"Fuck, it's encrypted."
Dominic's voice cut through the small cabin where we'd both been staring at his laptop screen for the past hour. The ledger—our hard-won prize, our supposed salvation—refused to yield its secrets.
The physical book itself contained what appeared to be random sequences of numbers and letters, handwritten in Petrov's precise Cyrillic script. The flash drive was similarly protected, containing a single file that demanded multiple layers of authentication before revealing its contents.
I leaned forward, studying the encryption protocol. "Military-grade. Multiple authentication factors required."
Twelve hours had passed since our escape from Thunder Bay. Lake Superior stretched endlessly around us, dark and forbidding in the winter twilight. Waves slapped against the hull of Dominic's yacht as we pushed eastward, the coastline now just a distant smudge behind us.
"We knew it wouldn't be simple," Dominic said, frustration evident in the tightness of his shoulders. He reached for his coffee—the fifth cup since we'd begun this endeavor. "Petrov was too careful for that."
I nodded, stretching to relieve the tension in my neck. The boat's cabin was comfortable but small, forcing us to sit close at the tiny table built into the wall. Not that I minded the proximity—after our separation in Thunder Bay, I craved the reassurance of his physical presence.
"There's a pattern to the numbering system in the physical ledger," I said, flipping through the pages. "Look at these groupings. Three numbers, then a letter, repeated in different combinations."
Dominic studied the pages I indicated. "Cipher?"
"Maybe. Or some kind of cross-reference system. Each entry might correspond to an encrypted file on the drive."
"Which we can't access without the key." His jaw tightened. "Petrov would have had a failsafe. Something only he would know."
I thought about what we knew of Viktor Petrov—ruthless, methodical, paranoid. "The combination to the box was his first wife's death date. What other significant dates might he use?"
"Birth dates of children? Anniversary? But we'd need to know which events mattered to him."
The boat rocked suddenly as a larger wave hit, sending the coffee cup sliding across the table. Dominic caught it before it fell, his reflexes still sharp despite our exhaustion.
"We should take a break," he said, closing the laptop. "Check our position and the weather forecast."
I didn't argue. We'd been at this since clearing Thunder Bay's harbor, the adrenaline of our escape gradually giving way to focused analysis. But even our considerable combined skills had failed to crack Petrov's security measures.
Dominic moved to the navigation console while I stretched out on the small bench seat, watching him work. His movements were precise, economical—the same efficiency he brought to everything from combat to lovemaking. The thought sent a pleasant warmth through me despite our circumstances.
"Storm system moving in from the northwest," he reported, studying the radar. "Nothing severe, but the lake will get rougher."
"Timeline?"
"Four hours, maybe five. We should make it to the protected channel near the provincial border before the worst hits."
I nodded, calculating distances and speeds in my head. "And Petrov?"
Dominic's expression darkened. "No sign of pursuit on radar. But that doesn't mean much. He could have assets waiting at various ports, or marine patrol contacts scanning for us."
"Think he has our boat registration?"
"Possibly. The shell corporation should provide some protection, but we can't count on it. Better to assume he knows."
This was our reality now—constant vigilance, worst-case planning, contingency upon contingency. Part of me wondered if we'd ever escape it, if there could ever be a future where we didn't look over our shoulders or sleep with weapons within reach.
I pushed the thought away. Survival first. Existential questions later.
Rising from the bench, I moved to stand beside him at the console, slipping my arm around his waist. He tensed momentarily—a reflexive response to unexpected contact—before relaxing into my touch.
"We'll figure it out," I said, as much to convince myself as him. "We always do."
His arm came around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. "Yes. We will."
For a moment, we simply stood there, drawing strength from each other's presence. Then duty called again.
"I'll take the helm for a while," I offered. "You get some rest."
He looked like he might argue, but nodded instead. "Wake me in two hours. Earlier if the weather changes or you see anything unusual."
"I will."
