Death Echo (37 page)

Emma held her breath. A glint of gold along the boat’s side caught her eye. Warily she looked up. If there had been any doubt about the boat’s identity, the nameplate removed it.

BLACKBIRD
.

“Do you believe in resurrection?” she asked very softly into her mic.

“No. Death and lies? Oh yeah. I believe.”

Mac was glad that they didn’t need to worry much about being absolutely quiet. Amanar was thundering over the dock like a buffalo, Lovich was screaming curses, and everyone in the harbor who could hear was riveted on the mouthy newcomer at the fuel dock.

For Mac and Emma, the black hull of the yacht provided a perfect screen from the action on the dock.

“Faster,” he said and dug his paddle deep into the water.

She tried to keep up with him, but his upper body strength was easily three times hers. By the time he reached the swim step, she was thirty feet behind.

Mac’s kayak tenderly nudged
Blackbird
‘s hull. With one hand he reached out and caught the three-foot-tall chromed rail at the edge of the swim step. When he was certain of his grip, he let his paddle slide away into the water.

Emma glided close enough to touch him.

“Shove my kayak toward the middle of the harbor,” he said very softly into his mic. “Send the paddle after it.”

Before she finished dumping the excess gear, he grabbed the chrome rail and levered himself onto the swim step as easily as a gymnast mounting flying rings. But she knew that it wasn’t easy. It was a wrenching exercise in naked strength.

No way,
she thought.
I can get up on the swim step by myself, but it’s going to be messy.

“Hey, Spiderman,” she said in quiet disgust to her mic. “You going to beam me aboard?”

“You’re mixing your superheroes.”

“I figured it would take two.”

He made a low sound that could have been laughter. Then he caught the bow of her kayak and drew it alongside the swim step, holding her steady.

“Send your paddle toward the middle of the bay,” he said.

She aimed her paddle on top of the water and shoved it off into the darkness.

“Now grab my wrists,” he said.

She locked her fingers around his wrists and felt his own hands clamp around hers. Without being told, she drew up her knees. Before she could take a breath, he lifted her clear of the kayak and steadied her on the dark swim step.

“Good?” he murmured.

“Yes. Go.”

With a lithe movement, he levered himself over the gunwale and its rail. Then they locked wrists again. He brought her aboard with barely a brushing sound. It was certainly a lot quieter than the squeaky gate would have been.

Mac touched her lips and his own in a gesture asking silence.

She nodded.

Both of them duck-walked along the port side of
Blackbird,
keeping themselves out of sight of the dock.

In the background, Amanar joined his cousin in a cussing duet. Whatever the insurance agent was telling them, they didn’t want to hear it.

Mac reached into his small backpack and pulled out a folding knife. He thumbed it open and gave it to Emma, handle first.

“Stay down.” His voice was a bare thread of sound. “When I give the signal from the bow, cut us loose at the stern.”

She looked at the knife’s serrated blade, then tested its edge very lightly with her thumb. The wicked little teeth tugged at her skin, nearly drawing blood. She nodded approvingly.

Mac touched her elbow, then scuttled across the aft deck, keeping his head below the gunwale.

On the dock, Amanar began repeating himself at a higher volume. Anything that wasn’t stone deaf would know what he thought about the size of the caller’s brain and gonads.

At the starboard rail, Mac straightened a little and ran, head low, to the bow.

Emma glanced again through the stainless hawsehole toward the fuel dock. Her breath stopped when she saw Lovich glance in the direction of
Blackbird
.

If he saw anything out of place, he didn’t point it out to Amanar.

Mac looked at the bowline and wanted to curse along with the cousins.
I knew this was too easy.

Unlike the stern line, which led directly from the inside cleat through a hawsehole and from there to the dock, the bowline had been looped back on itself through the hawsehole. It was under too much tension to work free.

Mac needed the knife he’d given to Emma.

From the stern, she watched as he grabbed the line with both hands. She could sense the effort as he tried to pull in enough slack to back the twisted loop off one horn of the cleat.

No good.

The shouts from the fuel dock were getting fewer and further between.

They’re winding up,
she thought.
Time to go.

She crouched low and duck-walked toward the shelter of the salon. Once there she straightened enough to move fast. Within seconds she was crouched beside Mac in the shelter of the bow. She passed over the knife handle first.

Swiftly he laid the blade to a taut portion of the mooring line. The braided nylon was under strain, holding the yacht to the fuel dock. The knife passed through the heavy line like it was cold butter. When there were only a few threads left, he handed the knife back to Emma.

“Same for the stern?” she breathed.

“No. Clean through. I’ll signal.”

There wasn’t time to argue about a cut line splashing into the water near the dock or sawing a boat free before the engines came on. Emma just scuttled back to the stern the fastest way she could.

Mac followed as far as the pilot house door. He stayed out of sight of the dock as he checked the electrical switches in the panel next to the wheel.

Emma went back to her position at the stern hawsehole and watched through the glass door of the salon toward the pilot house. Wind swirled, shifting, pressing
Blackbird
against the dock rather than pushing her away.

Mac raised his head long enough to check the settings at the helm. “Cut,” he said.

She started cutting, only to find out that it wasn’t as easy as the bowline.

The stern tie was slack.

Mac stood up behind the wheel, knowing that the motion would betray him to anyone watching. If nothing else, the computer screen was bright enough to backlight him. He glanced over his shoulder to see how Emma was doing. The lazy curve of the stern line told him what was wrong.

Desperately she tried to take up the slack in the line with one hand and cut with the other. It worked, but she was barely halfway through the thick line.

“Hey!” Lovich bellowed across the dock to
Blackbird
. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Time’s up.

TOFINO

7:08 P.M.

Y
ou need us!” Lovich shouted. “You can’t just—”

Blackbird’
s engines roared to life, drowning out Lovich.

