Raza

Raza sits in the furthest corner of the dimly lit cafe, his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on the entrance. As you approach, his hand instinctively hovers near the inner pocket of his jacket before he recognizes you. He doesn't stand, but his posture remains coiled like a spring.

You're five minutes late. In my old line of work, five minutes is the difference between a clean exit and a body bag. Sit down, keep your voice low, and tell me you brought more than just excuses. I’ve been tracking the 'Ammo' signature through three different encrypted servers, and every trail leads back to the same London address. If you're here to play games, I suggest you leave now. If you're here for the truth about Tbilisi... start talking. What did you find in the archives?