He pressed a kiss to my forehead before moving toward the sleeping berth at the back of the cabin. I watched him go, noting the slight favoring of his left side—a souvenir from our escape through the bank, perhaps. He hadn't mentioned an injury, but that was Dominic—compartmentalizing pain as efficiently as he did everything else.
Taking his place at the helm, I studied our course and surrounding waters. The navigation system showed our position in the upper reaches of Lake Superior, still a significant distance from the provincial border with Quebec. Another full day of travel at least, depending on weather and any necessary detours to avoid detection.
The vast expanse of water around us was simultaneously comforting and terrifying—unlikely to contain immediate threats, but offering limited escape options if those threats materialized. On land, we could disappear into crowds, change vehicles, adopt disguises. On water, we were exposed, trackable, vulnerable.
But we also had something Petrov desperately wanted. The ledger and flash drive represented his greatest vulnerability—the complete record of his global network, the names and details of every official he'd compromised, every operation he'd orchestrated. If we could access that information, we'd have leverage not just against Petrov, but potentially against some of the most powerful people in the world.
No wonder he was hunting us so relentlessly.
I adjusted our course slightly to account for the building waves, the motion becoming second nature after hours at the helm. The sky had darkened considerably, heavy clouds gathering on the horizon. The storm was approaching faster than predicted.
For the next hour, I focused on navigation, occasionally checking radar for any sign of pursuit. Nothing unusual appeared—just the regular patterns of commercial shipping traffic and the occasional fishing vessel.
Behind me, Dominic slept soundly, his breathing deep and regular. I envied his ability to rest so efficiently, to switch from full alertness to restorative sleep in moments when needed. My own mind rarely quieted so easily, constantly processing threats, possibilities, plans.
The first raindrops hit the windshield as I was checking our fuel levels. Within minutes, a steady downpour reduced visibility to near zero, the lake's surface churning with whitecaps. I adjusted our speed downward, keeping a close eye on the radar.
That's when I saw it—a small, fast-moving craft approaching from the northwest, following a course that would intersect with ours within twenty minutes. Commercial vessels didn't move like that. Neither did fishing boats.
"Dominic," I called, not loudly but with enough urgency to cut through sleep. "We have company."
He was beside me in seconds, fully alert, eyes scanning the instruments. "How long?"
"Twenty minutes at current speeds. They're moving fast—thirty knots at least."
He studied the radar silently for a moment. "Could be Coast Guard. Could be Petrov."
"Storm's getting worse. Coast Guard would be responding to emergencies, not patrolling."
"Agreed." He took the helm from me. "Gather what we need. Prepare for worst-case."
No further explanation needed. We'd discussed contingencies, planned for the possibility of interception. I moved quickly to the storage compartments, retrieving the waterproof bags we'd prepared. One contained clothing, identification documents, and emergency cash. The other held weapons and ammunition.
Most importantly, I secured both the flash drive and the physical ledger in waterproof containers, separating them between the two bags. If one was lost, the other might survive.
The boat lurched as Dominic changed course abruptly, increasing speed despite the worsening conditions. I braced myself against the wall, continuing my preparations.
"Update?" I called.
"They've adjusted course to match. Definitely pursuing us." His voice was calm, factual. "We're faster, but they're gaining. Likely using thermal imaging to track us through the storm."
Sophisticated equipment. Not civilian. Not even standard law enforcement.
"Petrov's men," I concluded.
"Almost certainly."
I finished securing the bags and moved back to the helm, studying the radar and nautical charts. "There's a cluster of small islands about twelve miles southeast. Shallow waters, narrow channels."
"Local knowledge would be an advantage there," Dominic noted.
"Which we don't have."
"Neither do they, most likely." He adjusted our heading again. "And we have better maneuverability. It's worth the risk."
I didn't argue. In open water, a faster vessel would eventually overtake us. In the maze of islands and channels, we might have a chance to lose them or at least gain enough time to implement one of our more drastic contingencies.
The storm intensified as we raced toward the island chain, rain lashing the windows and waves crashing over the bow. Under normal circumstances, we would have sought shelter, reduced speed to safe levels. Instead, Dominic pushed the engines harder, threading a dangerous line between maximum speed and catastrophic failure.
