Somewhere out there, a vigilante waited.Someone who had looked at the criminal underworld of Lake Superior and decided to become judge, jury, and executioner.They'd been operating in the shadows for months, maybe years, perfecting their craft, building their body count.
But shadows couldn't hide forever.And Isla had made a career of dragging monsters into the light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The clock on the conference room wall read four-oh-seven PM when Isla finally pushed back from her laptop, the vertebrae in her neck cracking with a sound that made James wince from across the table.They'd been at this for hours—sifting through military records, cross-referencing service histories with local addresses, searching for the needle in a haystack that might be their killer.
The whiteboard behind her had evolved throughout the afternoon, names appearing and disappearing as leads were pursued and eliminated.Coast Guard veterans, Navy SEALs who'd relocated to the region, Marines with combat experience who might have the skills to take down four men with a knife.Most could be ruled out quickly—too old, too young, alibi confirmed, currently deployed overseas.But a handful of names remained in the column marked "Possible," each one representing someone who had the training, the opportunity, and potentially the motivation to become a vigilante executioner.
"Got something," James said, his voice carrying the particular quality of restrained excitement that meant a lead had finally materialized.He turned his laptop to face her, the screen displaying a military service record alongside a more recent photograph from a Minnesota driver's license.
Marcus Sterling.The name meant nothing to Isla, but the face was memorable—angular features hardened by years of service, close-cropped gray hair that had probably once been dark brown, and eyes that stared out from the photograph with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the screen.He was in his early fifties, according to the file, with the kind of weathered complexion that came from decades of exposure to sun, wind, and water.
"Former Army, twenty-two years of service," James read from the file."Specialized in riverine operations—combat missions on inland waterways.Multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, several commendations for valor.Then he transferred to the Coast Guard Reserve, worked his way up to captain."James paused, his eyes scanning the next section."And here's where it gets interesting.Dishonorably discharged four years ago after exposing corruption in his unit."
Isla leaned forward, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten."What kind of corruption?"
"His commanding officer was taking bribes from a smuggling operation running drugs through the St.Lawrence Seaway.Sterling gathered evidence and reported it through official channels."James scrolled through additional documents that had been attached to Sterling's file."The CO got reassigned rather than prosecuted—apparently had connections high enough to avoid real consequences.Sterling pushed back, went public with what he knew, and the brass decided he was the problem.Discharged him for 'conduct unbecoming' after they couldn't make anything else stick."
The psychology of it crystallized in Isla's mind like ice forming on still water.A man who had dedicated his life to service, who had risked everything to expose wrongdoing, only to be punished for doing the right thing while the actual criminals walked free.The kind of experience that could fundamentally alter someone's view of the system—convince them that justice would never come through official channels.
"Where is he now?"she asked.
James pulled up another window."That's the other thing.After the discharge, he stayed in the area.Works as a maritime security consultant—advises shipping companies on anti-piracy measures, trains crews in threat assessment.He's been vocal in local media about what he sees as law enforcement's failure to address criminal activity on the Great Lakes."
Isla stood and moved to the whiteboard, erasing the other names in the "Possible" column with quick, decisive strokes until only Sterling's remained."Military training in close-quarters combat and waterway operations.Knowledge of maritime security protocols, which means he knows the vulnerabilities.Local residence with access to the waterfront.A personal grievance against both smugglers and the system that failed to stop them."She turned to face James, her amber eyes bright with the intensity that came when pieces of a puzzle started clicking into place."He fits the profile better than anyone else we've found."
"He also has no alibi for any of the attacks," James added, pulling up yet another document."I cross-referenced his known schedule with the timeline of incidents.Northern Dawn,Storm Runner,and even the earlier attacks Callahan mentioned.Sterling has no verifiable whereabouts for any of them."
"Which could mean he was committing murders," Isla said, "or could mean he's a former military consultant who works irregular hours and doesn't punch a time clock."She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, the familiar weight of her service weapon settling against her hip as she moved."We need to talk to him.Face to face.See how he reacts when we ask about ghost ships."
James was already on his feet, reaching for his own jacket."You think he'll cooperate?"
"I think a man who went public about corruption in the Coast Guard isn't afraid of law enforcement showing up at his door."Isla headed for the conference room door, her exhaustion pushed aside by the adrenaline that came with a solid lead."The question is whether he'll cooperate because he has nothing to hide, or because he's confident we can't prove anything."
They passed Kate Channing's office on the way out.The SAC looked up from her desk, reading the purpose in their strides without needing to ask."You found something?"
"Marcus Sterling," Isla said."Former Army and Coast Guard, dishonorably discharged after blowing the whistle on a smuggling operation.He fits the profile, and we can't account for his whereabouts during any of the attacks."
Kate's gray-blue eyes sharpened with professional interest."You're going to interview him now?"
"His address is on the outskirts of town.We want to catch him before the evening news runs another story about phantom attacks and spooks everyone who might be connected."
Kate nodded slowly, her expression carrying the weight of experience that came from decades in the Bureau."Be careful.If this is our guy, he's already killed at least eight people that we know of.And he did it with a knife, up close and personal."She paused, her gaze moving between Isla and James."Don't give him a reason to add two more to his count."
***
The drive took them north through Duluth's sprawling outskirts, past the commercial districts that gradually gave way to stretches of forest interspersed with modest homes set back from the road.James drove while Isla reviewed Sterling's file on her phone, memorizing details that might prove useful in the interview—his service history, his areas of expertise, the circumstances of his discharge that might still be a sore point.
The afternoon light was fading toward evening, the overcast sky casting everything in shades of gray that reminded Isla of the lake's surface during a storm.The trees lining the road were still mostly bare, their branches forming skeletal patterns against the sky, though she could see the first hints of green budding on some of the hardier species.April in Minnesota was a tease—promises of spring constantly undermined by cold snaps and late-season snow that could materialize without warning.
"What's your read on him?"James asked, his eyes fixed on the road as they turned onto a gravel drive that wound through a stand of birch trees."Based on the file?"
Isla considered the question carefully."He's a true believer.Everything in his record suggests someone who takes his principles seriously—seriously enough to throw away his career when he saw corruption.That kind of conviction doesn't just disappear because you get punished for it."She glanced out the window at the house coming into view through the trees."If anything, it gets stronger.Gets redirected."
Sterling's home was a modest cabin-style structure, single story with a wraparound porch that looked out over a clearing in the trees.A pickup truck—late model, dark blue, well-maintained—sat in the driveway beside a detached garage that was large enough to hold boats or other equipment.The property had the orderly appearance of a place maintained by someone with military discipline: firewood stacked in precise rows, tools hanging on designated hooks, no clutter or debris visible anywhere.
James pulled the SUV to a stop behind the pickup and killed the engine.For a moment, they sat in silence, studying the house for any sign of movement.The windows were dark despite the fading daylight, and no smoke rose from the chimney.If Sterling was home, he wasn't making himself visible.
