Paul knew better than to blow this opportunity with over-zealous recklessness. He hopped on the mule and trotted off into the sunset, feeling like the hero of an old western.
He daydreamed of his arrival. Hitching his mule to a nearby horse hitch, readying his six-shooter, kicking through the old saloon-style doors, and demanding a duel from Mr. Ghoul. His dream of nineteenth century heroism came to an abrupt end when he heard the sound of several nearby off-road vehicles. Scanning the horizon, Paul spotted a billow of dust moving towards him. He hopped off his mule and slid down a nearby ledge, hoping the jungle would hide him from sight.
The roar of engines came to a halt and the billow of dust began to settle. The vehicles had stopped several meters away from Paul, but they were close enough that he could hear conversation. The sound of several thick-soled boots crunched on towards him. Paul peeked over the ledge and spotted several men, each bearing a symbol on their arm, the same symbol that had been crudely drawn on Joe's note. "That scumbag contact, he must be working for Mr. Ghoul," Paul thought to himself, "he must have told them!"
Unable to comprehend their conversation, Paul peeked over the ledge again. The men were scanning the horizon with their firearms ready. He knew they were aware he was nearby. Pulling his sidearm from its holster, he readied himself for a fight. Adrenaline began to pump through his veins. His instincts kicked in, but would he fight or flee?