"Range?" he asked, eyes fixed on the treacherous waters ahead.
I checked the radar. "Eight miles and closing. They're still gaining."
"Weapons?"
"Can't tell from this distance. But if Petrov sent them, they'll be armed."
He nodded, making another course adjustment. "Take the helm. I need to check something."
I slid into position as he moved to a storage compartment near the rear of the cabin. When he returned, he was carrying what looked like small metal cylinders with attached wires.
"Shaped charges," he explained, seeing my questioning look. "Small but effective."
"For the pursuit craft?"
"For us. Last resort." He tucked them into one of the waterproof bags. "If we can't escape, we create another incident. Another presumed drowning."
Like our staged drowning in Lake Michigan when escaping Chicago. History repeating itself.
"The water temperature is near freezing," I pointed out. "Survival time would be minutes, not hours."
"We wouldn't be in the water long." He nodded toward a smaller object he'd placed on the console—a handheld GPS unit. "There's a fishing village on the eastern side of the island chain. We'd head there directly. Commandeer a vehicle if necessary."
Always another plan. Always another contingency. I felt a surge of gratitude for his meticulous nature, even as I calculated the brutally slim survival odds of such a scenario.
The first islands appeared ahead—dark, rocky outcroppings barely visible through the sheets of rain. Dominic took the helm again, reducing speed as we approached the treacherous waters.
"Six miles," I reported, watching the radar. "They've slowed slightly. Probably assessing the channel options."
"Good. Uncertainty creates hesitation." He guided the boat into a narrow passage between two islands, the rocky shorelines uncomfortably close on either side. "They'll either commit to following our exact path, which puts them at a disadvantage, or they'll try to anticipate our course and cut us off."
"Which would they choose?"
"If it's Petrov's men, they'll split up. One vessel following, others moving to block potential exit routes."
I scanned the radar again, looking for evidence of additional pursuit craft. Nothing yet, but the storm created interference, making smaller contacts difficult to distinguish.
We emerged from the narrow channel into a slightly wider passage, islands visible on all sides now. Dominic increased speed again, taking advantage of the temporarily clearer waters.
"How many of these charges did you bring?" I asked, nodding toward the bag containing the explosives.
"Four. Enough to create a convincing event."
I did the mental calculations. Shaped charges placed strategically would breach the hull below the waterline. The boat would sink quickly, especially in these rough conditions. Any pursuers would find debris, perhaps some personal items we'd deliberately leave behind. The freezing water and storm conditions would make an extended search for bodies difficult and dangerous.
It might work. It had before.
"There," Dominic said suddenly, pointing to a small gap between islands ahead. "That channel's barely wide enough for us. They'll have to go around if they're larger."
I studied the nautical chart. "It leads to a dead end."
"Not quite." He tapped a nearly invisible line on the chart. "Seasonal channel here. Likely partially blocked this time of year, but with our shallow draft, we might make it through. They'd have to circle around, adding at least thirty minutes to their pursuit."
It was a gamble, but a calculated one. "Do it."
He adjusted our course, aiming for the narrow gap. I braced myself, checking that our emergency bags were secure. If we ran aground, we'd need to move quickly.
The boat slowed as we entered the channel, rock walls rising on either side. Dominic navigated with intense concentration, making minute adjustments to our heading as the depth finder showed increasingly shallow water.
"Four miles," I reported, still monitoring the radar. "They've split up. One still following directly, two others moving to different positions around the island chain."
Just as he'd predicted. "Petrov's tactical playbook," Dominic muttered. "Surround and contain."
The channel narrowed further, branches from the shoreline scraping against the hull. The depth finder alarm began to sound, warning of dangerously shallow water ahead.
"How much farther to the seasonal passage?" I asked.
"Half a mile. But we're not going to make it in the boat." He began powering down systems, reducing our electronic signature. "Grab the bags. We're swimming."
My stomach dropped. "In these conditions?"
