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 the Resolute were 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.
The Arctic Wind was 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 the Northern Dawn investigation 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 the Arctic 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 the Resolute'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 Griffon out 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 the Northern 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 Wind is 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 the Arctic 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.
The Arctic Wind showed 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 is CCGS 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.
The Griffon was a larger vessel than the Resolute—a proper cutter with law enforcement capabilities and a crew trained for exactly this kind of operation.
With both vessels present, they'd have the Arctic Wind boxed 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 the Arctic 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.
The Griffon was 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 the Arctic Wind and 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 the Arctic 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, Griffon copies. 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 the Resolute'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 the Arctic Wind began to close, nautical miles shrinking as both vessels committed to the chase.
"Arctic Wind, this is the Canadian Coast Guard vessel Griffon," the radio crackled with the Griffon's commanding officer. "You are ordered to maintain your current position and prepare for boarding. Failure to comply will be considered resistance to lawful authority."
No response. The Arctic Wind's anchor chain was coming up fast, her bow swinging as she prepared to make way. Isla could see smoke rising from her stack now—they were firing up the engines, preparing to run.
"They're not going to stop," she said, lowering her binoculars. The cold certainty in her voice surprised even her. "Callahan's going to run."
James turned to Frank. "Can we catch them?"
"Depends on what kind of engines he's running. That trawler looks like she's been modified—probably souped up for exactly this situation. But between us and the Griffon, we should be able to box him in."
The Arctic Wind's engines roared to life with a sound that carried across the water, deep and powerful.
The vessel leaped forward, her stern digging into the waves as she accelerated with surprising speed.
Callahan had definitely invested in his boat's capabilities—this wasn't a typical fishing trawler's acceleration.
This was a smuggler's vessel, built for exactly this kind of situation.
"All ahead full," Frank ordered. "Helm, intercept course. Don't let him get past us toward the shipping lanes."
The Resolute surged forward, and Isla grabbed the rail to steady herself as the deck tilted beneath her feet.
The wind cut through her inadequate jacket like knives of ice, but she barely noticed.
Her entire focus was on the fleeing vessel, watching as the distance between them fluctuated—closing, then holding, then closing again as both boats pushed their engines to the limit.