The knowledge should have made her despair, should have confirmed that she was trapped in a scenario engineered by someone who understood Lake Superior's winter environment far better than she ever could.Instead, it gave her a target—a direction to swim toward, a goal to focus her failing coordination on reaching before hypothermia shut down her system entirely.
Isla kicked with strength she didn't know she still possessed, her movements growing more sluggish with each passing second, but still generating enough propulsion to close the distance toward Kucharski's escape route.Her vision was beginning to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges as her oxygen-starved brain began shutting down non-essential functions.But she kept swimming, kept forcing her hypothermic muscles to respond, kept fighting against the water and cold and current that conspired to claim another life for Lake Superior's endless collection.
Thirty seconds underwater.Maybe forty.The timeline was becoming difficult to track as her consciousness fragmented, but she knew from training that she had less than a minute before involuntary inhaling would flood her lungs with water and end any chance of survival.
Her radio—if it was still functional after water damage—should have transmitted her distress signal to Sullivan.But even if he'd received it, even if the backup teams were mobilizing, they would need minutes to reach this location.Minutes she didn't have.
Kucharski was above her now, his dark form silhouetted against the brighter patch of water that marked his escape route.Isla watched him break the surface, his head emerging into the morning air with the controlled breathing of someone who'd planned for this exact scenario.Even from her position beneath the ice, fighting against drowning and hypothermia, she could see him beginning the performance that would transform his trap into another heroic rescue story.
Her lungs were screaming now, the physiological imperative to breathe overriding conscious control.Her body was preparing to inhale whether or not her mouth was above water, the automatic response that would either save her life or end it depending on whether she'd reached air in time.
Isla gave one final kick, propelling herself toward the opening where Kucharski had emerged.Her hand broke the surface, fingers grasping at nothing but air, and then—
Hands grabbed her under the arms.
Strong, urgent, pulling her upward through water that had become her enemy.
"Isla!Hold on!"
Sullivan's voice reached her through the chaos, muffled by water and distance but unmistakably familiar.His grip was iron-strong, refusing to let the current drag her back beneath the ice where Kucharski had clearly planned for her to disappear forever.
Her head broke the surface, and she gasped desperately, drawing in frigid air that burned her throat but filled her lungs with life.The pain of that breath was exquisite—agony that meant survival, torture that meant she'd made it out of the water that had tried to claim her.
"I've got you," Sullivan said, his voice steady despite the obvious strain of hauling her deadweight through the hole in the ice."Don't try to talk.Just let me do the work."
Through her disorientation and the water streaming from her face, Isla became aware of her surroundings with the fragmented clarity of someone whose brain was still recovering from oxygen deprivation.They were at a different opening than the one she'd fallen through—Kucharski's escape route, just as she'd calculated.Sullivan must have seen him surface here and realized this was where the trap had been designed to funnel victims toward their death.
"Agent Sullivan!"Kucharski's voice called from somewhere nearby, his tone carrying the professional urgency that had made him so effective during previous rescue scenarios."Thank God you're here.The ice collapsed under both of us—I managed to get out, but Agent Rivers was swept under the surface.I've been trying to reach her, but the current—"
The performance was flawless.Even knowing what she knew about his guilt, even having experienced his trap firsthand, Isla could hear the authentic concern in his voice.Thirty years of practice had made him exceptional at projecting heroic dedication, at sounding like someone who'd risked everything trying to save a stranger's life.
Sullivan's grip on her arms tightened, his strength the only thing keeping her from being pulled back beneath the ice by the waterlogged weight of her clothing.She could feel him working to maneuver them both toward a stable surface, his movements careful but urgent as he fought against Lake Superior's current and the compromised ice surrounding the opening.
"Help me!"Sullivan shouted toward Kucharski, his voice carrying across the frozen expanse."I need someone on solid ice to anchor while I pull her out!"
The silence that followed lasted perhaps three seconds—an eternity in the context of life-and-death rescue operations.Isla felt Sullivan's body tense as he processed Kucharski's failure to respond, his professional instincts recognizing that something was fundamentally wrong with the scene playing out before them.
"Actually," Kucharski said finally, his tone conversational despite the desperate situation, "I think I'll let the lake finish what it started."
The words hung in the frozen morning air, transforming the rescue scene into something far more sinister.Isla heard Sullivan's sharp intake of breath as he processed the implications, understood that they were no longer dealing with a tragic accident but with deliberate murder.
The attack came without warning.
Kucharski launched himself across the unstable ice toward Sullivan with movements that spoke to strength and coordination that belied his supposed hypothermic condition.The rescue worker's body was a weapon, muscles trained through decades of physical labor channeled into violence that was all the more shocking for its sudden emergence from someone everyone regarded as a hero.
Isla felt Sullivan's grip on her arms falter as he was forced to defend himself, his position compromised by his refusal to release her even as Kucharski struck him across the face with something heavy and metallic.The sound of the impact was sickening—the wet thud of metal connecting with flesh and bone, followed immediately by Sullivan's grunt of pain.
"James!"Isla tried to scream, but water filled her mouth, cutting off the warning.Her voice emerged as a strangled gasp, barely audible over the sounds of struggle happening above her.
Sullivan's hold on her remained steady despite the blows raining down on him, his determination to keep her alive overriding his own safety as Kucharski attacked with increasing violence.Blood ran from a cut above Sullivan's left eye—Isla could see it dripping onto the ice in dark drops that stood out against the white surface like accusation.
Through the chaos above the surface, she became aware of the sounds that would haunt her later if they survived this encounter: Sullivan's grunts of pain as he absorbed punishment meant to force him to release his grip.Kucharski's breathing growing heavier with exertion, the sound of someone who'd moved past performance into genuine rage.The metallic ring of some kind of tool being used as a weapon—probably an ice auger or testing probe, equipment designed for rescue operations, now transformed into instruments of murder.
But Sullivan's hands never loosened their grip on her arms, never allowed the current to drag her back beneath the ice where Kucharski had clearly planned for her to disappear forever.
"Let her go," Kucharski commanded, his voice carrying rage that transformed his previous professional demeanor into something genuinely frightening."She was supposed to die down there.That was the plan.Then I could try to save her.Everyone would see me risk everything, would understand what I'm willing to sacrifice.But you ruined it.You ruined everything!"
The admission poured out of him in fragments between blows—thirty years of psychological damage compressed into accusations and justifications that revealed the scope of his delusions.He genuinely believed his murders served some higher purpose, that killing innocent people was justified by the community recognition he received for his subsequent rescue attempts.