"Not far. There's a sheltered cove on the other side of that ridge." He pointed to a rocky outcropping ahead. "Two hundred yards maximum. The boat will continue on autopilot for another quarter-mile before running aground. They'll focus their search there while we circle back to the eastern shore."
It was audacious. Potentially suicidal. Also possibly our only option.
I secured the waterproof bags across my body as Dominic programmed the autopilot. Outside, the storm continued to rage, wind howling and waves crashing against the rocky shoreline. The water temperature would be just above freezing—survival time without protective gear measured in minutes.
"Thermal protection in the emergency locker," Dominic said, reading my thoughts. "Not full dry suits, but better than nothing."
I retrieved the garments—thin neoprene designed to provide minimal thermal protection in emergency situations. Better than regular clothing, certainly, but hardly ideal for a winter swim in Lake Superior.
We changed quickly, layering the protective garments under waterproof shells. Dominic programmed the autopilot, then began placing the shaped charges at strategic points around the hull.
"Set to detonate in twenty minutes," he explained. "That gives us time to reach shore and find cover before they investigate the explosion."
I nodded, double-checking the waterproof seals on our bags. My hands were steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system. Training and experience taking over.
"Ready?" Dominic asked, meeting my eyes.
"Ready." I managed a tight smile. "Just another swim in freezing water. Becoming our specialty."
A brief flash of appreciation crossed his face—he understood my attempt at lightening the moment. "At least this time it's by choice."
"Debatable definition of 'choice,'" I muttered.
He moved to the side door of the cabin, checking the surrounding waters one last time. "We'll use the island as cover. Stay close to the shoreline where the shadows are deepest. Thermal imaging will have trouble distinguishing us from the rocks if we move carefully."
I nodded, mentally preparing for the shock of the cold water. We'd survived a similar situation during our escape to Canada, but we'd been desperate then, running on pure adrenaline. This was calculated, planned—somehow that made it both easier and harder.
"I love you," I said suddenly, the words escaping before I could analyze them.
Dominic paused, hand on the door latch. For a moment, his carefully composed expression softened. "I love you too." He touched my face briefly. "Now let's survive this so we can say it somewhere warm and dry."
With that, he opened the door. The storm's fury hit us immediately—wind and rain lashing at exposed skin, the boat rocking violently beneath our feet. Dominic secured the autopilot, then signaled me to follow.
We slipped into the water from the lowest point on the starboard side, away from the approaching pursuit vessels. The cold hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath despite the protective layers. Beside me, Dominic's face tightened against the shock, but he began swimming immediately, powerful strokes carrying him toward the shadowed shoreline.
I followed, fighting the instinct to gasp as the cold penetrated deeper. The waterproof bags created drag, slowing my progress, but I pushed through, focusing on Dominic's form ahead of me. The shore wasn't far—maybe a hundred yards—but in these conditions, it might as well have been miles.
Behind us, our boat continued on its programmed course, lights visible through the rain. The pursuit craft would be focused on that target, not on the dark water near the shoreline. At least, that was the plan.
My muscles began to burn with cold and exertion, movements becoming less coordinated as hypothermia set in. Dominic had reached the shoreline and turned back, extending his hand toward me for the final few yards. I grasped it gratefully, letting him pull me onto the rocky beach.
We lay there for just a moment, gasping for breath, before the imperative to move drove us to our feet. Dominic led the way up the rocky embankment, finding a sheltered overhang that provided minimal protection from the elements.
"N-need to get d-dry," I managed through chattering teeth.
He nodded, already unzipping his waterproof bag to retrieve dry clothing. We changed quickly, helping each other with numb fingers, prioritizing core warmth over comfort. The dry clothes helped, but we needed shelter and heat soon or hypothermia would become a serious threat.
"Three minutes," Dominic said, checking his watch. "Then we move east. There's a fishing camp on the other side of this island according to the charts."
I nodded, huddling closer to share body heat while we waited. From our position, we could just see our boat continuing its ghostly journey through the channel, lights barely visible through the storm. No sign of the pursuit craft yet, but they would be close.
