Isla processed this, adding it to the mental map she'd been building since the first ghost ship appeared.The Northern Dawn had been carrying weapons for Derek Callahan's smuggling network.The Storm Runner had been running methamphetamine for a regional distribution operation.And now the Midnight Crossing, transporting human beings for a trafficking ring that connected Marquette to...where?Chicago?Beyond?
Different cargo.Different criminals.Different networks.
Same methodology.Same result.
"Contact the Chicago field office," Isla said, her decision crystallizing even as she spoke."Have them bring Vance in for questioning.Whatever trafficking operation he's running, that's their jurisdiction.They can coordinate with Michigan on the kidnapping charges."
James raised an eyebrow."You don't want to pursue this ourselves?"
"We've got enough to deal with here."Isla gestured toward the yacht, toward the blood that was visible even in the dim light, toward the vast expanse of Lake Superior that stretched beyond the harbor into darkness."Vance is a trafficker.He's garbage, and he deserves everything that's coming to him.But he's not our killer.He's not the one turning boats into ghost ships."
"You're sure?"
"Think about it, James.Vance is in Chicago.His crew was on this boat, transporting victims across the lake.Whoever killed them came from outside the operation—boarded the yacht, slaughtered everyone aboard, and disappeared without touching Madeline."She paused, letting the implications sink in."Why would Vance have his own people killed?Why would he leave a witness alive?It doesn't make sense."
"So we're back to the vigilante theory."
"We never left it."Isla began walking toward the edge of the dock, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the first true light of dawn was beginning to appear."This confirms what we suspected.Someone is hunting criminal operations on Lake Superior.Arms smugglers, drug runners, and now human traffickers.Different networks, different types of contraband, but all of them operating outside the law."
James fell into step beside her, his boots heavy on the wooden planks."And whoever's doing this knows about all of them.Knows their routes, their schedules, their vulnerabilities.That's not information you can just pick up from watching the harbor."
"No.It's not."Isla stopped at the end of the dock, staring out at the water that was beginning to reveal itself as night surrendered to morning.The lake looked almost peaceful now, its surface rippled by a gentle breeze that carried the smell of cold water and approaching spring."Our killer has access to intelligence that should be compartmentalized across multiple criminal networks.They're not just finding random smuggling operations—they're identifying specific shipments, specific crews, specific moments of vulnerability."
"Someone with law enforcement connections?Military intelligence?"
"Maybe.Or someone who's been embedded in these networks long enough to understand how they operate.Someone with the patience to gather information, the skills to plan attacks, and the..."She searched for the right word."The conviction to carry them out."
The profile was solidifying in her mind now, taking shape like a photograph developing in chemical bath.A vigilante.Someone who had looked at the criminal underworld of Lake Superior and decided that the justice system wasn't enough.Someone with military training—the knife work confirmed that—and maritime expertise.Someone who believed, genuinely believed, that what they were doing was righteous.
Someone who dispatched their targets with ruthless efficiency, leaving blood and terror in their wake.
Someone who had no intention of being stopped.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The break room at the Duluth FBI field office smelled of burnt coffee and institutional despair—a combination Isla had come to associate with mornings that started too early after nights that ended too late.She stood at the counter, watching the ancient Bunn drip machine struggle through its cycle with the kind of mechanical wheeze that suggested imminent failure, and tried to remember the last time she'd slept for more than three consecutive hours.
Friday.It was Friday, April seventeenth.She had to remind herself of that, had to anchor the day in something concrete because the past week had blurred into a continuous stream of crime scenes and interviews and bodies pulled from cold water.The clock on the wall read eight-twelve AM, and through the window she could see Lake Superior stretching toward the horizon under a sky the color of old pewter.The lake looked calm this morning, almost serene—a liar's face hiding the violence that had been done on her waters.
James sat at one of the small tables near the television mounted in the corner, his hands wrapped around a mug that was more for warmth than consumption.His flannel shirt was wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that had progressed past fashionable into genuinely disheveled.They'd both been at the marina until after six AM, processing the Midnight Crossing, coordinating with the Coast Guard, and making arrangements for Madeline Holmes to be transported to a hospital where she could be properly evaluated and protected.
Madeline.Nineteen years old.Kidnapped from a parking lot in Marquette and locked in a soundproofed cabin while men planned to sell her to the highest bidder.The memory of her green eyes—wide with terror, desperate with hope—had followed Isla through the few hours of rest she'd managed to steal before returning to the office.
"She's going to be okay," James said, as if reading her thoughts."Physically, anyway.The doctors said there was no evidence of...of assault.She was being transported, not..."He trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the sentence.
"Being transported to someone who would assault her," Isla finished, her voice flat."That's not exactly a happy ending, James."
"Thank God we stopped that from happening."He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste.
The coffee maker completed its wheezing cycle, and Isla poured herself a cup that looked like motor oil and probably tasted worse.She carried it to James's table and sank into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion in her bones like a physical weight.The bruise of sleeplessness had taken up permanent residence beneath her eyes, and she'd stopped bothering to hide it with makeup days ago.
“Well, we know it wasn’t Sterling,” Isla said.“The yacht kills were fresh—happened while we had him under watch.”
“I know.We can’t spare the men to keep watching him.Let’s just hope he wasn’t involved in another way.”
“If he was, we’ll find out.”
The television droned in the corner, playing what appeared to be a local morning news program.Isla had been ignoring it, letting the generic chatter of anchors and weather forecasters wash over her like background noise.But something in the broadcast changed—a shift in tone, a sharpening of energy—and she found her attention drawn to the screen despite herself.
