The clock on the conference room wall read eleven-fourteen AM, Thursday, and she felt every sleepless minute in the burning behind her eyes and the persistent ache that had taken root at the base of her skull.
Derek Callahan sat in an interrogation room two floors below, his weathered face betraying nothing as Canadian and American officials negotiated the jurisdictional tangle his arrest had created.His crew—five men with records that read like a greatest hits of cross-border smuggling—occupied separate holding cells, each being worked by different teams of agents hoping someone would crack and start talking about the Northern Dawn massacre.
Isla stood at the window of the conference room they'd commandeered as their war room, watching the gray expanse of Lake Superior in the distance.The water looked deceptively calm from here, its surface a mirror of the overcast sky.Somewhere beneath that placid exterior, they'd pulled four bodies from the deep—four men killed with the methodical precision of a predator who had perfected his craft over years of practice.
"You should eat something," James said from behind her.He'd appeared in the doorway with two paper cups of coffee and a look of concern that had become familiar over their months of partnership.His flannel shirt was wrinkled, his usually neat hair disheveled from running his hands through it during long hours of interrogation observation."The vending machine had those peanut butter crackers you like.Well, tolerate."
"I'm fine."The words came automatically, a reflex she'd developed over years of pushing through fatigue and hunger to chase leads that couldn't wait.She accepted the coffee, though, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup and inhaling the bitter steam."Anything from Callahan's crew?"
"They're scared."James moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could smell the familiar combination of coffee and the outdoorsy aftershave he favored."Not of us—of whoever did the Northern Dawn.One of them, guy named Kowalski, actually started crying when we showed him the crime scene photos.Said he'd worked with two of the victims, used to play poker with them when their ships were in port together."
"That tracks with what Callahan told us on the boat."Isla took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the burned taste."They thought we were the killers coming for them.That's why they ran, why they opened fire.Not because they were protecting their smuggling operation—because they were terrified of ending up like the Dawn's crew."
The conference room behind them was covered in their work—maps of Lake Superior with suspected incident locations marked in red, photographs of the Northern Dawn's blood-soaked deck, printouts of shipping manifests and employee records that had yielded nothing but dead ends.A timeline stretched across one wall, connecting the dots between suspicious deaths and disappearances that suddenly seemed far more sinister than accidents or business disputes.
"TheMargaret Rose,the vessels near Marquette and Sault Ste.Marie," Isla said, turning away from the window to face the evidence board."If Callahan's telling the truth, someone's been doing this for months.Maybe longer.And we had no idea."
"Because they were targeting criminals," James said."Smugglers, drug runners, arms dealers—people who weren't going to report attacks to the authorities.The perfect hunting ground."
The wordhuntingsent a chill through Isla that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.She thought of the Lake Superior Killer—the invisible predator she'd been tracking for almost two years, the one who made drownings look like accidents and had possibly been operating for decades.Different methodology, certainly.The LSK was subtle, patient, his kills disguised as misfortune.This new threat was the opposite: brutal, public, leaving bodies and blood behind like a signature.
But the hunting ground was the same.The patience was the same.The ability to move through the maritime environment undetected, to understand its rhythms and blind spots—that was the same too.
Her phone buzzed against her hip, the vibration cutting through her thoughts like a knife.She pulled it out and frowned at the display—Kate Channing's direct line.
"Rivers," she answered, already sensing from the timing that this wasn't a routine check-in.
"Where are you?"Kate's voice was clipped, tight with the controlled urgency that meant something had gone very wrong.
"Conference room B, reviewing evidence from the Northern Dawn.Callahan's still being processed—"
"Another one."The words hit Isla like a physical blow."Coast Guard just found a vessel drifting about twelve miles east of Two Harbors.Fishing boat called the Storm Runner.Signs of violence, no crew aboard.They're towing her in now."
Isla's grip tightened on the phone, her knuckles going white."When?"
"Call came in about thirty minutes ago.Fishing vessel spotted her drifting with no running lights, no response to radio hails.Coast Guard boarded and found—" Kate paused, and Isla could hear her taking a steadying breath."Blood on deck, Isla.Significant amounts.Same pattern as the Dawn."
James was watching her face, reading the shift in her expression with the perceptiveness of someone who'd learned to interpret her silences."What is it?"
"Storm Runner,"she said, already moving toward the door."Another ghost ship.Get your coat."
***
The drive to Two Harbors took forty minutes—forty minutes of gray highway and grayer sky, of James pushing their SUV past the speed limit while Isla worked the phone, gathering what information she could from Coast Guard contacts and the local sheriff's department.TheStorm Runnerwas registered to a commercial fishing operation out of Knife River, crew complement of four, last seen leaving port three days ago for what was supposed to be a routine lake trout run.
"Three days," James said, his eyes fixed on the road."That's a lot of time for someone to disappear."
"Or for four bodies to sink to the bottom of Lake Superior."Isla stared at her phone, scrolling through the preliminary report that was being updated in real-time."Coast Guard's already started a grid search of the area where she was found.Nothing so far."
The timing was eating at her.Callahan had been in federal custody for hours when theStorm Runnerwas discovered.His crew was locked down, lawyers were being called, and the entire Arctic Wind operation was under the microscope of multiple law enforcement agencies.There was no possible way any of them could have been involved in whatever had happened to theStorm Runner'screw.
Which meant either there was a connection they hadn't found yet, or—more disturbing—the attacks were continuing even as they thought they'd made progress on the case.
"It's not Callahan," she said, the realization crystallizing as she spoke the words aloud."Whatever's happening here, whatever pattern we're seeing—Callahan's not our killer.He's just another potential victim who happened to run instead of fight."
James nodded grimly, taking the exit for Two Harbors."So we're back to square one."
"No."Isla shook her head, her mind racing through the implications."We're not at square one.We know more than we did yesterday.We know someone's been targeting smuggling operations for months.We know they're methodical, capable, and willing to kill multiple people to get what they want.We know they have a type—illegal operations that won't be reported to authorities."
