The trail took us up to a small ridge, beyond which was the main house, with a few smaller outbuildings scattered in a large clearing. Some work had been done to landscape the property, but apart from a few shade trees and trenches dug for hedges, it was bare. Mitrović had filed construction permits to erect a modest mansion, but Bug had picked apart shipping records and determined that more materials had been imported onto the island than were needed to make a twenty-room home. There were corresponding labor records for a construction crew roughly five times larger than needed. Add that to geological surveys from satellite flyovers that showed a radical change in the offshore seabed consistent with the dumping of dirt and rocks far in excess of preconstruction estimates, and you have us all going, “Hmmmm … what on earth could he be building?”

I mean, it was either a secret base or a secret base. Possibly even a secret base. One of those things.

Thermal scans also pinged four different heat signatures consistent with industrial generators. So I’m thinking secret base with some kind of laboratory concocting god only knew what horror. Hey, I’m not being paranoid here—or at least not more than usual. Since going to work for Mr. Church a few years back, I’ve actually seen secret labs that would make comic book super-villains weep with envy. Real-world stuff. Not as much fun as what you see in the movies. Because, yeah, there are actually that many brilliant maniacs in the world being funded by rich assholes, rich governments, rich corporations who do not give a limping fuck for human beings. Except when they can exploit them, marginalize them, or remove them as an inconvenience. Like so many of the bastards I’ve gone after as part of the old Department of Military Sciences and now with Rogue Team International.

Like Kuga and Santoro, who blew my world apart a few months ago.

Like those monsters.

So Mitrović was probably living like a king in his mini-mansion while down in the basement unspeakable horrors were being cooked up. Brewed or cultured, assembled or uploaded. However he was doing it, I was coming for him.

Ghost and I inched up to the ridge top and surveyed the approach. The house was three stories tall and built of gray stone. Nice-looking place, with a retro Eastern European manor house vibe. Lots of windows, only two of them showing weak lights. Probably hallway lights. There was no fence around it, but when I checked the video feeds from Andrea’s bird drones, I saw foot patrols. Two men with Kalashnikovs slung walked slowly around the building, accompanied by a Doberman. They all looked bored, but that was something that could change in a heartbeat. A second pair were stationed in a guard shack built to look like a gazebo. They had another Doberman.