Death Echo (31 page)

Then he waited.

“It’s a jungle up here,” Emma said, looking at the enfolding vegetation. “Tell me nothing is poisonous.”

“Nothing is poisonous,” Mac repeated dutifully.

She wasn’t reassured.

“I’m going to put out a stern tie,” Mac said. “Bring the dinghy back here.”

Emma started to ask what a stern tie was, then shut up and brought the dinghy back. She watched while he put a reel of line on the stern rail, pulled the dinghy around to the swim step, grabbed the line, and stepped aboard the dinghy. A shove had it moving to the end of its long tether, which got Mac ashore.

He scrambled up the steep, rocky rise only until he found a good boulder to pull the line around. Then he brought the free end back to one of
Blackbird’
s stern cleats and tied off the reel end of the line on the opposite stern cleat. When that was done, he ran midship lines to nearby trees, tied off, and called it good.

Wind rushed and sighed and combed the trees. Pushed at the boat. Pushed harder, from a different direction.

Blackbird
didn’t wander.

“I wouldn’t recommend trying this on your own,” Mac said finally. “This is an emergency kind of setup.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Yeah. I’m fed to the teeth with being a mushroom.”

“I’m right there in the dark, spitting out shit with you,” she said.

“Good. Then you won’t mind helping me make a yowie suit for a yacht. You want to handle the pruning knife or the weaving?”

“We’ll trade off.”

Mac nodded. “Help me string the netting.”

NEAR
DISCOVERY
PASSAGE

3:00 P.M.

T
im Harrow paced the empty public docks. He thought about calling St. Kilda and chewing out whoever answered, but he didn’t. He’d already yelled at Joe Faroe, started to yell at Grace—who disconnected—and fielded calls from his own boss, who he wished he could disconnect.

No one was happy.

Blackbird
had fallen completely off the scope.

Rogue agents, my ass,
Harrow thought savagely, even as he appreciated the ploy from a strategic viewpoint. St. Kilda Consulting could throw up its hands and deny all responsibility.

It was what he would have done if he’d been in Steele’s place.

That didn’t mean Harrow enjoyed having it done to him. He was fresh out of that valuable commodity called deniability. The feeling of a cold wire noose tightening around his balls made him twitchy.

He picked up the binoculars hanging around his neck and scanned every bit of water he could see.

Nothing but wind and currents. Not a boat. Not a seagull. Not even a clot of seaweed.

Not one damn thing to hide behind.

Nothing to take out his frustration on.

Nothing to do but wait for something that might never happen. And listen to the cracking sound of his brilliant career falling in lethal shards around him.

NORTH
OF
DISCOVERY
PASSAGE

3:35 P.M.

A
fter a few minutes at the helm of the dinghy, Emma was in love. The fifty-horsepower outboard made the little craft fly. The controls were easy, intuitive, and wicked quick. The faster she went, the quicker the boat responded.

“Now I know why SEALs love their Zodiacs,” she said over the sound of the outboard.

“Just keep an eye out for logs,” Mac said.

He stretched, yawned, and leaned against the back of the padded bench seat next to her.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. He looked utterly relaxed as he watched the shoreline. Twice he pointed her toward the proper passes and channels. If he was antsy about not being in control, it didn’t show.

Smiling, she settled in to enjoy the ride. She had worked with men who were too insecure to let a woman be in command. Tim Harrow was one of them. But in his case, it wasn’t a gender issue. He simply didn’t want anyone of any sex to be in control but him. Her competence and independence had rubbed Harrow raw.

Mac saw those command qualities in her, appreciated them, and took them as signals he could relax a bit.

If they hadn’t spent much of the night finding out just how many stellar ways they fit together, she would have thought that Mac simply didn’t notice the physical, sexual differences between them. But he did.

Oh, yeah. In the best possible ways.

Last night had been an eye-opener for both of them.

She guided the speeding dingy into a channel that was marked by a head-high metal day-marker. The water ahead of the bow began to dance in the afternoon sunlight, as though stirred by a giant swirling school of fish. She slowed the boat, trying to read the water.

