"The story will have an ending.Just not the one they're expecting."Isla began organizing her notes, preparing for the deeper investigation that would follow."I need you to start the authorization process for expanded military record access.Psychological evaluations, disciplinary files, anything that might help us narrow the field.And I want to cross-reference these names with maritime activity—boat registrations, harbor access records, anything that puts them on the water."
"That's going to take time."
"I know."She looked up from her laptop, meeting James's eyes with the steel that had sustained her through almost two years of hunting a different killer on these same waters."But we're going to do this the right way.No shortcuts, no assumptions, no jumping to conclusions because the evidence seems to fit.I learned that lesson in Miami, and I'm not going to forget it here."
The afternoon light was beginning to fade beyond the window, the gray sky darkening toward evening.Somewhere out there—in the maze of docks and warehouses, in the modest homes that lined Superior's shore, in the places where soldiers went when they couldn't be soldiers anymore—the real killer was watching.Waiting.Perhaps planning the next attack, or perhaps simply observing the chaos his work had created.
Isla didn't know which of the forty-three names on her preliminary list might belong to that person.She didn't know if any of them would prove relevant, or if the answer lay somewhere she hadn't thought to look.The uncertainty was maddening, the scope of the investigation daunting, the possibility of failure lurking at the edge of every decision.
But she had a direction now.A framework.A methodology that honored the evidence rather than bending it to fit a convenient narrative.Elena Rodriguez was sitting in a holding cell, sacrificing her freedom for someone she'd never met, and Isla intended to prove that sacrifice unnecessary by finding the person actually responsible.
The hunt was far from over.But for the first time since the Northern Dawn had drifted into their awareness, Isla felt like she was hunting in the right direction.
She turned back to her laptop, to the list of names that represented the beginning of the real investigation, and began the painstaking work of building a case that would actually hold.
The gray light faded toward darkness outside the window, and somewhere on Lake Superior, a predator waited.
Isla Rivers would be waiting too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The basement smelled of mildew and fear—two scents Thomas Kane had learned to distinguish with clinical precision over years of operating in places where such smells were common.The former dominated during daylight hours when he was away, the latter intensified whenever he descended the wooden stairs, as he did now, the familiar creak of the third step announcing his arrival to the man bound to the chair below.
Coast Guard Lieutenant Ben Morrison had stopped screaming two days ago.The hoarseness had claimed his voice first, then the understanding that no one could hear him had finished the job.Now he only whimpered when Kane's boots touched the concrete floor, a sound not unlike the whine of a beaten dog recognizing its master's footfall.
Kane set his folder on the workbench he'd positioned against the far wall, taking his time, letting the silence stretch.The single bulb overhead cast harsh shadows across Morrison's face—gaunt now after six days without substantial food, the once-handsome features of a man who'd used his charm and uniform to betray everything that uniform represented reduced to something hollow and desperate.
"Evening, Lieutenant."Kane's voice carried the flat calm of someone discussing weather rather than torture.He pulled a metal stool from beneath the workbench and positioned it three feet from Morrison's chair, close enough to maintain eye contact, far enough to avoid the smell of dried urine that had accumulated despite Kane's periodic efforts at basic sanitation."I've been reviewing your records again."
Morrison's eyes tracked to the folder with the desperate hope of the condemned.The plastic zip ties securing his wrists to the chair's arms had rubbed the skin raw days ago, the wounds now crusted and weeping.His ankles were similarly bound to the chair legs, and a length of nylon rope around his chest kept him upright even when exhaustion threatened to topple him forward.
"Please."The word came out as a croak, barely recognizable."I've told you everything—"
"You've told me a great deal," Kane agreed, opening the folder to reveal pages of bank statements, spreadsheets, and photographs that he'd assembled over months of patient surveillance."But not everything.Not yet."
Kane had first identified Morrison eight months ago, during the early phase of his campaign to cleanse these waters.The lieutenant had appeared in multiple surveillance photographs—always in the background, always positioned where he could observe without participating, always present when certain vessels passed through the harbor without the inspections that regulations demanded.The pattern had been subtle enough to escape casual notice, but Kane had spent twenty-two years in the SEALs learning to recognize patterns that others missed.
"The Callahan network paid you twelve thousand dollars over the past eighteen months," Kane said, running his finger down a column of highlighted transactions."Deposits made to a savings account in your sister's name, but we both know she hasn't seen a cent of it.The Trudeau operation added another eight thousand—smaller payments, harder to trace, but you got careless with the timing.Three deposits within forty-eight hours of three shipments that should have been inspected but weren't."
Morrison's head lolled slightly, the physical toll of captivity making it difficult to maintain focus.Kane waited, patient as the lake itself, until the lieutenant's eyes found his again.
"And then there's this."Kane produced a single photograph, holding it up so Morrison could see.The image showed the lieutenant standing on a dock in Two Harbors, speaking with a man whose face Kane had memorized from federal watchlists."Viktor Sorokin.Russian national with connections to arms trafficking throughout the Great Lakes region.You met with him three times in the past year.Each meeting was followed within a week by a shipment that mysteriously avoided inspection."
"I didn't know—" Morrison began.
"You knew."Kane's voice didn't rise, didn't sharpen.It simply stated fact with the certainty of someone who had eliminated doubt long ago."You knew exactly what was moving through your sector, and you let it pass because the money was good and you'd convinced yourself that looking the other way wasn't the same as pulling the trigger yourself."
He stood, moving to the workbench where his tools waited in neat rows—not instruments of torture, but the practical equipment of a man who understood that information extraction was most effective when the subject believed worse was coming than what had already arrived.The reality was simpler: six days of isolation, minimal food, constant uncertainty.The human mind did most of Kane's work for him.
"Fourteen years."Kane spoke without turning, his hands moving over the equipment as if searching for something specific."Fourteen years you've worn that uniform.Sworn an oath to protect American waters, to uphold the law, to serve something larger than yourself.And you sold it for pocket change."
"I have a daughter—"
Kane turned then, his gray eyes finding Morrison's with an intensity that made the lieutenant flinch despite his exhaustion."Don't."The word carried more threat than any raised voice could have."Don't use your child to justify what you've done.The drugs that moved through your sector killed other people's children.The weapons armed men who have no interest in keeping this country safe.You traded American lives for a savings account."
Morrison's head dropped, chin touching chest, the last pretense of dignity abandoning him.Kane watched without satisfaction—this wasn't about pleasure or revenge.This was intelligence gathering, pure and simple.The methodical collection of information that would allow his mission to continue.
"There's a shipment tonight," Kane said, returning to his stool, his voice resuming its conversational tone."Heroin, based on the communications I've intercepted.Coming into Duluth harbor around zero-two-hundred, probably using one of the smaller fishing vessels as cover.You were paid to ensure it passed without inspection."He paused, letting the words settle."I want the details."
