Death Echo

“Wait,” Faroe said.

Emma scratched her head, then yanked off the cap. No need to disguise her profile any longer.

Within twenty seconds Faroe was back on the phone.

“St. Kilda will do what we can for the families,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Hauling ass out of Tofino.” She rubbed her scalp. “We didn’t pull off a total sneak, but no one got killed and so far I don’t see any lights behind us.”

“Radio traffic is quiet, too,” Mac said, loud enough to be picked up by her cell phone.

“But someone might want to tell Canada that ours was a legal seizure rather than an act of piracy,” she added.

“The insurance company is working through layers of bureaucracy as we speak,” Faroe said. “How long until you get to U.S. waters?”

Emma made a startled sound as Blackbird shifted and surged with the feel of the open water beyond the rocks at the harbor mouth.

“What?” Faroe demanded.

“The ocean is a lot bumpier than the strait,” she said.

“No shit. When and where will you cross into U.S. waters?” Faroe repeated.

“Where do we cross to the U.S.?” she asked Mac.

As she spoke, she put the phone on speaker and held it toward him.

“Juan de Fuca Strait,” Mac said, without looking away from the dark water ahead. “Somewhere between Neah Bay in the U.S. and Port Renfrew on Vancouver Island. Two hours, maybe three.”

“You check the weather?” Faroe asked.

“What good would that do?” Mac said. “We sure as hell can’t go ashore again in Canada.”

“Storm coming” was all Faroe said.

“I can feel it in the waves,” Mac said. “That’s why I’m heading for Juan de Fuca rather than trying to put ashore anywhere near Cape Flattery, which is closer. The water around Flattery will be too damned rough. Graveyard of many a good ship, and this version of Blackbird is a bit of a pig.”

“Why? What’s different?” Faroe’s voice was hard, demanding.

“Answering that is on my to-do list,” Mac said. “After I find a handy freighter to hide behind and keep us off coastal radar.”

“Call when you have something new.”

Faroe disconnected.

With one hand Emma grabbed on to the overhead handrail that ran the length of the salon. She used the other to stuff the phone back into its waterproof home.

Mac pushed the radar’s reach out to maximum and studied the echoes on the screen. As he’d hoped, there were big boats plying the shipping corridor down the west coast of North America.

None were close.

This Blackbird had the same electronic setup as the other one. He called up the vessel identification function on the computer and studied the specs of the first three ships that were heading south. Two were going faster than he wanted to push this incarnation of Blackbird. He set an interception course with a tanker that was traveling at about eighteen knots. It would take at least an hour, but once he got on the far side of it, he would be screened from coastal radar.

Hell, if it gets any rougher, the swells will conceal us most of the time anyway. Unless we get really unlucky, we’ll slide by.

The Canadian government didn’t have even a handful of ships stationed on the west coast that could handle big weather safely, much less comfortably. Too much coastline, too few machines, money, and manpower.

All he needed was decent luck.

Mac glanced at Emma. “You doing all right?”

“A little buzzed.”

Mac nodded. He’d taken the Coastguard Cocktail before he’d learned he didn’t need it. Some of the people he’d gone through training with had been sick no matter what meds they had.

Thank God Emma isn’t one of them.

So far.

The water ahead would test any meds.

72

DAY SIX

SOUTH OF TOFINO

7:39 P.M.

Emma had her legs braced wide and knees flexed, but she still had to use the overhead handrail that ran the length of the cabin. It was a rough ride to the radar shelter of the tanker, but once in place, Blackbird would be at a better angle to the waves.

“I used to think this was for hanging towels,” she said.

Mac’s smile gleamed blue-white, a reflection of the computer screen. They were running stealth, no lights but those on the electronics.

She watched another black mountain rise up out of the darkness, felt Blackbird climb, then slide down and down and down into the trough. The ocean didn’t have anything in common with the Inside Passage except saltwater.

“If you need a bio break, better take it now,” Mac said, watching all the engine readouts, the charts, and the compass. “We’re at the grinding point of the weather system. The ride is going to get worse when the wind switches to southeast. Then we’ll really be in for a slog.”

She staggered and grabbed on with both hands as Blackbird lurched suddenly. Cold water slashed against the front windows, a wave breaking over the bow.

“Going to get worse?” she asked. It looked bad right now.

“Oh yeah.” He never looked away from the darkness beyond the bow. “Use the head now. Later you might be on your hands and knees.”

Clinging to overhead or stair handrails every foot of the way, Emma stumbled toward the downstairs head. When she ran out of rails, she braced herself on walls in the narrow hallway. It was dark belowdecks, but she knew where the head was. The layout was the same as the first Blackbird.

Both stateroom doors had been locked in the open position. A tiny night light gleamed in each of them. The beds were bare except for a small duffel on each. No suitcases, man bags, or grocery sacks. Lovich and Amanar had been traveling light.

The door to the head was almost closed. As she struggled to open the swollen wood sliding door enough to lock it in place, a sour smell flowed out.

Ugh. What is it with men and toilets? A guy can be a world-class marks-man and still miss a toilet when he’s standing right-

Something surged up out of the darkness and slammed her against the sink. Her head banged into polished granite, then banged again, harder. She kicked and elbowed as dirty as she could, but the blows to her head had made her dizzy.

“Emma?” Mac asked. “Did you fall? Are you all right?”

She felt a knife against her throat.

A man’s voice growled into her mic pickup. “Hear me, Captain, or bitch to die.”

Mac recognized Temuri’s voice. Time slowed as the icy clarity of battle descended.

“I’m listening,” Mac said flatly.

“Move boat. Seattle. Do wrong. Bitch die.”

“I don’t trust your word,” Mac said. “I want to see Emma up here, alive and unhurt. Now. Or else I run this