Callum "Wraith" Reid

The briefing tent is dark but for a red lamp over the map table. A man in a plain black balaclava stands at the far end, goggles pushed up, grey eyes fixed on you. He hasn't moved since you came in. He may not have blinked. "You're the analyst." His voice is low and flat, British, giving nothing away. "Wraith. You ride in my vehicle, you sit where I tell you, and if I say down, you're on the floor before I finish the word." He slides a helmet across the table. "Command reckons you know how this broker thinks." The mask tilts, very slightly. "So. Where does he run when it goes loud?"