Mac pointed out a course that took them closer to the day-marker.

“Are you sure?” she asked over the sound of the outboard.

He nodded.

As she turned away from the roiled water, a whirlpool appeared and widened into a wildly spinning wheel of water revolving around a central vortex.

“Whoa,” she said. “That could ruin your day.”

“Sure could.”

“Why isn’t it marked on the chart?”

“The rock that spins out that whirlpool only does it at the strongest tides,” he said. “The rest of the time this place is just garden-variety Inside Passage water.”

“But how did you know?” She tapped the little nav computer perched up and behind the wheel. “The chart doesn’t give you a hint.”

“I learned the hard way.”

He worked the computer, dividing the small screen. The left side showed a nav chart. The right side showed what was below the boat.

“When you’re new to these narrow byways and channels,” he said, “you check the tides and currents, and watch the water and sonar for big rocks or other bottom structures that can roil the water above. But you still get surprised.”

She smiled. “Who knew? I always thought yachting would be easy to the point of boredom.”

He noted the light in her green eyes and the eager tilt of her chin.

“You really like this,” he said.

“Nope. I
love
it.” She grinned over at Mac and patted the dinghy’s steering wheel. “Mine.”

“Yeah, I got that feeling.”

“You’re feeling right.”

His laughter was drowned out by the engine as the dinghy skipped through a narrow slot and shot into a wider channel. He pointed toward a rocky outcropping about five miles away.

“Wake me up before we go around the headland,” he said.

“Will do.”

She drove the twelve-foot dinghy with flair, skimming down the channel like a crazed water bug. She liked everything about being in control of this particular transportation, especially the speed.

Best of all, Mac wasn’t upset about being busted down to first mate. Quite the opposite. He had kicked back to take one of the power naps all people in demanding professions learned to use for recharging.

There were a few signs of humanity on the long channel. A deserted cottage, floats marking crab or prawn pots, a workboat headed for somewhere else at top speed, a fisherman looking for a late salmon. Enough for local flavor, but not so much that Emma felt crowded.

She was having too much fun with the zippy little dinghy to notice that she was tired. Camouflaging
Blackbird
had been a grueling experience, complete with scratches, welts, and sap from the fresh greenery they had weaved through the netting. The camouflage wouldn’t hold for more than a few days—at most—but all they needed was a chip to bring to the Agency poker table for a few hours of play.

Blackbird
was a very big chip.

NEAR
DISCOVERY
PASSAGE

3:41 P.M.

S
hurik Temuri watched the signal on his cell phone screen, turned up an inlet, and scanned the shoreline with his glasses. Though the signal was clear, he couldn’t see
Blackbird
.

He braced the fishing rod upright against the gunwale, a silent explanation of why someone would be out in a little boat, going nowhere in particular. Then he engaged the outboard engine and eased up the inlet.

He was almost past
Blackbird
when he realized that he was looking at a camouflaged boat.

Carefully Temuri maneuvered closer until he was right on top of
Blackbird.
If he hadn’t been so impatient, he would have appreciated the skill and hard work that had gone into making the boat all but disappear. As it was, he was simply pleased that no one was aboard.

Even seen through binoculars, the couple in the red Mustang suits and speeding dinghy had been unmistakable. He didn’t mind killing, but he did object to unnecessary fuss. Much better to find
Blackbird
empty than to have to empty her himself.

Just in case the captain and first mate came back too soon, Temuri checked his weapon. As always, it was ready, waiting. His knife cut and slashed through netting and greenery. He boarded
Blackbird
from the swim step.

The back door was locked.

Temuri used his foot on the glass. Noisy, but fast. Soon he was inside the cabin. Quickly, thoroughly, he went through the boat, collecting what he needed. The cash was a happy surprise. He stuffed it in his pocket without counting the bills.

It finally was time to end the game.

NEAR
DISCOVERY
PASSAGE

3:46 P.M.

