Like the assassin who obsessed about birthdays and clothing, there were two sides to the man before her: the warm, friendly stranger with whom she'd felt so comfortable she confided to him over the phone without knowing anything about him, and the tattooed thug before them in snug biker leathers.
He instinctively ducked his head but the two were paying no heed to a passing biker as they sped south.
Maybe Brunel's a biker too and they're his shoes.
They had considered showing Jeffrey Byrne's picture to some of the bike tour workers, especially those volunteers manning the frequent rest stops where every biker would pass sooner or later.
He slid in behind another biker and followed the crouched figure evenly, absentmindedly matching the rider stride for stride for several miles as he pondered his course of action.