Isla accepted the gear with a nod of thanks, finally conceding to the brutal Duluth winter. The bright orange survival suit looked ridiculous but would be essential if they ended up in the water.
"How do we get to the Maple?" Sullivan asked, already pulling the insulated coveralls over his clothing.
"Helicopter," Harding replied. "It's the fastest way to intercept, given Bradley's position and movement."
Twenty minutes later, Isla found herself strapped into a Coast Guard helicopter, the roar of the engines vibrating through her body as they lifted off from the station helipad. Through the window, she watched Duluth recede, the city lights blurring in the fading daylight and continued snowfall.
The immensity of Lake Superior became apparent as they flew over it—a vast expanse that stretched to the horizon like an inland sea. From this height, Isla could see the patchwork of ice and open water that Captain Harding had described, beautiful and deadly in equal measure. This was nothing like the warm Atlantic waters off Miami's coast, where the worst threat had been sharks or rip currents. Here, the water itself was a weapon—hypothermia waiting to claim anyone unlucky enough to fall in.
Sullivan leaned closer to be heard over the engine noise. "Lake Superior contains ten percent of the world's fresh surface water," he shouted. "Average depth is 483 feet. Some places it's over 1,300 feet deep."
Isla nodded, understanding the unspoken message beneath these facts: this was no ordinary body of water, and the dangers it presented were on a scale she hadn't encountered before.
"In these temperatures, survival time in the water is minutes, not hours," Sullivan continued, making sure she understood the stakes. "The Coast Guard calls it the most dangerous body of water they patrol."
The helicopter banked slightly, and the pilot's voice came through their headsets. "USCGC Maple is two miles ahead. We have visual on Bradley's vessel approximately one mile beyond that."
Isla peered through the window, spotting the distinctive white and red stripe of the Coast Guard cutter slicing through dark water. Further ahead, a smaller vessel moved steadily away from them.
"Bradley must know we're coming," she said. "Why not stop?"
"Because he's guilty," Sullivan replied simply. "And desperate."
The helicopter descended toward the Maple, hovering above its deck as a winch system was prepared to lower them. The cutter appeared massive from above, its hull breaking through scattered ice floes with methodical power.
"Ladies first," the Coast Guard technician said with a reassuring smile, helping Isla into the harness.
The descent was swift but controlled, the winch operator expertly compensating for the movement of the ship below. As her feet touched the deck, crew members immediately unhooked her harness and guided her to a sheltered position while Sullivan was lowered.
The wind on the open water was brutal, cutting through even the specialized gear they'd been given. Isla steadied herself against the ship's railing, momentarily overwhelmed by the combination of the vessel's movement, the howling wind, and the stark realization of just how vast and unforgiving Lake Superior truly was.
Sullivan appeared beside her, his expression grim but determined. A Coast Guard officer approached them, shouting to be heard over the wind and the sound of ice chunks scraping against the hull.
"Lieutenant Cooper," he introduced himself. "Captain wants you on the bridge!"
They followed him through narrow passageways to the bridge, where relative quiet and warmth provided a welcome respite. The bridge buzzed with activity as crew members monitored radar displays and communicated with other vessels.
The captain, a weathered woman in her fifties who introduced herself as Captain Reynolds, nodded to them curtly. "Agents. We're closing in on Bradley's vessel. He's been ordered repeatedly to stop and allow boarding. So far, he's ignoring all communications."
"How close can you get?" Sullivan asked, studying the radar screen where Bradley's boat appeared as a small blip ahead of them.
"Close enough for boarding in these conditions," Reynolds replied. "But we're approaching an ice field. If he enters it, things get more complicated. His vessel can navigate light ice, and he knows these waters well enough to find channels we might miss."
Isla studied the nautical charts displayed on a nearby screen, noting the complex patterns of depth and underwater terrain. Her coastal upbringing had given her respect for the ocean, but Lake Superior was something altogether different—an inland sea with its own rules and dangers.
"What's our plan once we intercept?" she asked.
"Standard maritime law enforcement boarding procedure," Reynolds explained. "We'll come alongside, order all personnel on deck, then send a boarding team over. Given the circumstances and your involvement, we can include one of you with our boarding team if necessary."
Sullivan and Isla exchanged a glance. There was no question that one of them needed to be on that boarding team. The evidence they sought could be destroyed in moments if Bradley had advance warning of their approach.
"I'll go," Sullivan said, his tone suggesting he expected no argument.
But Isla was already shaking her head. "We both should. If there's evidence aboard related to Whitman's murder, we need to secure it immediately."
Before Sullivan could object, the radar operator called out, "Captain! Bradley's increasing speed. Now, at fifteen knots and changing course. He's heading directly for the ice field."
"He's making a run for it," Reynolds muttered, then raised her voice. "All hands prepare for pursuit. Helmsman, intercept course. Engineering, give me all available power."
