"And now we know they're still active," James finished."Still hunting."
The Two Harbors marina came into view as they crested a small hill—a cluster of docks and warehouses that served both the commercial fishing fleet and the recreational boaters who ventured onto Superior's dangerous waters.Coast Guard vessels were already present, their lights flashing in the overcast afternoon light.Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the wind that came off the lake, carrying with it the familiar smell of fish and diesel that seemed to permeate every waterfront Isla had ever worked.
TheStorm Runnerwas smaller than Isla had expected—maybe fifty feet, a working fishing boat with the kind of practical, battered appearance that came from years of hard use on Superior's unforgiving waters.Her white hull was streaked with rust and algae, her nets still partially deployed over the stern in a configuration that suggested they'd been in the middle of operations when whatever happened had happened.
But it was the blood that drew Isla's attention as she approached the dock.Even from twenty feet away, she could see the dark stains on the deck—concentrated near the wheelhouse, trailing toward the port rail in patterns that spoke of violence and flight.Less blood than the Northern Dawn, perhaps, but arranged in ways that felt horribly familiar.
"Agent Rivers, Agent Sullivan."A Coast Guard lieutenant met them at the gangway, his young face pale beneath his uniform cap."I'm Lieutenant Chen.I was on the boarding team."
"What did you find?"Isla asked, already pulling on latex gloves from the crime scene kit James had grabbed from the SUV.
Chen consulted his tablet, though Isla suspected he didn't need to—the haunted look in his eyes suggested these details were seared into his memory."Vessel was drifting approximately twelve miles east-northeast of here, no power, no crew.We found significant bloodstains on deck, concentrated near the wheelhouse and trailing toward the port side.Personal effects scattered throughout—wallets, phones, a half-eaten meal in the galley.No bodies."
"Any sign of what the crew was carrying?"James asked.
Chen hesitated, glancing around as if to ensure they weren't being overheard."We found something in the hold.Hidden compartment beneath the fish storage.It's...you should see for yourselves."
Isla followed the lieutenant aboard, her boots finding purchase on the weathered deck planks.TheStorm Runnercreaked gently against her mooring lines, the sound mixing with the lap of waves against the hull in a rhythm that should have been peaceful but instead felt ominous.The blood was darker up close, congealed and sticky despite the cool April air.She could smell it now—that copper tang that never quite left your memory once you'd encountered it at a crime scene.
The wheelhouse told a story of sudden violence.Navigation charts were scattered across the floor, a coffee mug shattered against the bulkhead, radio equipment showing signs of recent use but now silent.Through the window, Isla could see the vast gray expanse of Lake Superior stretching toward the horizon—empty and indifferent to the violence that had occurred on this small vessel.
"Down here," Chen said, leading them through a narrow hatch and down a ladder into the boat's cramped hold.
The smell hit Isla first—not blood this time, but something chemical, acrid, familiar in a way that made her stomach clench.The hold was lined with fish storage bins, their contents still partially frozen, but one section of the deck plating had been removed to reveal a hidden compartment beneath.
Empty now, but not entirely.Scattered across the bottom of the compartment were small plastic bags, their contents a crystalline white that caught the beam of Chen's flashlight.Residue clung to the compartment's walls, and Isla didn't need a field test to know what she was looking at.
"Methamphetamine," she said, crouching to examine the compartment more closely."Looks like they were running a substantial quantity.This compartment could hold—what, fifty, sixty pounds?"
"More," James said, studying the dimensions."If they packed it tight, maybe a hundred.Street value of several million dollars."
Isla stood, her mind racing through the implications.The Northern Dawn had been carrying weapons—military-grade hardware worth a fortune on the black market.But theStorm Runnerwas a completely different operation.A smaller vessel, a smaller crew, running drugs instead of guns.Different cargo, different scale, different criminal network.
But the same result.Crew missing, probably dead.Vessel left to drift as a ghost ship.Evidence of violence without witnesses.
"This doesn't make sense," she said, climbing back up the ladder to the main deck.The fresh air—even carrying the smell of fish and harbor—was a relief after the chemical stench of the hold."The Northern Dawn was connected to Callahan's operation.Professional arms smugglers with international connections.These guys—" she gestured at the modest fishing boat around them "—these are small-time drug runners.Local operation, probably selling to distributors in Duluth or the Iron Range."
James followed her topside, his brow furrowed as he processed the same contradictions."No connection between the operations?"
"I doubt it.Callahan's people move weapons, not drugs.Different markets, different customers, different risks."Isla moved to the port rail, studying the blood trail that led toward the water."But our killer doesn't seem to care about the distinction."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it."Isla turned to face James, her amber eyes bright with the intensity that came when pieces of a puzzle started clicking into place."TheNorthern Dawnwas carrying weapons.TheStorm Runnerwas carrying drugs.Callahan mentioned other vessels—theMargaret Rose, boats near Marquette, and Sault Ste.Marie.Different operations, different cargo, but all hit the same way.Crews killed or disappeared, vessels left to drift, contraband partially taken."
"So it's not about the cargo," James said, following her reasoning."It's not a rival operation trying to corner a specific market."
"No."Isla's voice was firm, certain."It's about the targets themselves.Someone is systematically hunting criminal operations on Lake Superior.Not for the drugs or the weapons or whatever else these boats are carrying—or at least, not primarily.They're hunting the smugglers.The criminals.The people who operate in the shadows and won't report attacks to authorities."
The wind picked up off the lake, cutting through her inadequate jacket and making the crime scene tape snap and flutter.Isla barely noticed.Her mind was fully engaged now, building a profile of someone she was only beginning to understand.
"A vigilante?"James asked, though his tone suggested he didn't quite believe it.
"Maybe.Or someone who's using vigilante justification to take whatever they want from people who can't complain."Isla moved back toward the wheelhouse, examining the blood patterns with fresh eyes."Either way, they've been at this for months.They know the waterfront, they know how to find illegal operations, and they know exactly how to make people disappear on a lake that's already claimed thousands of lives."
The crime scene technicians were arriving now, their van pulling up to the dock with equipment that would process every inch of theStorm Runnerfor evidence.Isla knew from experience that they would find little—fingerprints smudged or wiped clean, DNA degraded by lake water and time, witnesses nonexistent because everyone who might have seen something was either dead or too scared to talk.
Ghost ships.The phrase echoed in her mind as she watched the technicians begin their work.That's what this killer was creating—vessels stripped of their crews, left to drift on Superior's vast waters as monuments to violence that no one would officially investigate.Callahan's people had tried to handle it internally, too afraid of law enforcement to report attacks on their smuggling operations.How many other criminal networks had made the same calculation?
