CHAPTER SEVEN #2
The Griffon was coming in from the northeast, cutting off the Arctic Wind's most obvious escape route toward Canadian waters.
Callahan's options were narrowing by the second—he could try to outrun them toward the open lake, head for the shipping lanes where the larger vessels might provide cover, or turn back toward US waters and face immediate boarding by the Coast Guard.
The first gunshot cracked across the water like a whip, the sound unmistakable even over the roar of engines and the crash of waves against the hull.
Isla instinctively ducked, years of training taking over before her conscious mind could process what was happening.
A second shot followed, then a third, the reports echoing across the lake's surface in a staccato rhythm that spoke of automatic fire.
"Contact!" someone shouted from the bridge. "They're firing on the Griffon!"
Isla raised her head enough to see muzzle flashes from the Arctic Wind's stern—two shooters, maybe three, laying down suppressive fire toward the Canadian cutter.
The range was still long for accurate shooting from a moving platform, but that wouldn't matter if they got closer.
These weren't warning shots. This was a desperate attempt to fight their way out of a closing trap.
"Jurisdiction just went out the window," James said, his voice hard as he drew his service weapon. "They're engaging law enforcement vessels with deadly force. That makes this our fight."
Frank was already on the radio, her voice sharp and professional despite the chaos erupting around them. "Griffon, Resolute—we are moving to support. Confirm you are taking fire."
"Resolute, Griffon confirms—automatic weapons fire from target vessel. We have no casualties but are breaking off direct approach. Request coordinated pursuit."
The Arctic Wind was turning now, using the Griffon's momentary hesitation to change course.
She was heading southwest, toward the shipping lanes, toward the maze of commercial traffic that might provide cover for escape.
The shooters on her stern kept up their fire, not aiming for accuracy but for intimidation, trying to keep both pursuing vessels at bay while Callahan made his run.
Isla pulled her Glock from its holster, though she knew the range was still too great for effective pistol fire.
The weight of the weapon in her hand was reassuring nonetheless—a tangible connection to her training, her purpose, the job she'd sworn to do.
Four men were dead on the Northern Dawn, and the people responsible might be shooting their way to freedom right in front of her eyes.
"Close the distance," she heard herself saying. "We need to get closer."
Frank shot her a look that mixed respect with concern. "We're outgunned, Agent Rivers. Those are automatic weapons. We've got sidearms and maybe a shotgun."
"They're also shooting from a moving platform in heavy seas," Isla countered. "Their accuracy is going to be terrible. We get close enough, we can force them to make a choice."
Another burst of gunfire raked across the water, but this time the shots were wilder, more panicked. Something was wrong aboard the Arctic Wind—Isla could see figures scrambling near the wheelhouse, hear shouting even over the distance and the wind.
"She's slowing," James said, his binoculars fixed on the target. "Look at her wake—she's losing speed."
He was right. The Arctic Wind's bow was settling, her engines sputtering with a sound that carried across the water like a mechanical cough. Smoke was rising from somewhere near her stern—not the clean gray of exhaust, but the darker, oilier black of something burning that shouldn't be.
"Engine failure," Frank said, a note of grim satisfaction in her voice. "Looks like all those modifications didn't include proper maintenance. She's dead in the water."
The gunfire from the Arctic Wind had stopped.
Through her binoculars, Isla could see Callahan's crew abandoning their positions at the stern, rushing toward the engine compartment with the desperate urgency of men who understood that their escape had just evaporated.
The Griffon was closing from the north, the Resolute from the south, and the Arctic Wind sat between them like a wounded animal waiting for the inevitable.
"Arctic Wind, this is the United States Coast Guard," Frank broadcast, her voice carrying the authority of someone who knew she'd won. "Your vessel is disabled. You will stand down, drop all weapons, and prepare to be boarded. Any further resistance will be met with deadly force."
For a long moment, nothing happened. The three vessels rode the swells in a strange tableau—the two Coast Guard cutters closing slowly, the smuggler's boat drifting with smoke still rising from her engine compartment.
Lake Superior stretched around them in every direction, gray and cold and utterly indifferent to the human drama playing out on her surface.
Then, one by one, weapons began appearing over the Arctic Wind's rail—rifles and pistols tossed into the water with splashes that seemed almost anticlimactic after the violence of the chase.
Figures emerged from cover with their hands raised, faces tight with the particular combination of fear and resignation that came with understanding that the game was finally over.
"They're surrendering," James said, lowering his weapon but keeping it ready. "Looks like Callahan decided he'd rather face prosecution than drown."
Isla watched as the last of the weapons went over the side, her heart still pounding from the chase, but her mind already shifting to what came next.
Derek Callahan knew something about the Northern Dawn massacre—she was certain of it.
The question was whether he'd talk, and what he'd say when he did.
The Resolute came alongside the disabled smuggler's vessel with practiced precision, fenders absorbing the impact as the two hulls touched.
Coast Guard personnel were already preparing boarding equipment, and Isla could see the Griffon's team doing the same from the opposite side.
Whatever secrets the Arctic Wind held, they were about to be exposed to the cold light of investigation.
"Ready?" James asked, holstering his weapon and reaching for the boarding ladder.
Isla took one last look at the gray expanse of Lake Superior, thinking about the four dead men from the Northern Dawn, about the weapons that had been stolen, about the violence that seemed to permeate this corner of the world she'd been exiled to.
"Ready," she said, and followed him over the rail.