He started to run toward the boat, but the fuel attendant grabbed him and demanded to be paid. When Lovich struggled, other men ran from nearby tie-ups to help the dockhand.
Blackbird
‘s boat-tossing arrival hadn’t won Lovich any friends in the harbor.

“Stop cutting,” Mac said. “Wait for my signal.”

Emma yanked back the knife.

It was the only warning she had before
Blackbird
‘s stern swung hard away from the dock, only to slam up against the restraint of the stern line. The braided line vibrated with tension.

“Now,” Mac said.

Emma laid the serrated knife against the shivering line. It leaped apart beneath the blade.

“Go!” she said before the cut line splashed into the water.

As Amanar ran past Lovich and the angry dock attendant, the underwater side-thruster growled. The stern of the
Blackbird
jumped sideways a few feet, then yards.

“Clear,” she said. “Go. Go. Go.”

Amanar stared at Emma, shook his head sharply in disbelief. “You!”

He started to lunge for her, then realized that the stern swim step was already too far away from the dock. If he tried to leap for the boat, he’d be swimming real quick. He windmilled for balance, found it, and saw his best chance.

Blackbird
‘s bow was still held to the dock.

The aft side-thruster snarled while Mac slammed as much power as he could against the stubborn nylon threads.

Amanar ran toward the bow, balanced on the dock’s bull-rail, and leaped for
Blackbird
‘s chrome railing. With a strength born of desperation, he swung his body sideways, scrambling for purchase on the varnished wooden cap of the gunwale. One foot slipped and almost spun him loose. His second foot and both hands barely kept him clinging to
Blackbird
.

As desperate as his cousin, Lovich shook off grabbing hands and sprinted for
Blackbird.

The last threads of the bowline snapped.

“I’ll handle Amanar,” Mac said. “Come up and take the wheel.”

“No time. Lovich is almost here.”

Mac slapped the controls.
Blackbird
shuddered sideways, farther from the dock with each second.

Emma didn’t wait to see Lovich learn that the boat was too far away. She sprinted for the bow, where Amanar still struggled to throw his weight aboard rather than hanging off the rail over the water.

The diesels roared as Mac poured on the power. Big propellers bit into the water.
Blackbird
surged out well away from the docks, but he had to fight for control. Despite the obvious health of the engines, this version of
Blackbird
wasn’t as responsive as the previous one had been.

Staggering to keep her feet against
Blackbird
‘s unpredictable changes in direction, Emma closed in on Amanar. He had hooked one foot over the cap rail and was slowly levering himself up to safety. He saw her, dismissed her as a threat, and kept trying to get the majority of his weight aboard.

“We’re repossessing the boat for its original insurer,” Emma said clearly. “If you stick to that story when you get ashore, you probably won’t go to jail.”

Amanar saved his breath for inching his weight onto the rail.

A knife sliced through the lace of his deck shoe, his most secure hold on the boat. His footing shifted and the shoe spun away into the dark.

“If you let go before
Blackbird
gains speed,” she said calmly, “you’ll survive the swim. Either way, you’re letting go.”

“My family!” he snarled. “He’ll kill them!”

Amanar released one hand from the rail and grabbed for Emma. She ducked back, then leaped forward before he could recover.

The knife blade flashed in the harbor lights.

Amanar screamed and dropped into the black water. Five seconds later he surfaced, cursing and shouting loud enough to be heard over
Blackbird
‘s engines.

All Emma understood was “Temuri will kill you!”

He’ll have to catch me first,
she thought.

As Amanar started swimming toward the fuel dock, she opened the door to the pilot house and slipped inside behind Mac.

“You always play with your food?” he asked, steering and tugging off his gloves at the same time.

“I didn’t know he was stupid to the bone.”

“Huh. What was that about Temuri and family?”

She frowned. “Something about killing them. And me.”

“That would explain it.”

“What?” she asked, stripping off her gloves.

“As crooks go, Stan and Bob aren’t even close to Temuri’s league,” Mac said. “But if their families are being held hostage, both cousins would do whatever they had to however they could to keep their families safe.”

“I’ll mention possible hostages in my report,” Emma said.

Her fingers worked over the waterproof belly bag that was fastened to her waist. Her phone was in there somewhere. And her head itched beneath the knit cap. She had never gotten along well with wool.

Mac’s hands worked over switches and buttons, changing the readouts on the nav chart, depth sounder, and engine to what he was familiar with. One of the trim tabs was set oddly. He started to change it, felt the boat stagger, and quickly returned the starboard setting to its previous position.

Something in the galley rattled, then settled.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Trash can. Those boys love their beer.”

The radio spit static, then words.

“Don’t touch it,” Mac said quickly. “We listen, but we don’t answer.”

Emma scratched beneath the snug-fitting cap. “I told Amanar that we were repossessing the boat. If he gets smarter by the time he swims to the dock, he’ll go with that story.”

“Maybe,” Mac said.

“I hope St. Kilda is able to help the cousins’ families.”

So did Mac, but all he said was “Not our part of the op.”

“How long will it take to get us to U.S. waters?” Emma asked, finally freeing her phone.

“This version of
Blackbird
is more sluggish than ours was. No wonder they didn’t want to push her past twenty knots.” He frowned. “Tell St. Kilda more than two hours, less than three.”

“Gotcha.” Emma punched her favorite cell phone button and stretched her neck, trying to relieve the tension that had built as they stalked and then stole
Blackbird
from the fuel dock.

“Report,” Faroe’s voice said in her ear.

“We have another
Blackbird
. We suspect that Temuri or someone working for him is holding Lovich and Amanar’s families as hostage for the men’s good behavior. They were running
Blackbird
when we took her.”

“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.