There was one person who might catch this new killer, he thought.One person with the intelligence and determination to see past the blood and chaos to the predator beneath.
The same person who might, if she wasn't careful, eventually see him clearly enough to become a threat.
He walked until the apartment building was just another cluster of lights in the distance, then turned toward home.The lake stretched dark and patient beside him, keeping her counsel as she always had.
He had work to do.Both of them did—the FBI agent in her apartment, building profiles and timelines, and him in the shadows, watching, waiting, wondering when their paths might finally cross.
Not tonight.
But soon, perhaps.Soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The darkness over Lake Superior was absolute—no moon, no stars, just the thick blanket of clouds that had rolled in from the northwest and swallowed everything beyond the yacht's running lights.Carlos Garcia leaned against the stern rail of theMidnight Crossing, watching the black water slide past the hull in patterns that seemed almost hypnotic.The cold bit through his jacket, but he'd grown used to cold.Four months working the night shift at the docks had taught him that Superior didn't care about comfort.
His breath fogged in the air as he scanned the horizon for the hundredth time.Nothing.Just the endless void of water and sky merging into a single dark mass.The yacht's engines hummed beneath his feet, a steady vibration that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat over the past six hours.
He checked his watch.Twelve-seventeen AM.Another three hours until they reached the rendezvous point, then maybe two more until he could crawl into his bunk and forget about the cold.
Of course, he'd heard about the ghost ships.Everyone on the water had heard.TheNorthern Dawn, with her crew, was slaughtered and dumped overboard.TheStorm Runnerfound drifting with blood on the deck and no one left to explain it.The whispered stories in harbor bars about boats that went dark and never came back, about something hunting the smugglers who moved product through these waters.
But those guys werecriminals.Arms dealers, drug runners, the kind of men who'd made enemies in a dozen different ports.Not like him.Not like the crew of theMidnight Crossing.
Carlos wasn't a smuggler.He was just a lookout.Just a guy who needed money badly enough to stand watch on a luxury yacht while it carried one tiny, almost insignificant thing across the lake.He didn't even know what was in the case—didn't want to know.The boss had made it clear that questions weren't part of the job description.Watch the water, report anything unusual, keep your mouth shut.Simple.
Whatever they were moving was locked in a room downstairs in the yacht.How dangerous could it be?
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and cupped his hands against the wind as he lit it.The flame illuminated his face for a brief moment—tired eyes, three days of stubble, the hollow cheeks of a man who'd been sleeping badly since his divorce.The lighter snapped shut, and darkness reclaimed him.
The smoke tasted sharp and familiar, a small comfort against the vast indifference of the lake.He'd taken this job because it paid three times what he could make at the warehouse, and because Maria's lawyer had been very specific about what would happen if he missed another child support payment.Pride was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore.
A sound behind him—soft, almost lost in the constant whisper of wind and water.Carlos turned, cigarette dangling from his lips, expecting to see Tommy coming up from below for a smoke break.
The deck was empty.
He frowned, scanning the shadows that pooled between the yacht's cabin structure and the port rail.TheMidnight Crossingwas seventy-two feet of polished teak and gleaming chrome, but at night she became a maze of dark corners and blind spots.The running lights only did so much.
"Tommy?"His voice sounded thin against the immensity of the lake.
No answer.Just the engine's steady hum and the slap of small waves against the hull.
Carlos took another drag from his cigarette, willing his pulse to slow.He was jumpy.Everyone was jumpy lately.The news coverage had seen to that—all those breathless reports about phantom attacks and maritime massacres.He'd caught himself checking over his shoulder a dozen times tonight, seeing threats in every shadow.
But this wasn't a smuggling vessel.This wasn't theNorthern Dawnwith its hidden cargo of military weapons.This was a rich man's toy running a simple errand across the lake.Nobody was going to—
Movement.Port side, near the stairs that led down to the main cabin.A blur in his peripheral vision, there and gone so fast he almost convinced himself he'd imagined it.
Carlos dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot, his hand moving to the pistol holstered beneath his jacket.The boss had been very clear about the gun, too.You probably won't need it, but better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.Practical advice from a man who clearly understood that these waters weren't as safe as they used to be.
He drew the weapon—a Glock 19, familiar weight, fifteen rounds in the magazine—and started moving toward the port rail.His footsteps were soft on the deck, barely audible over the engine noise.The yacht's gentle roll made it hard to walk in a straight line, but Carlos had found his sea legs weeks ago.
"Tommy?"he called again, louder this time."Danny?You guys fucking with me?"
The silence that answered was wrong.There should have been voices from below, the sound of cards being shuffled, maybe the tinny output from Danny's phone playing whatever YouTube video had caught his attention.Instead, there was nothing.Just the engine and the water and the wind that seemed to carry whispers he couldn't quite understand.
Carlos rounded the corner of the cabin structure, pistol raised, heart hammering against his ribs.
Tommy was there.
