"Ready?"James asked.
Isla's hand moved automatically to her service weapon, confirming its presence without drawing it."Let's see what Mr.Sterling has to say about smugglers."
They approached the front porch together, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path that led from the driveway.The porch boards creaked beneath their weight as they climbed the steps, and Isla noticed the security camera mounted above the door—angled to capture anyone approaching the house.If Sterling was inside, he already knew they were here.
James knocked, three firm raps that echoed in the evening stillness.For a long moment, nothing happened.Then Isla heard footsteps approaching from inside, measured and unhurried, the sound of someone who wasn't surprised by visitors.
The door opened to reveal Marcus Sterling in person.He was taller than his photograph suggested—six feet, maybe a bit more—with a lean, athletic build that spoke to maintained fitness despite his age.He wore faded jeans and a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked by old scars that had probably come from years of physical work.His gray eyes moved from Isla to James and back again, assessing them with the practiced calm of someone accustomed to evaluating potential threats.
"FBI," he said.It wasn't a question.His voice was a gravelly baritone, roughened by years of shouting orders over engine noise and gunfire."I've been wondering when you'd get around to me."
The statement caught Isla off guard, though she was careful not to show it."Mr.Sterling?I'm Special Agent Isla Rivers.This is Special Agent James Sullivan.We'd like to ask you some questions about recent events on Lake Superior."
Sterling stepped back from the doorway, a gesture of invitation that seemed almost theatrical."The ghost ships.The phantom attacks.I've been watching the news coverage."He led them into a living room that matched the cabin's exterior—spare, functional, everything in its designated place.Military history books lined one wall, interspersed with nautical charts and framed photographs of Sterling in uniform."Can't say I'm sorry to see smugglers getting what they deserve, but I suppose that's not the kind of thing law enforcement wants to hear."
Isla exchanged a glance with James as they settled onto a worn leather couch across from the armchair Sterling claimed for himself.The man's posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his eyes never stopped moving—tracking their positions, noting the location of exits, the kind of unconscious assessment that came from years of combat training.
"You've been following the coverage closely," Isla said, keeping her tone conversational."What's your interest?"
Sterling laughed, a harsh sound without much humor in it."My interest?Agent Rivers, I spent thirty years of my life trying to keep these waters safe.Watched smugglers move drugs and weapons right under the Coast Guard's nose while my superiors looked the other way—or worse, took payment to look the other way."His expression hardened."So when I see someone finally doing something about the problem, yeah, I pay attention."
"Someone doing something," James repeated."You mean whoever's killing these crews?"
"I mean, whoever's eliminating criminal operations that law enforcement has failed to address for decades."Sterling leaned forward in his chair, his intensity palpable."You want to know what I think?I think whoever's doing this understands what people like me have known for years—that the system is broken.That criminals operate with impunity because they've learned to exploit every gap in our defenses.That sometimes the only way to solve a problem is to remove it from the equation permanently."
Isla studied him carefully, watching for the microexpressions that might reveal whether this was philosophy or confession."That sounds like admiration."
"It is admiration," Sterling said bluntly."Not for the killing—I've seen enough death in my life to know it's never clean, never simple.But for the effectiveness.Whoever's doing this has disrupted more smuggling operations in a few months than the Coast Guard managed in my entire career.They've created fear in networks that used to operate with complete confidence.That's nothing, Agent Rivers."
"It's also murder," James said, his voice harder than it had been."Eight people that we know of, probably more.Killed with a knife, up close, their bodies dumped in the lake."
Something flickered in Sterling's eyes—not guilt, exactly, but something more complex.Recognition, maybe.Understanding."Those eight people were running drugs and weapons.They were poisoning communities, arming criminals, destroying lives.The system you represent had years to stop them and didn't."He spread his hands, a gesture that might have been philosophical acceptance or calculated performance."I'm not saying what's happening is right.I'm saying I understand why someone might decide it was necessary."
Isla felt the interview shifting, the careful dance between interrogator and subject entering a new phase.Sterling wasn't denying involvement—but he wasn't admitting to it either.He was walking a line, close enough to the truth to satisfy something in himself while staying just far enough away to avoid incrimination.
"Where were you last night?”she asked.The Northern Dawn.The first of the recent massacres that had brought them to this point.
Sterling's smile was thin, almost pitying."At home, Agent Rivers.Alone.Reading, probably, or watching the news.Same as I am most nights."He tilted his head slightly, studying her with renewed interest."You won't find anyone to verify that.I live alone, I work alone, I don't keep a social calendar.Does that make me suspicious?Probably.Does it make me guilty?That's a different question."
"What about The Storm Runner?We estimate the attack happened three days ago."
"Same answer.Home, alone, no witnesses.I don’t go out much these days.I doubt you’ll be satisfied with any alibi I can offer you."Sterling's expression didn't change, but something in his posture suggested he was enjoying this—enjoying the attention, the implication that he might be capable of something so dramatic."I could give you the same answer for any date you want to ask about.My life isn't exciting, Agents.I consult on security protocols, I maintain my property, I keep to myself.That's not a crime, last time I checked."
James leaned forward, his own intensity matching Sterling's."You have the training to do what was done to those crews.You have the motivation—a personal vendetta against smugglers and the system you feel betrayed you.And you have no alibi for any of the attacks.You can see how that looks from our perspective."
"I can see how you'd like it to look," Sterling replied, his voice hardening slightly."But wanting something to be true and proving it are different things.You teach that in FBI training, don't you?Evidence.Chain of custody.Reasonable doubt."He stood abruptly, moving to the window where the evening light was fading to purple dusk."I'm not going to confess to something just because you need to close a case, Agents.If you have evidence linking me to these killings, arrest me.If you don't, then we're done here."
Isla rose from the couch, her mind working through everything Sterling had said and hadn't said.He was right—they had nothing concrete.Suspicion wasn't probable cause.A profile wasn't a fingerprint.Without physical evidence or witness testimony, they couldn't touch him.
But she'd also learned something important during this interview.Sterling wasn't just failing to deny involvement—he was practically reveling in being suspected.The attention, the association with acts he clearly approved of, and the opportunity to voice his grievances against a system he felt had wronged him.If he wasn't their killer, he wanted to be.And if he was, he was confident enough in his methods to invite the FBI into his home and all but dare them to prove it.
"We'll be in touch, Mr.Sterling," she said, her voice carefully neutral."If you think of anything that might help our investigation, anything at all, please contact us."
Sterling turned from the window, his gray eyes meeting hers with something that might have been respect or might have been challenge."I hope you find whoever's doing this, Agent Rivers.I genuinely do.Because people like them—people who are willing to do what the system won't—are either going to save these waters or destroy themselves trying.Either way, it's going to be something to see."
The drive back to Duluth was quiet for the first few miles, both of them processing what they'd witnessed.The trees flashed past the windows in the gathering darkness, and Isla found herself replaying Sterling's words in her mind, searching for the tell that would confirm her suspicions.
"He loved every minute of that," James said finally, breaking the silence."Did you see his face when you asked where he was during the Northern Dawn attack?He wasn't nervous—he was proud.Like being suspected was some kind of badge of honor."
