Tommy was on the deck, one arm flung out toward the rail as if he'd been reaching for something when he fell.His eyes were open, catching the faint light from the cabin windows.His throat had been opened from ear to ear, a wet red smile that glistened in the darkness.Blood pooled beneath him, spreading in a dark tide that the deck's scuppers hadn't yet claimed.
"Jesus—" The word came out strangled, barely a whisper.Carlos's training wanted him to check for a pulse, to call for backup, to dosomething, but his body wouldn't cooperate.He could only stare at what was left of a man he'd shared a beer with six hours ago.
The movement came from his right—a shadow detaching itself from the deeper shadows near the cabin door.Carlos spun, trying to bring the Glock around, trying to track the figure that was already too close, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for something human.
He saw the knife for a fraction of a second.Saw the way it caught the light, the blade already dark with Tommy's blood.Saw the man holding it—just a shape, really, a silhouette that moved like water flowing downhill, all terrible efficiency and purpose.
Carlos squeezed the trigger.The shot went wide, punching through fiberglass somewhere behind his attacker, the report swallowed almost instantly by the vastness of the lake.He tried to adjust his aim, tried to find the center mass they'd taught him to target in the concealed carry course he'd taken after the divorce.
The knife hand moved.Carlos felt the impact before he felt the pain—a punch to his forearm that made his fingers spasm and the Glock clatter to the deck.The blade had cut something important.His arm hung wrong, useless, blood welling from a wound he couldn't see in the darkness.
He opened his mouth to scream.
The first stab took him in the chest, sliding between his ribs with surgical precision.The second followed so quickly that he felt it as part of the same motion—lower, angling up.The third and fourth were already happening as his knees buckled, four strikes delivered in the time it took him to process that he was dying.
Carlos Garcia fell.
The deck was cold against his cheek.He could see Tommy's body a few feet away, could see the stars that had somehow appeared through a break in the clouds.They seemed very bright, very far away.He thought about his daughter, about the child support payments he would never make now, about how Maria would feel when she got the news.
The figure stood over him for a moment, nothing but a dark shape against the sky.Carlos tried to speak—to beg, to curse, to askwhy—but his lungs had stopped working.There was only the cold, spreading through his chest like the lake itself was claiming him.
The last thing he heard was footsteps moving away, soft and unhurried, heading toward the cabin where Danny and the others had no idea death was coming for them.
The last thing he saw was the stars going out, one by one, as the darkness of Lake Superior swallowed him whole.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The phone shattered her dreams like a stone through glass.
Isla's hand found the device before her eyes opened, muscle memory overriding the thick fog of exhaustion that had finally claimed her sometime after midnight.The screen's blue glow was painful in the darkness of her bedroom, but it was the name on the display that made her sit up, heart already accelerating toward the familiar rhythm of crisis.
Coast Guard.2:47 AM.
"Rivers," she answered, her voice rough with the sleep she'd barely managed to find.
"Agent Rivers, this is Lieutenant Commander Frank."The woman's voice carried the particular tightness that Isla had learned to associate with bodies and blood."We've got another one."
The words landed like a physical blow, though some part of her had been expecting them ever since she'd left the office.Sterling was still under surveillance—she'd checked before attempting sleep—which meant either they had the wrong man, or there was more than one predator hunting these waters.
"Where?"She was already moving, feet finding the cold floor, free hand reaching for the clothes she'd laid out on her chair in anticipation of exactly this call.
"Approximately eight miles northeast of the harbor.Luxury yacht, seventy-two feet, name ofMidnight Crossing.Fishing vessel spotted her drifting without running lights around one-thirty.We boarded at two-fifteen."Frank paused, and in that pause, Isla heard everything she needed to know."Same pattern, Agent Rivers.Blood on deck, no crew, no response to hails.We're towing her in now.ETA to marina approximately forty-five minutes."
Isla wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder as she pulled on her pants, the fabric cold against her skin.Through her window, she could see the darkness that still held Duluth in its grip—no hint of dawn, no promise of light to push back against the violence that seemed to bloom in these black hours."How many crew?"
"Vessel's registered to a holding company out of Chicago.Based on the size, typical complement would be four to six, maybe more if they were running with security."Another pause, heavier than the first."We found a lot of blood, Agent Rivers.Top deck looks like a slaughterhouse."
"I'm on my way."Isla ended the call and immediately dialed James, not bothering to check the time.He answered on the second ring, his voice carrying none of the grogginess she'd expected—he'd been awake, probably staring at the same ceiling she'd been staring at, turning the same questions over in his mind.
"Another one?"he asked.
"Midnight Crossing.Luxury yacht.They're towing her in now."
"I'll pick you up in fifteen."
She finished dressing in the dark, pulling on the thermal undershirt she'd finally learned to wear beneath her blazers, then the blazer itself, then the wool coat that had become her armor against Minnesota's stubborn cold.Her service weapon settled against her hip with familiar weight, and she caught her reflection in the mirror by the door—amber eyes ringed with exhaustion, dark hair escaping from the hasty ponytail she'd attempted, the face of a woman running on coffee and determination and not much else.
Alicia Mendez's face flickered through her mind, unbidden—the elementary school teacher who'd died because Isla had been wrong.The thought came whenever she was tired, whenever a case threatened to slip through her fingers.A reminder of what failure cost.
