He studied the photographs he'd taken himself, from a distance that ensured he was never seen.Regular haunts, patterns of movement, the gaps in security that they didn't even know existed.
They thought they were careful.They all thought they were careful.
He moved to the nautical chart pinned to the wall, tracing routes that criminal operations typically followed.According to the intelligence he'd gathered, another run was scheduled soon.Another shipment of contraband moving through waters that were supposed to be American, supposed to be safe, supposed to be protected by laws that criminals treated as minor inconveniences.
The anger was always there, simmering beneath the surface like heat from a banked fire.He'd learned to control it years ago, to channel it into something productive rather than letting it consume him.But moments like these—looking at the faces of men who poisoned communities and corrupted institutions and operated with impunity because the system was too broken to stop them—the anger burned hotter.
He thought about the weapons he'd taken from the Northern Dawn.Military-grade hardware that would have ended up in the hands of gang members, domestic terrorists, anyone with enough cash and enough disregard for human life.Those rifles were secured now, locked away where they'd never hurt anyone.The same with the drugs from the Storm Runner—product that would have ended up in the veins of kids in Duluth and Superior and a dozen other struggling towns around the lake.
Every operation he eliminated was a victory.Every crew he removed was countless crimes prevented, countless lives saved.The mathematics of it were simple, even if the execution was messy.He was doing what law enforcement couldn't or wouldn't do.He was cleaning these waters, one vessel at a time.
The television flickered silently in the other room, still showing footage of the Storm Runner investigation.Yellow crime scene tape, Coast Guard vessels, the somber procession of official vehicles that accompanied violent death.He wondered if the FBI agents working the case had any idea what they were really dealing with.Probably not.They'd look for connections between victims, try to identify a motive that made sense within their framework of criminal enterprise and rival operations.
They wouldn't understand that the motive was justice.That every death he'd caused was a necessary sacrifice in a war that nobody else seemed willing to fight.
He gathered the materials and returned them to their folder, then slid the folder back into its place among the others.Several active targets remained.Operations running heroin, stolen goods, weapons.Networks that had been corrupting these waters for years while law enforcement looked the other way or got tangled in red tape.
All of them would fall.All of them would join the completed files that represented his work over the past year—and the others that had never made the news because their remains had never been found.Lake Superior was deep and cold and kept her secrets well.He'd learned to use that.
He closed the closet door, hiding his war room from casual view, and returned to the living area.The television had moved on to weather—another cold front coming down from Canada, temperatures dropping, waves building on the lake.Good.Rough weather kept honest boats in harbor and left the criminals thinking they had the water to themselves.
They didn't.
He made himself a simple dinner—canned soup heated on the stovetop, bread from a local bakery that asked no questions about the quiet man who came in once a week and paid in cash.While he ate, he reviewed the timeline for his next operation in his head, running through contingencies, anticipating complications, planning for every scenario he could imagine.
The work was exhausting, but it was necessary.Someone had to do it.Someone had to be willing to get their hands dirty, to make the hard choices, to accept the weight of what needed to be done.He'd accepted that weight a long time ago, and he'd carry it until the job was finished or until it finished him.
The news had moved to sports now—hockey scores, baseball spring training, the comfortable trivialities of normal life.He watched without seeing, his mind already on the dark waters of Lake Superior, on the criminals who thought themselves safe, on the justice that was coming for them whether they knew it or not.
Thursday afternoon light faded outside his window as clouds rolled in from the west.Soon, there would be fewer smugglers corrupting these waters.
He finished his soup, washed the bowl, and began preparing his gear for the work ahead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The fluorescent lights in the FBI field office conference room had taken on a particular quality that Isla had come to associate with exhaustion—that faint, almost imperceptible flicker that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the headache building behind her eyes.The clock on the wall read twelve-forty-seven, and the remnants of a hurried lunch—a half-eaten sandwich from the vending machine and a cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago—sat forgotten beside her keyboard.
James sat across the conference table, his flannel shirt wrinkled from the night they'd spent processing theNorthern Dawncrime scene, his usually neat hair disheveled from running his hands through it too many times.Between them lay the accumulated evidence of two maritime massacres—photographs, reports, witness statements, and the preliminary findings that had been trickling in all morning from the medical examiner's office.
"Walk me through it again," Isla said, staring at the timeline she'd constructed on the whiteboard.Red markers indicated confirmed deaths, blue markers showed vessel locations, and yellow sticky notes contained the dozens of questions that remained unanswered."Northern Dawnleaves Thunder Bay yesterday morning.Storm Runnerleaves Knife River three days ago.Both crews vanish without distress calls, both vessels found drifting, both were involved in smuggling operations."
James leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking with the movement."Different cargo, though.Northern Dawn was running weapons—military-grade hardware worth millions.Storm Runner was carrying meth, probably destined for distribution in the Iron Range or Duluth."
"Different cargo, different scale, different criminal networks."Isla tapped her pen against the table, a habit she'd developed when her mind was working through a problem."But the methodology is identical.No distress calls, which means either the attacks happened too fast for anyone to reach the radio, or—"
"Or the killer controlled the situation from the start," James finished."Boarded without raising alarm, neutralized the crew before they could call for help."
Isla stood and moved to the window, staring out at the gray expanse of Lake Superior visible in the distance.The water looked calm from here, deceptively peaceful, hiding the violence that had occurred on its surface."Both crews were killed on the water," she said quietly, more to herself than to James."Killed and dumped overboard, left for the lake to swallow."
The thought triggered something in her mind—a connection she'd been trying not to make.The Lake Superior Killer.The invisible predator she'd been tracking for almost two years, the one who made drownings look like accidents, who had possibly been operating for decades without detection.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.
But both operated on the same waters.Both understood how to make people disappear into Lake Superior's cold depths.Both moved through the maritime environment with a predator's instinct for vulnerability.
"You're thinking about him again," James said, his voice gentle.He'd learned to read her silences over their months of partnership."The LSK."
Isla shook her head, forcing herself to focus."It's not him.Can't be.The MO is completely different.The Lake Superior Killer makes deaths look accidental—head wounds consistent with falls, drownings that appear natural.This..."She gestured at the crime scene photographs spread across the table."This is the opposite.Multiple stab wounds, systematic execution, bodies left floating where they'll be found.It's almost like whoever's doing this wants us to know something violent happened."
"Or doesn't care if we know," James said."Because the victims are criminals who weren't supposed to be doing what they were doing.Who's going to investigate too hard when drug runners and arms smugglers turn up dead?"
