Elias Berg didn’t trust calm water. Not this far north. Not this late in the season. He stood on the deck of the Odin’s Mercy, boots planted wide against the roll of the ship, watching mist curl across a narrow channel of open water between chunks of floating sea ice.
He had the hard, weather-battered look of someone who had worked fishing trawlers since before his voice broke. Forty-seven years old, twenty-nine of them spent chasing fish in waters most men wouldn’t dream of. He didn’t scare easily—but today, something gnawed at him.