Vicente leaned out of his jeep truck window, the falling loose white strands of his hair contrasting sharply against the dark leather of the interior. He tapped fingers that held a cigarette between against the door with a rhythmic, impatient clack-clack-clack.
"None of the above, boys," he called out to the guards who were nervously approaching. "Let me see what this is about." he spoke mostly to himself.
He stepped out of the car, flicking his cigarette.
The guards, who usually played the role of stone-faced sentries, practically tripped over their own feet to get out of his way. They watched him with a mixture of reverence and pure, unadulterated terror as he strolled toward the lead vehicle.
Behind them, the leader of the guards frantically pulled out a radio, his voice a hushed, panicked blur as he reported that Vicente was in the grove and he was not alone.
