The drive to the Coast Guard station took them through the heart of Duluth's industrial district, past the steel mills and grain elevators that had defined the city's economy for generations.The harbor was coming alive with morning activity—tugboats positioning themselves for the day's ship movements, dock workers beginning their shifts, the steady rhythm of commerce that continued regardless of the violence that had shattered the previous night.
But as they approached the marina where Coast Guard vessels waited with engines running, Isla couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into something more dangerous than a simple arrest warrant.Callahan had stayed ahead of prosecution for years by being careful, methodical, and always prepared for law enforcement attention.
If he was anchored in international waters, monitoring radio traffic, and keeping his crew on high alert, it suggested he knew they were coming.The question was whether he would run, fight, or try to negotiate his way out of a situation that was rapidly spiraling beyond anyone's control.Maybe he already heard what happened to the Northern Dawn—maybe he wasn’t planning on running.
The morning air carried the familiar scent of lake water and diesel fuel as they approached the Coast Guard response vessel, but underneath it was something else—the metallic tang of approaching violence that Isla had learned to recognize in her years of hunting predators.Someone was about to make a decision that would determine whether Derek Callahan would be arrested quietly or become the center of the kind of confrontation that left people dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Coast Guard response vessel cut through Lake Superior's gray waters with the kind of determined efficiency that reminded Isla of her father's ships.Commander Rivers had always said you could tell the measure of a crew by how they handled rough seas, and the men and women aboard theResolutewere handling them with quiet competence.April on Superior was unpredictable at best—the lake hadn't fully shaken off winter's grip, and a cold wind from the northwest churned the surface into whitecaps that slapped against the hull in irregular rhythms.
Isla stood at the bow rail, binoculars pressed to her eyes, scanning the horizon for the vessel that had brought them out here.TheArctic Windwas anchored approximately two miles ahead, a white speck against the steel-gray canvas of water and sky.Even at this distance, she could make out the vessel's profile—a converted fishing trawler, perhaps eighty feet, the kind of working boat that could move through the Great Lakes without attracting attention.
"Still no movement," she said, lowering the binoculars to rest her eyes.The cold had turned her breath into small clouds that the wind whipped away before they could fully form."They've been sitting there for hours.Either they're waiting for something, or they know we're watching."
James moved to stand beside her, his navy parka zipped to the chin against the biting wind.His own binoculars hung from a strap around his neck, and his face bore the tightness of someone who hadn't slept in too long.Neither of them had been home since theNorthern Dawninvestigation began, and the fatigue was starting to show in the lines around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands when he lifted his coffee cup.
"International waters," he said, studying the GPS display mounted near the helm."She's sitting about three hundred yards outside US jurisdiction.Close enough to watch the harbor traffic, far enough to make any boarding a legal nightmare."
The jurisdictional complications had been gnawing at Isla since they'd received confirmation of theArctic Wind's position.Derek Callahan was too smart to make it easy for them.The intelligence files painted a picture of a man who had spent years perfecting the art of staying just beyond law enforcement's reach—legitimate enough to avoid prosecution, connected enough to move serious contraband, and careful enough to never leave his fingerprints on anything that could send him to prison.
"Canadian vessel is en route," Lieutenant Commander Sarah Frank reported from the bridge.She was theResolute's commanding officer, a compact woman in her forties with the kind of unflappable demeanor that came from years of search-and-rescue operations on the most dangerous of the Great Lakes."CCGS Griffonout of Thunder Bay.ETA approximately forty-five minutes."
Forty-five minutes.Isla felt the familiar tension coiling in her stomach, the sense that time was slipping away while they sat here watching and waiting.Four men were dead on theNorthern Dawn, killed with the kind of intimate violence that spoke to something darker than simple business disputes.Military-grade weapons were missing, presumably in the hands of whoever had committed those murders.And Derek Callahan—the man most likely to know what had happened—was sitting on his boat three hundred yards beyond their reach, probably watching them with the same binoculars they were using to watch him.
"What do we know about Callahan's crew?"Isla asked, turning away from the rail to face Frank."How many people typically work that vessel?"
Frank consulted a tablet displaying intelligence they'd received from both American and Canadian authorities."Arctic Windis registered with a crew complement of six to eight.Canadian surveillance suggests Callahan usually runs with five or six men—combination of deck hands and what we assume are security personnel.All of them have records, mostly weapons and smuggling charges that never quite stuck."
"Armed?"James asked.
"Assume so.These aren't fishing enthusiasts."
Isla raised the binoculars again, studying theArctic Wind's deck for any sign of activity.The vessel rode easily at anchor, her bow pointed into the wind, appearing for all the world like any other boat taking shelter from rough weather.But the lack of visible crew was concerning.On a legitimate vessel, you'd expect to see someone on deck—checking lines, monitoring conditions, simply enjoying the fresh air.TheArctic Windshowed nothing.Either her crew was below decks, or they were deliberately staying out of sight.
"They know we're here," she said."They have to.We haven't exactly been subtle about our approach."
"That's the point," Frank replied."We want them to know we're watching.Psychological pressure.Make them nervous, maybe push them into making a mistake."
Isla wasn't so sure.Men like Callahan didn't rattle easily—that was how they survived in a business where mistakes got you killed or imprisoned.If anything, their visible presence might be pushing him toward a decision they wouldn't like.Fight or flight, and she wasn't certain which would be worse.
The radio crackled with an incoming transmission."Resolute, this isCCGS Griffon.We have visual contact with your position and are approaching from the northeast.Requesting coordination for potential boarding operation."
Frank acknowledged the transmission and moved to the navigation console, pulling up a tactical display that showed the positions of all three vessels.TheGriffonwas a larger vessel than theResolute—a proper cutter with law enforcement capabilities and a crew trained for exactly this kind of operation.With both vessels present, they'd have theArctic Windboxed in, cutting off any easy escape routes.
"Griffon,Resolute.Confirmed visual.We'll maintain current position while you approach the target vessel from the north.FBI agents on board will coordinate with your boarding team once we establish communication with theArctic Wind."
Isla watched the Canadian cutter's lights appear on the horizon, a cluster of white and red against the gray backdrop of water and sky.TheGriffonwas moving at full speed, cutting through the swells with the confidence of a vessel designed for these waters.Within fifteen minutes, she'd be in position to hail theArctic Windand request permission to board—a formality that Callahan would almost certainly refuse, but which would establish the legal framework for what came next.
"Something's happening," James said suddenly, his binoculars fixed on theArctic Wind."Movement on deck.Multiple people."
Isla swung her own binoculars toward the target vessel, adjusting the focus as the boat rocked beneath her feet.She could see them now—three, maybe four figures emerging from the wheelhouse and moving toward the stern with purposeful haste.They weren't running, but they weren't casual either.Something had spooked them.
"They're weighing anchor," Frank observed, her voice tight with professional concern."Griffon, be advised—target vessel appears to be preparing to get underway."
The radio response was immediate."Resolute,Griffoncopies.We're increasing speed to intercept.Recommend you close distance to prevent escape toward US waters."
Frank was already giving orders, and Isla felt the deck vibrate beneath her feet as theResolute's engines increased power.The bow lifted slightly as they accelerated, spray breaking over the rails as they pushed through increasingly rough water.The distance between them and theArctic Windbegan to close, nautical miles shrinking as both vessels committed to the chase.
