First glance, there was something incongruous about the picture. The hair was completely gray now. The lines of laughter on his face were as easy to trace as the etchings of anger at an unjust world.
The oil-skin jacket and faded jeans seemed out of place on his aging frame, the loose skin of his neck standing out oddly against the hard plastic of the motorcycle helmet. Jack was sixty-five. Surely something more conservative would be better.
Yet, catching a glimpse of the fire in those hazel eyes, the self-mocking twist of that grin, the natural arrogance of that walk, and suddenly the incongruity disappeared. The fashion might belie the wrinkles, but it suited the man very well.