Rafael and I sat on one motorcycle, the AFL "coyote" who would be guiding us on another. Both were dirt bikes—Yamaha Sidewinders with knobby tires to grip the sand and lots of juice to pull us through the tight spots that lay ahead. Both had been painted a flat matte black so that their metal would not reflect the glare of a searchlight. We’d killed the engines while we were waiting for the show to begin—no sense providing any more of a heat signature than absolutely necessary. An infrared-sensing surveillance drone could be overhead, even now.