The explosion, when it came, was surprisingly muted—a dull thump followed by the sound of rushing water. Effective but not dramatic. Anyone monitoring would register a catastrophic hull breach, but not necessarily an intentional detonation.
"Time to move," Dominic said, gathering his bag.
We set off through the dense forest covering the island's interior, moving as quickly as our cold-numbed bodies would allow. The trees provided some shelter from the worst of the storm, but the temperature continued to drop as night fell fully.
"How far to this fishing camp?" I asked when we paused to check our bearings.
"Two miles. Maybe less." Dominic consulted the handheld GPS. "Seasonal operation. Should be deserted this time of year."
"But might have shelter. Supplies."
"Exactly."
We continued eastward, pushing through underbrush and navigating around fallen trees. Despite the cold and danger, a part of me noted the wild beauty of the place—ancient pines swaying in the wind, granite outcroppings rising like sentinels in the darkness. Under different circumstances, it might have been peaceful.
After what felt like hours but was probably less than forty minutes, lights appeared through the trees ahead—not the bright illumination of an active facility, but the dim safety lighting of a closed seasonal operation.
Dominic signaled for caution as we approached the perimeter. The fishing camp consisted of a main lodge, several smaller cabins, and a boat dock extending into a sheltered cove. No vehicles visible, no signs of occupation.
"Wait here," he instructed, handing me his bag. "I'll check for security systems."
I nodded, taking cover behind a large pine while he moved silently toward the nearest cabin. My body had warmed somewhat from the exertion of hiking, but I could still feel the dangerous chill of hypothermia lurking at the edges of my awareness. We needed shelter and heat soon.
Dominic returned minutes later. "Motion sensors on the main building, but the cabins are clear. Basic security locks only."
"Occupied?"
"Not currently. Seasonal staff housing, based on the setup." He led me toward the smallest cabin at the edge of the property. "This one's isolated from the others. Less visible from the water."
The lock yielded easily to Dominic's skills, and we slipped inside, closing the door against the storm. The interior was basic but functional—two bunks, a small kitchenette, and a woodstove in the corner. No electricity, but a battery-powered lantern sat on a shelf near the door.
"Check for supplies," Dominic instructed, moving immediately to the woodstove. "I'll get a fire started."
I searched the cabin methodically, finding a surprising bounty of emergency provisions—canned food, bottled water, matches, first aid supplies. Clearly, whoever operated this camp understood the dangers of remote locations in harsh conditions.
Most importantly, I found dry blankets in a sealed plastic container, protection against the damp of an unoccupied building. By the time I'd completed my inventory, Dominic had a small fire burning in the woodstove, its warmth already beginning to permeate the cabin.
We moved by silent agreement, hanging our damp outer layers near the stove and wrapping ourselves in blankets. Only then, with immediate survival needs addressed, did we turn our attention back to the ledger and our pursuers.
"They'll be searching the area where the boat went down," Dominic said, accepting a can of soup I'd opened. "Standard procedure would be to establish a search perimeter, work inward methodically."
"How long before they consider the possibility we weren't on board?"
"Depends on what they find. The charges were placed to ensure the boat sinks completely. They might recover some debris, but not enough to confirm our deaths conclusively."
"So they'll keep searching."
"Yes. But they'll be looking for bodies or survivors in the water, not checking vacant fishing camps two miles inland." He sipped the cold soup directly from the can. "We have until morning at least. Maybe longer if the storm persists."
I nodded, retrieving the waterproof containers holding the ledger and flash drive from my bag. Despite our desperate situation, the mission remained: understand what we'd risked so much to obtain.
"We still need to access the data," I said, placing both items on the small table between bunks.
Dominic finished his soup, then unwrapped the physical ledger. "I've been thinking about the encryption. Petrov is methodical, paranoid, but also pragmatic. He wouldn't create a system so complex that he himself would struggle to access it in an emergency."
"Meaning?"
"The key is something he would always remember, something significant to him personally but not easily guessed by others." Dominic flipped through the ledger's pages again. "You mentioned the pattern in the numbering system. Three numbers, then a letter."
