You hear the noise of a loud bike ride up into the area. He parks a short distance away, revs the motor twice and then kills it. A rather tall, built, African-American man stands up off the bike. He appears to be dressed in all woodland camouflage and reaches down in his saddlebag for something and puts it on his right side. He looks around checking out the area in almost a paranoid fashion. A flash of unknowing crosses his seemingly calm and serious face. He seems to stick out like a sore thumb and doesn’t seem to want to leave his bikes side.
He looks around and thinks, ‘My Uncle said this is where I should go to meet these packs, but I hate going into the unknown like this.’ ‘Where’s my recon when I need it right?’ A small, deep throated, chuckle escapes his lips. 'Hopefully this is the right place.'
At this he leans up against his bike, awaiting someone to show up. Any movement or sound triggers his attention as his hand goes to his side. Nervousness sets in and he starts to spin his pocket knife in between his fingers.
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