The sky was still dark—that's right, it was the tropics, wasn't it? Dawn would be later and more sudden than I was used to in Cheyenne—but the sodium lights were almost as bright as day. Under their yellow glare, I saw where Scott was leading me: a metallic charcoal gray limo, a Rolls-Royce Phaeton, or some close cousin. A huge, low-slung thing that looked like it was doing Mach 2 while still parked at the curb. I let out a long, low whistle to show I was impressed.