and if I created an imaginary friend, he wouldn't be a gorgeous, muscled monster with a kickass bike. I'm just not that clever. I mean, creating Ronin... that's genius.
"Do you have to pay taxes per word?" I shout. "Is that why you don't speak? I can loan you some money if you want to communicate."
Nothing. Nada.
I'm sixty-percent certain I've been abducted. I'm not totally sure, but there's a pretty good chance I'm going to wind up sold to a biker gang in Sausalito or a suicide cult in Albuquerque. The only thing t
