He'd ditched the jeep fifteen minutes ago - ran into a cross section of road piled so high with debris that the option was to either take a detour and stray way closer to Lazarevic's business than he was really planning to get, or go on foot. For better or worse, Nate gone with the second option after cannibalizing the car's radio. Made for some pretty crappy reception, but either it was working better than he'd thought or luck really was on his side because her message comes through: as crystal clear as anyone could hope for, you know, given the whole active war zone thing.

He keeps going, pace a steady trot and boots crunching on the gravel and debris - carnage from buildings built decades before he was ever born. There's this weird sensation that if he stops to chat, the conversation's not going to last long. So he radios back on the move:

"Yeah, I'm here but I'm coming in on foot."