I looked at the sequences again. "Could be a date format. Day, month, year initial."
"Exactly. What if each entry is indexed to a specific date meaningful to Petrov? The operation date, perhaps, or the recruitment date of the compromised asset."
It made sense. Petrov's mind worked that way—methodical, chronological, precise.
"The flash drive might use the same system," I suggested. "The physical ledger contains the index, the digital files contain the details."
Dominic was already connecting his laptop to a small power bank—another piece of emergency equipment we'd brought. "If we're right, we just need to identify the pattern and find the master access key."
We worked in comfortable silence for the next hour, the storm raging outside while the small cabin grew warmer. The fire crackled in the woodstove, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Despite the danger still hunting us, I felt a moment of strange peace—working alongside Dominic, our minds in sync, applying our combined skills to the problem before us.
"Here," I said suddenly, pointing to a repeated sequence in the front of the ledger. "This appears before any of the entries begin. M27J53."
Dominic studied it. "Month 2, day 7, year 53? February 7, 1953?"
"Could be. Or M could be May."
"What happened in 1953 that would be significant to Petrov?"
We both considered this, searching our knowledge of Russian history and what we knew of Petrov personally.
"Stalin died in March 1953," I recalled. "But that doesn't match either February or May."
Dominic was quiet for a moment, thinking. "What if it's not a historical date? What if it's personal?"
"His birth date?" I suggested.
"Possibly. Or..." His expression changed subtly. "His father's birth date."
I remembered snippets of intelligence we'd gathered during our infiltration of Petrov's compound. "He idolized his father. Former KGB, died during the collapse of the Soviet Union."
"May 27, 1953," Dominic said with growing certainty. "That would fit the pattern. M27J53."
He entered the sequence into the encryption prompt on the flash drive file. Nothing happened for a moment, then a progress bar appeared. Authentication processing.
We held our breath, watching the bar advance slowly across the screen. When it reached 100%, the screen flickered, then filled with file directories. Dozens of them, each labeled with similar date-based codes.
"We're in," I breathed, hardly believing it.
Dominic's face showed rare satisfaction. "Let's see what Petrov was so desperate to protect."
We opened the first file, revealing what appeared to be a dossier on a high-ranking American defense official. Photos, financial records, transcripts of conversations—comprehensive evidence of compromise and cooperation with Russian intelligence.
"My God," I whispered, scrolling through the document. "This is..."
"Everything," Dominic finished. "Every compromised official, every operation, every payment. The entire network."
The implications were staggering. With this information, we could not only protect ourselves from Petrov but potentially dismantle entire sections of Russian intelligence operations. No wonder he was hunting us so relentlessly.
We continued exploring the files, each more damning than the last. Government officials, military leaders, corporate executives—Petrov's reach extended into every corner of Western institutions. Some names we recognized from previous intelligence, others were shocking surprises.
"There's something else," Dominic said after an hour of review. "Look at these files marked with a double asterisk."
I leaned closer, examining the indicated directories. "Different format from the others. What are they?"
He opened one, revealing not compromised Western officials, but Russian ones. High-ranking FSB officers, government ministers, oligarchs—all with detailed evidence of corruption, betrayal, or criminal activity.
"Insurance policy within an insurance policy," Dominic observed. "Leverage against his own people if they ever turned on him."
"Petrov really doesn't trust anyone," I said, not entirely surprised.
"With good reason, apparently." Dominic indicated the extensive evidence of betrayal among Petrov's supposed allies. "This is why the ledger is so valuable. It's not just about the Western assets. It's about control within the Russian power structure itself."
The realization added another layer to our understanding of the situation. Petrov wasn't just hunting us to protect his foreign operations—he was preventing a potential coup within his own organization.
"We have more leverage than we realized," I said, mind racing with possibilities.
Dominic nodded slowly. "But also more danger. Every person documented here has reason to want us dead."
