Death Echo

“Problem?” she asked.

“Guess what’s the most dangerous form of watercraft on the ocean, including personal watercraft and aircraft carriers?”

She looked at the fat kayaks. “Don’t tell me.”

“Okay.”

“Is that why Faroe put a roll of duct tape in your gear? To keep these afloat?”

“Handcuffs,” Mac said.

Emma blinked. “I thought that was what the dental floss was for.”

He laughed.

She maneuvered into her plastic tub. There was no spray skirt to keep water out, but her clothes were designed to keep her dry. Dark, one-piece, fitted, stretchy, the special gear was warm and almost as waterproof as a dive suit. Neoprene gloves, reef shoes, a dark knit cap, a delicate headset, waterproof belly bag for personal gear, and a flotation harness completed her outfit.

Mac stretched against the black waterproof gear he wore. The length was good, the reef shoes fit, and the shoulders were too tight. He was glad no one had thought of waterproof hoods. They pulled all but the shortest hair and made your scalp sweat. The small back-pack and flat flotation harness he wore were simply there, like a wristwatch, unnoticed until needed.

He eased into his kayak and looked at Emma. She was poised, waiting for him, double-ended paddle at the ready. A wind riffled over the smooth harbor. Though the water was warmer than in the open ocean, the wind smelled like winter.

Mac and Emma paddled slowly away from shore, waiting for old, unused reflexes to assert themselves. By the time they had crossed the little harbor, neither of them had to think about every shift and motion of paddle and kayak.

They paddled quietly toward the fuel dock, skirting anchored commercial fish boats, moored freight barges, and the occasional yacht. As they reached a long-line troller that was tied off to a buoy, Blackbird roared up to the fuel dock, leaving the kind of wake that threw boats around. The smaller boats tied to the transient mooring around the fuel dock got the worst ride.

“Idiot,” Mac breathed into his headset.

“I like what that fish captain yelled better,” Emma answered softly. “Not sure I caught that last reference, though.”

“Something about a chainsaw enema.”

“Yikes. They grow ’em mean out here.”

“Flop some of that bullwhip kelp over your bow,” Mac said. “It will help to ride out the wake.”

She dragged a strand of kelp as thick as her arm over the bow just in time for the first two-foot-high wave. Before the last of the wake stopped throwing the kayaks around, Blackbird’s twin was being tied up at the dock. Amanar stood on the dark swim step and passed a stern line to the attendant while Lovich leaped out and strode toward the store like a man on a mission. He ignored the surly shouts from people who didn’t approve of his wake or his landing speed.

“One down,” Mac said very softly.

“One left on the boat,” she said.

She dumped the kelp off her bow and followed Mac toward Blackbird. With every dip of her paddle, she willed Amanar to step onto the dock, leaving the boat empty. It had been a long, hard ride from Port Hardy. Surely the man would want to stretch his land legs during refueling.

Mac checked Blackbird. The dock attendant had already handed one thick delivery hose up to Amanar, who was positioning it near one intake. The attendant trotted back to the pumps and flicked it on. Soon the hose was humming with fuel being pumped into the thirsty Blackbird.

“Figure about twenty gallons a minute,” Mac murmured. “Figure twenty minutes, if they’re topping off, twice as long if they’re running low. A little extra time thrown in for counting all the cash. Twenty-three minutes, minimum, unless the attendant goes slow to punish them for the rude landing.”

“Plenty of time for a silent approach,” Emma said softly, “if Amanar gets the hell off the boat.”

“Big if. Those two might not be trained, but they’re meaner than the average boat jockey.”

It didn’t take long for the port tank. Amanar grabbed the hose, shut the fuel port, and moved the hose to the starboard tank intake.

“That was fast,” she said.

Mac was silent.

Emma looked at his outline. Relaxed, motionless, waiting for whatever happened next.

Sniper at work.

I don’t have the patience to be a sniper, she thought. I’d rather kick Amanar’s butt overboard and get on with it.

Or is that the “Coastguard Cocktail” talking?

She had taken the two pills Faroe had included in her belly pack gear. The first pill relaxed the long muscles of the gut so seasickness wasn’t an issue. The second one was speed, pure and simple. It cut through any mental fuzziness caused by the first pill.

And made her a bit edgy.

She waited quietly anyway. The fuel dock was well illuminated. Other boats were within calling distance. Some had cabin lights on.

Damn, I hope Grace’s decoy works, she thought.

Emma reached for her cell phone in the waterproof belly pack and waited next to Mac, two shadows among the deepening shadows of Tofino harbor sliding into night.

“Breathe,” Mac murmured through his mic. “Slow and easy.”

Emma realized that she had been holding her breath.

Stupid newbie mistake, she told herself.

She breathed, slow and easy.

By the time the refueling was winding up, she was almost as relaxed as Mac. As the fuel hose left Blackbird, Emma hit the send button on her cell phone. If the insurance company didn’t call the dock number as arranged, it would be a lot harder to get aboard. And it wouldn’t be real silent.

A buzzer sounded above the door of the fuel dock office. The attendant trotted inside and picked up the phone on the second ring. He spoke for a moment or two, then called out, “Anyone named Lovich here?”

“Go,” Mac said.

70

DAY SIX

TOFINO

6:59 P.M.

While Lovich walked from the lighted chartroom that was part of the chandlery, Mac and Emma paddled out from behind the cover of the troller. They saw Lovich take the phone with an impatient movement.

Then Emma kept her head down, away from any illumination that might make her eyes light up like an animal’s along a dark road. Mac was doing the same.

Damp air carried noise very well. Lovich’s voice came in staccato barks.

“-hell you talking-”

“Stupid son of a bitch, you’re crazy if-”

“-think I’m as dumb as-”

Emma guessed he would descend to the level of chainsaw enemas real quick.

“Amanar!” Lovich finally yelled. “Get over here and talk to this-”