We were out of the car and Jocasta was just setting the alarm when I first heard it: the explosive roar of large-bike engines, ricocheting around the concrete confines of the underground lot. Multiple engines, which didn't make me feel particularly comfortable. A full-on go-gang wouldn't waste their time cruising Westlake Center's underground lot, but I wasn't in the mood to deal with even some wannabes. I grabbed Jocasta's right elbow and hustled her toward the elevator block.