Silence.The cabin offered no response, its dark windows staring back at them like empty eyes.Isla moved to the nearest window, cupping her hands against the glass to peer inside.The living room was barely visible in the dying light—furniture arranged with military precision, bookshelves lined with volumes whose spines she couldn't read, a dining table covered with what looked like maps or charts.
"I've got probable cause," she said, her voice tight."Those look like navigational charts.If he's plotting attacks—"
"Then we go in."James moved to the front door, testing the handle.Locked.He stepped back, positioned himself, and drove his boot into the frame just below the lock.The wood splintered on the second kick, the door swinging inward to reveal a darkness that smelled of gun oil and something else—something older, more organic.
Isla went through first, her weapon sweeping left to right, her senses straining for any indication that they weren't alone.The living room was empty, exactly as ordered, as she'd glimpsed through the window.The kitchen beyond it was similarly vacant—clean dishes in a drying rack, a coffee maker with grounds still in the filter, signs of recent habitation but no occupant.
"Clear," she called.
"Bedroom's clear," James responded from somewhere deeper in the cabin."Bathroom too.But Isla—you need to see what's in the spare room."
She found him standing before an open closet, his flashlight beam illuminating what looked like a war room in miniature.Folders arranged by date and priority.Surveillance photographs tacked to a corkboard.Maritime charts marked with routes and waypoints.And weapons—a rack of knives, each one clean and sharp, alongside boxes of ammunition for guns that weren't present.
"Jesus," Isla breathed."He's been planning this for months.Maybe years."
"There's more."James's voice had taken on a quality she'd learned to associate with the worst discoveries—flat, controlled, the professional mask that came down when reality demanded distance."In the basement."
The smell hit her as soon as James opened the door at the end of the hall—urine and fear-sweat and the particular musk of a human body that had been confined too long in too small a space.Isla descended the wooden stairs with her weapon raised, her flashlight cutting through darkness that seemed almost physical in its density.
And there, in the basement's center, bound to a chair with zip ties and rope, was a man who looked more corpse than living being.
"Help."The word came out as a croak, barely audible."Please.Help me."
Isla holstered her weapon and rushed to the man's side, her hands moving to check his pulse while James called for backup and medical assistance.The prisoner's skin was cold and clammy, his lips cracked and bleeding, his wrists rubbed raw by the restraints that had held him captive for what she estimated had been days.
"I'm FBI," she said, keeping her voice calm despite the horror unfolding before her."You're safe now.We're going to get you out of here.What's your name?"
"Morrison."The man's eyes found hers, and she saw something beyond exhaustion there—terror, yes, but also a desperate need to communicate something important."Ben Morrison.Coast Guard.He's been—he made me tell him—"
"Made you tell him what?"Isla pulled out her knife and began cutting through the zip ties, careful not to disturb the wounds they'd created."Who did this to you?"
"Kane."Morrison's voice gained strength as hope replaced despair."Thomas Kane.He knew—he knew I'd been taking money.From the smugglers.He had files, proof.Made me tell him which shipments I'd been paid to ignore."
Isla felt ice form in her stomach."Which shipments?"
"All of them.Everything.The weapons, the drugs, the trafficking."Morrison's body shook as the last of his restraints fell away."But tonight—he wanted to know about tonight specifically.The Cold Current.Fishing trawler running heroin into the harbor.He's going after them.He's going to kill them all."
James appeared at the basement stairs, his phone already in hand."I've got the Coast Guard on the line.What's the target?"
"The Cold Current," Isla said, helping Morrison to his feet.The man could barely stand, his legs having lost muscle memory after days of immobility."Fishing vessel.It's making a run tonight—heroin shipment.Kane's going to intercept."
"When?"James demanded of Morrison."What time?"
"Around two AM.Maybe sooner.He left—" Morrison's face contorted as he tried to estimate time without access to clocks or sunlight."Hours ago.I don't know how long."
Isla checked her watch.8:23 PM.If Kane had left at twilight, he'd have a significant head start.But if the Cold Current wasn't scheduled to arrive until 2 AM, there was still time.Maybe.
"Get Morrison to a hospital," she told James."I want a Coast Guard cutter prepped and ready to launch in thirty minutes.And get me everything you can on the Cold Current—crew manifest, registered route, any information about where they might be right now."
"Isla—" James's voice carried a warning."If we're going after a former SEAL on open water at night—"
"Then we'd better be ready for what we find."She was already moving toward the stairs, her mind racing through tactical considerations, equipment requirements, the thousand variables that separated a successful operation from a disaster."Kane's been killing people for months.Tonight, that ends."
Morrison grabbed her arm as she passed, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd been bound in a basement for nearly a week."Be careful," he said."He's not—he's not like anyone you've faced before.I've known killers.This man—" His voice broke."He believes he's righteous.That makes him more dangerous than any criminal."
Isla met his eyes, seeing in them the reflection of a man who had stared into the abyss of Thomas Kane's certainty and found it more terrifying than any threat of violence.
"I know," she said."That's exactly why we have to stop him."