Outside, the storm had begun to subside, the wind's howl diminishing to an occasional gust. Dawn wasn't far off, bringing with it increased risk of discovery.
"We should rest while we can," Dominic suggested, closing the laptop. "Two-hour shifts. I'll take first watch."
I wanted to argue, to continue exploring the ledger's contents, but exhaustion was catching up with me. The swim, the hike, the cold—all had taken their toll. A few hours of sleep would restore my mental acuity, making me more effective for whatever challenges came next.
"Wake me if anything changes," I insisted, moving to the lower bunk.
He nodded, already checking the security of the cabin's windows and door. "Sleep well."
I curled under the blankets, watching him through half-closed eyes as he settled into a chair positioned to observe both the door and the window facing the water. His profile in the firelight was sharp, focused, vigilant.
My protector. My partner. My love.
The thought accompanied me into sleep, providing a sense of security even as danger hunted us through the night.
When Dominic woke me for my watch, the storm had passed completely. Moonlight filtered through the cabin's small window, casting silver patterns across the floor. I took his place in the chair while he stretched out on the bunk I'd vacated, asleep almost instantly.
For the next two hours, I divided my attention between watching our surroundings and reviewing what we'd learned from the ledger. The flash drive contained enough damaging information to topple governments, destroy careers, and reshape geopolitical alliances. If used carefully, it could also ensure our safety—mutually assured destruction on a personal scale.
But first, we had to escape our current situation. Come morning, Petrov's men would expand their search beyond the water, methodically covering the islands. We needed to be gone before that happened.
A plan began forming in my mind, pieced together from the maps we'd studied and the equipment we'd observed around the fishing camp. When Dominic woke at the appointed time, I was ready to present it.
"There's a maintenance shed near the dock," I told him, keeping my voice low despite our apparent isolation. "Standard equipment for a fishing operation would include boats stored for winter. Smaller craft, easily managed by two people."
He followed my thinking immediately. "We take one, follow the eastern channel away from the search area."
"Exactly. The storm has passed, but they'll be focusing their efforts around the site of the explosion. If we move quickly and stay close to shore, we could be miles away before they realize we weren't on the boat."
Dominic considered this, mentally assessing risks and alternatives. "The Canadian shore is still too far for a small boat in winter conditions. We'd need an intermediate destination."
I nodded, having already considered this. "The maps showed a small town thirty miles northeast. Large enough to have transportation options, small enough to avoid immediate attention."
"Possible," he agreed. "But risky in daylight. We'd be visible from the air if they deploy helicopters."
"We go now, before dawn. Use darkness as cover for the first few hours."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "It's our best option. Let's check that shed."
We gathered our belongings silently, leaving the cabin exactly as we'd found it save for the ashes in the woodstove. Outside, the night was clear and cold, stars brilliant overhead now that the storm had passed. The snow that had fallen during the night crunched beneath our boots—a complication I hadn't considered. We'd leave tracks.
"Nothing to be done about it," Dominic murmured, reading my concern. "By the time they find this place, we'll be long gone."
The maintenance shed was larger than it had appeared from a distance, its interior filled with equipment for the fishing operation. Most importantly, it contained what we needed: three small boats suspended from ceiling hoists, winterized but otherwise ready for use.
"This one," Dominic decided, indicating the smallest of the three. "Fourteen-footer with an outboard. Low profile, decent range." He examined the motor critically. "Need to check the fuel situation."
While he assessed the boat's readiness, I searched the shed for anything else useful. In a locked cabinet—easily opened with tools from the workbench—I found navigation charts covering the eastern portion of Lake Superior, including detailed information on the channels and bays we'd need to navigate.
"Fuel's good," Dominic reported. "They winterized it properly, but left it ready for emergency use. Smart precaution in a remote location."
Together, we prepared the boat for launching, gathering the minimal supplies needed for a short but potentially dangerous journey. The charts, emergency rations from the cabin, our weapons, and most importantly, the ledger and flash drive—now both secured in waterproof containers stored in separate bags.
