But time was a resource Kane controlled.He would continue his mission until the waters were clean or until someone stopped him, and stopping him would require more than profiles and theories and anonymous tips pointing toward innocent women.It would require catching him in the act, and Kane had spent two decades learning how not to be caught.
The April evening deepened toward darkness outside his window.In a few hours, theCold Currentwould make her approach, her crew confident in the protection that Lieutenant Morrison's corruption had always provided.They would discover that protection had been revoked.
Kane finished his preparations and allowed himself a moment of stillness before the storm.The lake stretched before him, patient and eternal, keeping her secrets as she always had.He had added his own secrets to her depths—the weighted bodies of men who had poisoned these waters, the evidence of crimes that would never see courtrooms, the quiet justice that the system could never deliver.
Tonight, he would add more.
He checked his watch—still three hours until he needed to move.Time enough to eat, to review his plans one final time, to descend to the basement and verify that Morrison hadn't somehow freed himself in the interim.
Time enough to contemplate the weight of what he'd become, and to accept that weight as the price of the mission he'd chosen.
Thomas Kane gathered his gear and began preparing for war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The name had been buried three pages deep in her search results, almost lost among the dozens of other veterans whose profiles had seemed promising before closer examination revealed alibis, relocations, or circumstances that eliminated them from consideration.But Thomas Kane's file had refused to be dismissed.
Isla stared at the screen, the fluorescent lights of the conference room buzzing overhead in their endless mechanical drone.The clock read 6:47 PM—she'd been at this for hours, sifting through military records and discharge paperwork, cross-referencing service histories with geographic data and psychological profiles.Most of the names had fallen away like dead leaves, their owners too old or too young, too far away or too thoroughly documented to match the ghost they were hunting.
But Kane.Thomas Kane was different.
"James."Her voice came out rougher than she'd intended, scraped raw by too much coffee and not enough sleep."Come look at this."
He crossed the room with the heavy tread of exhaustion, his flannel shirt wrinkled beyond any hope of recovery, the stubble on his jaw having progressed from fashionable to simply unkempt.But his eyes sharpened when he saw what she was looking at—the service photograph of a man in his early fifties, gray hair cropped close, eyes that seemed to stare through the camera rather than at it.
"Navy SEAL," Isla said, scrolling through the file."Twenty-two years of service.Specialized in maritime interdiction operations—boarding hostile vessels, neutralizing armed targets in confined spaces.Multiple deployments to Afghanistan, Iraq, the Horn of Africa.Commendations for valor that would fill a wall."
"And then?"James leaned closer, reading over her shoulder.
"Medical discharge, three years ago.PTSD diagnosis, chronic traumatic encephalopathy from multiple blast exposures.The Navy gave him a disability pension and a handshake and sent him on his way."Isla pulled up another document, this one showing a property record."He bought a cabin outside Duluth eighteen months ago.Remote location, lakefront access.Perfect for someone who wanted to disappear from the world."
"Or perfect for someone who wanted to operate without being seen."
Isla nodded, feeling the familiar electricity that came when pieces of a puzzle began clicking together."His psychological evaluation at discharge is interesting.The examining psychiatrist noted 'rigid moral framework' and 'difficulty accepting institutional limitations.'Kane apparently had multiple conflicts with superiors during his final years of service—not about competence, but about what he perceived as failures of leadership to address threats he'd identified."
"A soldier who thought the brass wasn't doing enough to stop the bad guys."
"Exactly."Isla pulled up a map showing the location of Kane's property."Look at this.His cabin is within an hour's boat ride of every location where we've had an incident.Northern Dawn, Storm Runner, Midnight Crossing—he could have reached any of them without being detected, operated, and returned before dawn."
James straightened, his hand moving unconsciously to the back of his neck where tension had taken up permanent residence."You think this is him?Our vigilante?"
"I think we need to talk to him."Isla stood, reaching for her jacket."Right now.Tonight.If Kane is planning another attack—"
"Then we might already be too late."James was already moving toward the door."I'll drive."
* * *
The drive north took them through the fading twilight, past the industrial silhouettes of Duluth's harbor district and into the wilderness that pressed close against the city's northern boundary.The trees grew thicker as they climbed away from the lake, their bare branches forming skeletal canopies against a sky that had turned the color of old bruises.
Kane's cabin appeared through a break in the forest—a modest structure of weathered wood and stone, its windows dark, its chimney cold.A pickup truck sat in the gravel driveway, and beyond it, through the trees, Isla caught a glimpse of water where a private dock extended into Superior's gray expanse.
"No lights," James observed as he killed the engine."Either he's not home, or—"
"Or he's the kind of person who sits in the dark."Isla checked her service weapon, confirming the round in the chamber, the full magazine, the familiar weight that had become an extension of her body over years of fieldwork."Let's be careful."
They approached the cabin with weapons drawn, moving in the tactical formation that training had made instinctive—James taking the left angle, Isla the right, both watching for movement in the shadows that pooled beneath the porch overhang.The evening air carried the smell of pine and cold water, the particular scent of northern Minnesota that she'd come to associate with both beauty and danger.
"FBI!"James announced, his voice carrying the authority of someone who expected compliance."Thomas Kane!We need to speak with you!"
