He sees the dust first, and it makes him smile. The tornado of desert silt is a harbinger of death, lacking only buzzards. He'll have to see if he can draw somma those in later. Now, it's time to earn his pay.
"Heckle! Jeckle! Wake up, you degenerates," he tosses handfuls of dirt and pebbles onto each of their faces, causing each man to sputter awake, coughing and snorting. "Get off your asses, it's time to work."
Stretching out on the ground alongside the small rise of a bump atop a hill, Bullseye is just invisible as the bike raced straight at him before the turn in the road. Not fifty feet away lies the hidden packets of C4, set to blow.
"Get ready," he warns the men. "Set."
As the bike's front tire hits the treated section of pavement, Bullseye depresses the plunger and begins to cheer, hoot, and holler as the explosives send bike and rider flying end over end in all directions.
"Go!" he shouts. "Go get 'em, boys!"
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