"Tool marks," he said, pointing to scratches in the ice that might have been natural texture or might have been evidence of artificial cutting."Someone's been working this area with specialized equipment.See these lines?That's consistent with a wire saw—very fine blade, minimal disruption to the surrounding ice structure."
The observation forced Isla to confront the fundamental challenge of their situation.If Kucharski was innocent, he was providing exactly the kind of expert analysis that could break their case open.If he was guilty, he was demonstrating the technical knowledge that made him so dangerous while positioning her in whatever trap he'd prepared.
She activated her radio with a subtle movement, alerting Sullivan that they'd reached a point of interest."We've found potential evidence of ice manipulation.Kucharski's examining tool marks that might indicate wire saw activity."
"Copy that," Sullivan's voice crackled through her earpiece."Backup teams are repositioning for better visual coverage.Status?"
"Uncertain," Isla replied, which was both accurate and deliberately vague.She couldn't articulate the growing sense of wrongness that was making her skin crawl beneath layers of thermal clothing, couldn't explain why Kucharski's perfectly professional behavior was triggering every alarm her instincts possessed.
"Can you tell how recent?"she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the growing certainty that something was wrong with their entire situation.
"Hard to say exactly, but the refreeze patterns suggest within the last few days.Maybe even—" Kucharski paused, leaning closer to examine a section of ice that looked identical to everything surrounding it."Wait.This is more extensive than I initially thought.The cuts go deeper, covering a larger area."
He stood abruptly, backing away from the depression with movements that suggested genuine alarm rather than calculated performance."Agent Rivers, I need you to move back.Slowly and carefully.This entire section has been compromised."
The warning came too late.
The ice gave way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Not gradually, not with warning cracks or settling sounds that might have given Isla a fraction of a second to react.The collapse was sudden and absolute—the surface that had supported their weight for twenty minutes simply ceased to exist, replaced by darkness and water so cold it stopped time.
Isla fell.
The sensation was unlike anything she'd experienced—not the controlled plunge of a swimming pool dive, not the managed descent of tactical water entry.This was betrayal at the most fundamental level, the solid ground beneath her feet transforming into a void without transition or warning.
Lake Superior's January water hit her like a physical blow.
The cold was beyond anything she'd imagined, despite all her preparation and research.It wasn't the gentle chill of a cold shower or the bracing shock of jumping into a pool in autumn.This was a temperature that transformed human physiology into something alien and uncooperative, that sent her cardiovascular system into immediate crisis as her body diverted blood away from extremities in a desperate attempt to protect her core.
Isla's mouth opened in an involuntary gasp—the mammalian diving reflex that countless drowning victims experienced in their final moments—but she managed to keep her lips sealed, preventing the intake of water that would doom her lungs to rapid failure.Her training took over, years of FBI water survival courses providing automated responses that her conscious mind was too shocked to generate.
Don't inhale.Orient to the surface.Locate the opening.Get out.
The immediate disorientation made even these simple directives nearly impossible to follow.The water beneath Lake Superior's ice was darker than she'd anticipated, visibility extending perhaps ten feet in the murky environment where light filtered through layers of frozen surface.Her heavy winter clothing—so essential for survival on the ice—had transformed into anchors that pulled her deeper with every passing second.
Through the panic and hypothermic shock, one thought remained crystal clear: David Kucharski had led her here deliberately.
She caught a glimpse of his form entering the water beside her, his movements controlled and purposeful despite the supposedly shared disaster.Even in the chaos of drowning and oxygen deprivation, Isla's analytical mind registered the differences in their descents.His fall looked practiced, almost choreographed.Like someone who'd known exactly when and where the ice would fail and had positioned himself to minimize the impact while ensuring the appearance of shared misfortune.
The genius of his plan struck her even as she fought against the water that was already beginning to shut down her body's systems.He hadn't just planned to murder her—he'd arranged to be a fellow victim, someone who would struggle alongside her in the deadly water before ultimately surviving to tell the story of his desperate, failed attempt to save a federal agent's life.
Perfect cover for murder.Perfect foundation for the kind of recognition he craved.
Isla's lungs burned, the physiological need for oxygen becoming overwhelming despite her training and determination.She kicked desperately, trying to propel herself toward where she hoped the surface opening remained, but the waterlogged weight of her clothing made movement sluggish and uncoordinated.Each motion required enormous effort that her hypothermic muscles were increasingly unable to generate.
She looked up, searching for the light that would indicate the hole they'd fallen through, but the surface above was a confusing maze of white ice broken by occasional patches of darker water.The current beneath the frozen surface—the same current Kucharski had mentioned during their briefing—was stronger than she'd anticipated, pulling her away from the opening with force that suggested Lake Superior's reputation for claiming bodies wasn't merely folklore.
Through the darkening water, she caught another glimpse of Kucharski swimming with purpose and direction, his movements suggesting familiarity with the underwater geography that could only come from previous experience in this exact location.He knew exactly where he was going, even in the disorienting environment beneath the ice.Which meant he'd been here before, probably during the preparation phase when he'd created the trap that had just claimed them both.
The realization sent a surge of rage through her that temporarily overcame the drowning panic.He'd planned this.Every detail, every contingency, every aspect of the scenario that was currently stealing her life.The enthusiastic agreement to patrol together, the technical briefing that had seemed so professional, the careful navigation to this specific location—all of it orchestrated to create a death that would appear tragic and accidental to everyone except the man who'd engineered it.
Isla forced herself to think past the panic, to use the fading clarity of her consciousness for something beyond mere survival instinct.If Kucharski had planned this trap so carefully, he would have established an escape route for himself—a path through the underwater maze that led to safety while his victim struggled and died in the dark water.
She studied his movements, watching the direction he was swimming with the last remnants of her analytical ability.He was heading toward a point perhaps twenty feet to her right, an area where the ice above seemed slightly different—darker, maybe, or less uniform in its frozen surface.
Another opening.He'd cut multiple holes to ensure his own escape while making it appear that he'd been trying to save her.