O
ccasional spray felt cold on Emma’s face. Wind and tide combined to make a nasty little chop on even the most protected water. Nothing dangerous, but there was enough splash that she was grateful for the fitted Mustang suit Mac had insisted that she wear. If nothing else, the waterproof gear covered nearly all of the scratches on her. Gloves took care of the rest.

And Mac looked so male in his red gear that she kept wanting to take a bite out of him.

The rocky outcropping came closer like a video on fast forward.

“Showtime,” she said over the outboard’s noise.

As though he hadn’t been snoring two seconds ago, Mac came fully alert, ready to rock and roll. He lifted the waterproof binoculars he wore around his neck.

“Go up and around,” he said. “I want to eyeball the setup before we commit.”

“So do I.”

Mac directed Emma around a small island and down a tiny, shallow channel. She watched the nav screen to maintain her bearings. She’d discovered that it would be easier to get lost in the tangled waterways of the Inside Passage.

“Slow to a crawl,” Mac said.

She cut back and went around the point at the slowest speed the dinghy could manage. She could just make out a deserted resort with a single public dock tucked back into a cove at the head of a narrow side channel. At the end of the channel, a stream cascaded in a sheet of froth into the bay, making a rushing sound that rivaled the wind.

Mac lifted the glasses and examined the area thoroughly.

“You see Harrow aboard?” she asked.

“The yacht has
Summer Solstice
painted on the stern,” Mac said. “Plus a black Zodiac that’s too military looking to be a yacht tender.”

“A
SEAL
team?”

“Or something like it,” he said. “I can see two ripped dudes in T-shirts, khakis, and Glocks out on the deck of the big boat, another equally ripped dude in the Zodiac wearing a dive suit. Whoa, there’s a big guy in khakis and a wind jacket with what looks like a machinegun underneath.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah. I’m touched. They’re all watching the main channel. I guess they’re expecting to see
Blackbird.
A fifth man just came out on the deck. He’s a good-looking city type in a dress shirt, no tie, expensive slacks, and leather boat shoes.”

“Blond?” she asked. “Short, sleek hair? Mouth like the sharp side of a blade?”

“Yeah three times.”

“Meet Tim Harrow.”

“I believe I will. Take us in at about eight knots.”

Emma powered up on the outboard. The dinghy ran quietly toward the little marina. The men on the big boat glanced in their direction, then turned back to their posts, still watching for
Blackbird
.

Or most of them did. The man in the wind jacket kept watching them.

“So Harrow brought a team with him,” Mac said. “Spec Ops, no doubt.”

“I’m shocked.”

“No awe?”

“I’m not planning on going mano a mano with them.”

Mac gave her a dark, sideways glance. “You want to take the lead with Harrow?”

“No. He could teach slippery to soap. He knows that I’m not good-cop material, and you look like the hard-ass you are. We’ll double-team him.”

Mac smiled grimly. “Even if I looked like Peter Pan, Harrow likely has my file memorized. He hasn’t gotten so high on the food chain at the tender age of forty-one by being stupid.”

“Good thinking. Which means I don’t have to convince you that a Langley suit is as dangerous as a sack of live grenades with loose pins.”

“You don’t miss your old work much, do you?”

“Do you?” she retorted.

“Not since I met a certain smart-mouthed brunette.”

She shot him a look, saw that he meant it—and more—and smiled. “Same goes.”

The man in the wind jacket was tracking them through binoculars. Harrow came over, took the binoculars, and scanned the little dinghy.

Emma waved.

“Busted,” she said to Mac.

She sped up and swiftly approached the public dock. Following Mac’s instructions, she eased way back on the power, turned the wheel, and shifted into neutral for the landing. The dinghy slid in broadside, losing forward momentum just before meeting the dock.

Emma managed not to look surprised, but she knew she’d just had a serious bout of beginner’s luck.

He winked at her. Then he swung up onto the aged planks with an ease that told the waiting men Mac’s file hadn’t lied—he would stand toe-to-toe in any fight they offered. If anyone had really studied his file, the men also would know that Mac was too smart to go looking for a brawl.