Using the shed's hoist system, we lowered the boat onto a wheeled cart, then pushed it slowly down to the dock. The pre-dawn air was painfully cold, our breath forming clouds of vapor with each exhalation. The lake's surface was calm after the storm, black water reflecting the star-filled sky.
"No running lights," Dominic instructed as we prepared to launch. "We'll use the shoreline for navigation and keep our speed low to reduce noise."
I nodded, helping to guide the small craft into the water as quietly as possible. The splashes seemed deafening in the pre-dawn stillness, but there was no helping it. Speed now was more important than perfect stealth.
Once the boat was floating alongside the dock, we loaded our gear and ourselves, Dominic taking position at the motor while I settled in the bow with the charts. The cold aluminum hull leached warmth through my layers of clothing, a reminder of the deadly conditions should anything go wrong.
Dominic started the motor on the first pull, keeping it at the lowest possible setting—just enough power to move us away from the dock and into the channel. I directed our course using hand signals, referring to the charts by the dim light of a penlight held between my teeth.
As we cleared the sheltered cove and entered the main channel, I turned to look back at the fishing camp. No lights, no movement, no signs that our brief occupation had been detected. With luck, it would remain that way until we were safely beyond reach.
Dominic increased speed slightly as we entered deeper water, the boat's bow rising as we cut through the gentle swells. I kept my focus forward, scanning for obstacles and checking our heading against the charts. The eastern sky had begun to lighten almost imperceptibly—dawn approaching, bringing with it increased visibility and risk.
We followed the shoreline north for several miles before turning east toward the distant town marked on our charts. Each passing minute increased the distance between us and the search area, but also brought the daylight that would make us visible from air and shore.
As the first true light of dawn appeared on the horizon, Dominic guided the boat into a narrow inlet sheltered by overhanging trees. We cut the motor, drifting silently into the shadow of the shoreline.
"We'll wait here until full light," he decided. "Assess conditions before continuing."
I nodded, scanning our surroundings. The inlet was well-hidden, unlikely to be spotted from the main channel unless someone was specifically searching this area. For now, we were as safe as we could be under the circumstances.
Dominic moved to sit beside me in the bow, our shoulders touching. The contact was reassuring, grounding.
"You should have seen more of Canada under better circumstances," he said unexpectedly, his voice soft in the stillness.
I glanced at him, surprised by the wistfulness in his tone. "We still might."
"Yes." His eyes met mine, something vulnerable in their depths. "When this is over. When we're truly free."
"Freedom," I echoed, testing the word. "What does that look like to you?"
He was quiet for a long moment, considering. "A place where we make decisions based on what we want, not what keeps us alive. Where we choose our next move because it interests us, not because it's tactically sound."
The simplicity and honesty of his answer caught at something deep inside me. "I'd like that."
"We'll have it," he promised, his hand finding mine between us. "After we use the ledger to neutralize Petrov."
I squeezed his fingers, cold against my own. "How exactly do we do that?"
"Carefully." His gaze turned toward the lightening horizon. "We need secure communications, trusted intermediaries. We release selected information to the right people, create enough pressure that Petrov is neutralized without exposing ourselves directly."
"And then?"
"Then we disappear. New identities, new location. A fresh start."
It sounded too simple, too optimistic for the Dominic I knew. But I understood the need for hope, for a goal beyond mere survival.
"I'd like somewhere warm," I said, playing along with the fantasy. "After all this cold and snow."
A smile touched his lips. "Mediterranean, perhaps. Or South America."
"With a view of the ocean."
"Definitely."
We sat in companionable silence as the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. For that brief moment, the beauty overwhelmed the danger, reminding us why survival mattered—what we were fighting to experience together.
The spell broke as a distant sound reached us—the unmistakable thrum of helicopter rotors.
"Time to move," Dominic said, instantly alert.
I nodded, returning to the charts as he restarted the motor. Our brief respite was over. The hunt continued.
But now we had what we needed—the ledger's contents, understood and accessible. Leverage against not just Petrov, but an entire network of powerful, dangerous people.
All we had to do was stay alive long enough to use it.