The Northern Star suddenly increased power, surging forward and then cutting sharply across the cutter's bow. The maneuver caught everyone by surprise, and the cutter's captain had to order emergency evasive action to avoid collision.
In the chaos that followed, the two vessels collided glancingly, their hulls grinding together with a sound like tearing metal. The impact created a momentary bridge between the ships, their railings almost touching as they scraped past each other.
Isla saw Coast Guard personnel hesitating because of the dangerous conditions—the gap between the vessels was still significant, the decks slick with ice and spray, and the consequences of a fall into the frigid waters below almost certainly fatal.
In that split second, she made a decision that was equal parts calculation and instinct. In Miami, she'd always been the cautious one, the analyst who preferred to work through evidence rather than take physical risks. But here, with evidence potentially about to disappear beneath the icy waters of Lake Superior, hesitation could mean losing their only chance at justice for Whitman.
Without giving Sullivan time to stop her, she launched herself across the gap, her momentum carrying her over the open water. Her boots hit the Northern Star's deck hard, skidding on the icy surface. For one heart-stopping moment, she slid toward the opposite railing and the deadly water beyond.
Her hand caught a rope coiled on the deck, arresting her slide mere inches from disaster. She scrambled to her feet, drawing her weapon in the same fluid motion, and faced the startled crew alone on the hostile vessel.
"FBI!" she shouted over the howling wind. "Hands where I can see them! Cut your engines now!"
The three men stood frozen, clearly not having expected an agent to make such a dangerous leap. The deck beneath her feet vibrated with the boat's engines, and she could smell the overwhelming odors of diesel fuel, old fish, and something else—something chemical and sharp that didn't belong on a fishing vessel.
Behind her, she heard shouting from the Coast Guard vessel, Sullivan's voice cutting through the wind: "Rivers! Hold position!"
For what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, Isla stood alone on the Northern Star's deck, three potentially violent men calculating their options while ice chunks scraped against the hull with grinding, metallic screams. Then Sullivan landed behind her with a controlled thud, immediately moving to flank her position.
Bradley stood frozen for a moment, shock evident even behind his ice-crusted beard. Then, his eyes narrowed with calculation as he assessed his options.
"Don't," Isla warned, recognizing the look of a man preparing to resist. "It's over, Bradley."
For a moment, the standoff held—Isla and Sullivan with weapons drawn, Bradley and his crew calculating their odds. The younger crewman, Finch, shifted slightly, his hand moving toward what looked like a boat hook leaning against the wheelhouse.
"Easy, Derek," Kozlov said sharply, the older man's voice cutting through the tension. "Don't be stupid."
Finch's hand stopped, but his eyes darted between the agents and Bradley, waiting for a signal.
"We can do this the easy way," Isla said, "or we can add resisting federal officers to whatever you're already facing."
The two vessels continued moving in parallel, separated now by fifteen feet of deadly cold water. The Coast Guard cutter's lights swept across the Northern Star's deck, illuminating their confrontation in harsh white beams.
As Coast Guard personnel successfully boarded behind them, Isla noticed movement at the stern—Bradley and Finch attempting to jettison something overboard into the churning waters. Without hesitation, she moved toward them, weapon raised.
"Stop! Step away from the railing!"
The men froze, caught in the act of lowering what appeared to be a waterproof container—military-grade, sealed with heavy latches and marked with shipping labels she couldn't read from this distance. Whatever was inside was clearly valuable enough to risk destroying rather than let it fall into federal hands.
Sullivan was already moving to secure the container, his expression grim but satisfied.
"You got no right to board my vessel," Bradley finally said, his voice rough from the cold. "We're just fishing."
"In an ice field?" Sullivan challenged. "During a winter storm warning? Cut the engines, Bradley."
Bradley's eyes flicked to his crewmen, a silent signal passing between them. Isla tensed, ready for movement. Finch's fingers twitched toward the boat hook again.
"Tom," Kozlov said urgently, "they've got us surrounded. Look around." He gestured to the Coast Guard cutter, where armed personnel now lined the rail. "It's over."
For several tense seconds, Bradley's jaw worked beneath his frost-crusted beard, weighing his dwindling options. The sound of ice chunks scraping against both hulls filled the silence, punctuated by the distant thrum of helicopter rotors.
Finally, his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Finch, cut the engines," he said quietly.
As Finch disappeared into the wheelhouse, Sullivan maintained his aim on Bradley. "Hands on your head, both of you. Then down on your knees."
The two men complied, kneeling awkwardly on the icy deck. The Northern Star’s engines finally fell silent, leaving only the sounds of wind, water, and the Coast Guard cutter's powerful diesels.
Ramirez and his team swarmed forward, quickly securing the prisoners and beginning their sweep of the vessel. Sullivan caught Isla's eye and nodded toward the waterproof container they'd prevented from going overboard.
