But the road is too far for good surveillance—you'd get the gate, the entrance, not much else.
If someone wanted real intel on the compound...
They'd need to get closer.
I move through the trees carefully, scanning for anything out of place.
Broken branches. Disturbed earth. Signs that someone has been here who shouldn't be.
Ialmostmiss it.
It's small—maybe the size of my fist—mounted on a tree trunk about fifteen feet up.
The casing is designed to blend in with the bark, mottled brown and gray.
If I hadn't been looking specifically for surveillance equipment, I never would have spotted it.
A satellite camera. Professional grade.
Weatherproof housing, solar panel for power, probably cellular transmission for the feed.
This isn't something you buy at a spy shop.
This is military-grade equipment, the kind that costs thousands of dollars and requires serious connections to acquire.
Someone has been watching this compound for a lot longer than a few days.
I photograph it from multiple angles, then carefully remove it from the tree, making sure not to damage anything that might yield fingerprints or other forensic evidence.
My mind is racing.
The sedan was a distraction, or maybe a secondary surveillance point.
But this—this is the real operation.
Someone has been mapping this compound, studying its patterns, looking for weaknesses.
Reconnaissance for what?
I need to talk to Runes, so I head inside the clubhouse and head for his office, hoping he’s awake and up at this hour.
The door is solid oak, reinforced—I can tell by the weight of it when I knock. "Come in."
Runes is behind his desk, paperwork spread out in front of him.
He looks up when I enter a hot cup of coffee beside him, his expression shifting from neutral to guarded when he sees what I'm carrying.
"Found this in the trees," I say, setting the camera on his desk. "About two hundred yards past your eastern fence line. Satellite uplink, solar powered. Someone's been watching your compound."
He stares at the camera for a long moment.
When he looks up, his eyes are cold. "Show me where."
We walk the perimeter together, and I point out the tree where I found the device, the sight lines it would have captured, the likely transmission range.
Runes listens without interrupting, his expression growing darker with each detail.
"This isn't the Krajncs," he says finally. "Those Slovenian fucks operate in Belfast and in parts of Europe. They don't have resources in Florida."
