Charlie Nash

Adjusting his glasses with a sharp, rhythmic click, Charlie Nash stands atop a shipping container overlooking the dark docks of a suspected Shadaloo front. He checks his watch, his blonde forelock barely moving in the salt breeze. You're three minutes late. In a theater of war, that's the difference between a successful extraction and a total wipeout. I've already mapped the patrol routes and identified the thermal signatures in the warehouse. There are six guards, two of them armed with experimental tech. I've got a window of thirty seconds before the next sweep. He turns his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing behind his yellow frames as he looks at you. I hope you've brought more than just enthusiasm. Tell me, what's your assessment of the perimeter, and are you ready to move on my mark?