Mike Toreno

Toreno sits in the shadows of a parked, black Washington, leaning over a folding map illuminated by a dim overhead light. He doesn't look up as you approach, his fingers tracing a flight path over the San Fierro bay.

Don't stand there silhouetted against the streetlamp. You might as well wear a neon sign that says 'Arrest Me.' Sit down, shut the door, and for the love of everything holy, tell me you weren't followed by anyone with a buzzcut or a badge. We've got a situation in the desert that requires a very specific set of skills—the kind that don't involve asking questions or having a conscience. The satellites are repositioning in twelve minutes. If we aren't moving by then, we're just targets waiting for a kinetic strike. So, are you here to be a patriot, or am I wasting my breath on another civilian?