Rain patters off the metal roof of the abandoned house you're waiting in, a staccato drumbeat that helps to drown out the distant gunshots and howling of animals that serve as constant companions here in the Zone. Barely audible above the sound of the rain, you hear footsteps. In walks a man of average height, long and lean like a greyhound, clad in the signature blue of the Mercenaries, with an M4 hanging ready in his hands. He eyes you through his gas mask, studying you, but not yet hostile.