Even from a distance, Isla could see that something was wrong with the ship's posture.The boat listed slightly to starboard, and her stern sat lower than it should.Navigation lights that should have been blazing were dark, giving the vessel a dead appearance that sent a chill through her chest.
"There," James pointed toward a cluster of emergency vehicles parked near the marina's main dock."Coast Guard response team, crime scene unit, and...is that the medical examiner's van?"
The presence of the ME suggested this was already being treated as more than a missing persons case.Isla felt the familiar tension that came with a fresh crime scene—the combination of anticipation and dread that meant someone was dead and it was her job to figure out why.
They badged their way past the perimeter that had been established around the dock, finding Coast Guard Petty Officer Steve McTavish waiting near theNorthern Dawn'sberth.The man looked shaken, his face pale under the harsh lighting, but his voice was steady as he briefed them on what he'd found.
"No crew visible anywhere on board," he reported, consulting a small notebook."Blood evidence on deck, signs of hasty departure.The engines were shut down, and the ship was drifting with no one at the helm."
Isla studied the vessel as McTavish spoke, noting details that might prove important later.TheNorthern Dawnappeared to be a standard Great Lakes cargo hauler, the type of vessel that moved freight between smaller ports where the giant ocean-going freighters couldn't dock.Her paint was fresh, her equipment well-maintained—this wasn't some rust bucket being operated on a shoestring budget.
"Any idea how long she was drifting?"James asked, already pulling on latex gloves from the crime scene kit he'd grabbed from their car.
"Fishing vessel spotted her around eight-thirty, but she could have been unmanned for hours before that," McTavish replied."We're checking with harbor traffic control to see when she was last in radio contact."
As they approached the ship's boarding ladder, Isla felt the familiar shift in her perception that came with entering a crime scene.The sounds of the harbor—diesel engines, voices, the lap of water against hulls—faded into background noise as her focus narrowed to the evidence before her.This was where she belonged, where her training and instincts came together to make sense of violence and chaos.
The blood on deck was immediately visible under their flashlights, dark stains that formed a rough trail from somewhere near the cargo hold toward the starboard rail.Too much blood for a minor injury, spread in patterns that suggested movement—someone had been hurt badly and had tried to get away.
But it was what they found in the cargo hold that transformed their understanding of the situation completely.Crime scene technicians were already photographing wooden crates that had been pulled up from below decks, and Isla's breath caught as she saw what they contained.
Fully automatic weapons.Military-grade assault rifles, submachine guns, and what looked like enough ammunition to supply a small army.The weapons were carefully packed in foam, pristine and obviously expensive.This wasn't some weekend gun enthusiast's collection—this was serious hardware meant for serious violence.
"Jesus Christ," James breathed, playing his flashlight over the arsenal."We're not just dealing with a missing crew.We're dealing with missing arms smugglers."
Isla felt the pieces of a new puzzle clicking into place in her mind.TheNorthern Dawnwasn't just another cargo vessel—she was a floating weapons cache, moving illegal arms through the Great Lakes shipping network.The missing crew, the evidence of violence, the hasty abandonment of the ship—it all pointed to something far more complex than a maritime accident.And whoever had killed these men had left valuable cargo behind, making the motive blurry.
Isla had a very bad feeling about what had transpired here.
CHAPTER FOUR
The crime scene aboard theNorthern Dawnrevealed its secrets slowly, like a photograph developing in chemicals.Isla moved methodically through the vessel's confined spaces, her flashlight beam cutting through the dim interior and picking out details that painted an increasingly disturbing picture.The blood spatter patterns on deck weren't consistent with an accident—arterial spray arced across the wheelhouse window, impact spatter marked the deck plating, and what looked like defensive cast-off decorated the superstructure where someone had tried to shield themselves with raised arms.
"Take a look at this," James called from the wheelhouse, his voice tight with concern.He was crouched beside the chart table, examining scattered papers with the focused intensity she'd come to associate with his most productive investigative moments."Ship's manifest lists general cargo—machine parts, agricultural equipment, textiles.Nothing about weapons."
Isla joined him in the cramped space, her boots crunching on broken glass from the navigation instruments.Personal belongings were scattered everywhere as if the crew had left in extreme haste—or been forced to flee.A coffee mug lay overturned, its contents bleeding into navigation charts that would have cost hundreds to replace.A sandwich sat half-eaten beside the radio station, bread curling at the edges.Someone's reading glasses were abandoned on the deck as if they'd been dropped during flight, one lens cracked and the frame bent.
"Hidden among legitimate cargo," she mused, studying the manifest James held.The paper trembled slightly in his gloved hands."Classic smuggling technique—bury the illegal stuff deep in a shipment of legal goods.Customs agents can't inspect every container thoroughly, especially on the Great Lakes, where security is lighter than at the ocean ports.They're focused on the St.Lawrence Seaway checkpoints, not domestic routes."
"Right, but this volume?"James gestured toward the cargo hold entrance."We're talking about a serious operation here."
The crime scene technicians were working their way through the cargo hold systematically, photographing each crate before cataloging its contents.Their camera flashes strobed through the hold like lightning.What they'd found so far went well beyond personal protection weapons—these were military-grade arms designed for warfare, not hunting or sport shooting.AK-47 variants, fully automatic M4 carbines, fragmentation grenades, and enough ammunition to supply a small militia.Each weapon was carefully packed in cosmoline and wrapped in moisture-resistant materials, suggesting professional handling.
"Someone wanted these weapons badly enough to kill for them," James said, his voice carrying the weight of realization."And given what we're seeing, we can only assume they took some of them with them."
"But why leave the rest behind?"Isla asked, crouching to examine a smear of blood on the cargo hold ladder."If you're killing people for weapons, you take everything.You don't leave evidence or valuable merchandise."
James stood, pressing his fist against his lower back as he straightened."Maybe their ship didn't have enough room.Or maybe whoever did this didn't have enough manpower to handle the load.Could be we're looking at one person here—someone who bit off more than they could chew."
"One person killing an entire crew?"Isla's skepticism was evident.
"Think about it.What if this wasn't a rival smuggling operation?"James walked to the wheelhouse window, staring out at the dark water."What if someone on the crew turned on the others?An inside job.They'd have the advantage of surprise, knowledge of the ship's layout, access to the weapons themselves."
Isla examined the blood evidence more carefully, using her flashlight to trace the patterns across the deck.The spatter suggested at least two separate violent encounters—one near the cargo hold where the heaviest concentration of blood marked the deck in overlapping pools that had congealed into a dark, tacky mass, and another near the stern where drag marks led toward the rail."Someone was seriously injured here, possibly killed.And their body likely went overboard."
She moved toward the stern, following the blood trail."But if it was a crew member, what's the motive?These aren't drugs where someone gets hooked and desperate.We're talking about weapons.Heavy, difficult-to-move weapons."
"Money," James said immediately."Has to be money.Military-grade automatic weapons can fetch serious cash on the black market.We're talking fifteen hundred to three thousand per rifle, more for the full-autos.This load could be worth a quarter million dollars, maybe more."
