Death Echo (38 page)

“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.

SOUTH
OF
TOFINO

7:39 P.M.

E
mma 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 boat aground and hell can have the leftovers. You hearing me?”

He caught Emma’s hurried translation, then an explosion of invective. Mac smiled savagely. Shurik Temuri was furious.

And Emma was alive and well enough to translate.

“Temuri doesn’t like your first offer,” she said.

“It’s my only one. If you get hurt, I’ll sink the fucking boat.”

She didn’t have to ask if Mac meant it. The sound of his voice was enough to make sweat freeze on her skin.

Apparently Temuri was hearing the same thing.

While Russian erupted in Mac’s earphones, he dug out his cell phone, hit the speed dial, and jammed the phone inside the neck of his tight weatherproof suit, close enough to the mic that at least one side of the conversation could be overheard.

“Where are—” began Faroe’s voice.

“Listen,” Mac cut in.

The phone went silent.

“Temuri is listening,” Emma said tightly. “He’s just not liking what he hears.”

Mac doubted Faroe liked it any better.

“Then Temuri isn’t listening real good, is he?” Mac drawled. “He has my only offer—you alive and unhurt or all of us dead when I sink this boat.”

Mac almost felt the intensity of the silence coming from the phone jammed into his suit. He hoped St. Kilda was listening hard. On ops like this, postmortems were a bitch.

He didn’t plan on being one of the dead on the dissection table.

“We’re coming up,” Emma’s voice said. “He says to tell you he’ll cut my throat first, then gut you.”

“Your throat, then mine. Got it.”

He listened intently to the sounds of two people moving awkwardly up the narrow stairway and into the main salon. Until he knew what kind of hold Temuri had on Emma, Mac could do nothing but follow directions.

And wait for an opening.

Just one.

Mac knew how small the odds were of catching someone like Temuri off guard. He didn’t care. Concentrating on how many ways things could go to hell was stupid. Hell wouldn’t help him.

A single opening would.

“Does Temuri need a light?” Mac asked.
I could blind the bastard.

“No. No lights.” She made a sound that was close to a gag. “Back off, Temuri. You’re going to kill me by accident.” She repeated the words in Russian.

Mac thought of some seriously painful ways to kill Temuri.

Two figures stumbled into the salon. The computer screen gave everything a ghostly blue-white glow. The light was just enough for Mac to see that Temuri was using Emma for balance. One hand was buried in her hair. The other held an open folding knife that had the subdued polish of use.

It was close to her throat. Too close for rough seas.

Emma had a livid bruise on one cheekbone and on her forehead. Lines of blood that looked nearly black in the light ran from various knife cuts on her cheek and throat. Only one of her hands was free to grab the overhead rail for balance. Her right arm was twisted up behind her back so that Temuri could hold her wrist and her hair in one big fist.

He doesn’t leave much room for me,
Mac thought.
He’ll cut her throat before I can take one step away from the wheel.

The smell of vomit came off Emma and Temuri in waves.

At first Mac thought she had been sick from the increasing roughness of the waves. Then he realized it was Temuri.

Some people didn’t adjust to big water. They got sick, then sicker, and kept throwing up even when their stomachs were empty of all but bile and nausea.

It smelled like Temuri had spent a lot of time puking.

Mac wanted to smile. Seasickness didn’t kill you, but it sure made you want to die. Being in the calm of Tofino harbor had revived Temuri. Enough bad water would put him down again.

Mac hoped it was soon.

“Seattle,” Temuri growled.

“Seattle,” Mac agreed.

“Move fast.”

“Whatever,” Mac said, pushing the throttles up. “Just keep that knife away from Emma’s throat.”

Temuri moved the blade maybe half an inch.

Mac knew it was as good as he’d get.

She took in air more deeply, no longer worried that a simple breath would slit her throat.

A burst of Russian.

“Temuri wants you to run for the international line,” Emma said.

“I am.”

“He wants a more direct course to Seattle. Closer to shore.”

“He’ll get it,” Mac promised.

The coastal route was indeed shorter in distance, if not in time. Closer to shore the ocean bottom came up hard, doubling the size of the swells. If you got too close, reverberation from waves that hit cliffs and washed back turned the water into a cauldron of triangular waves. Razor waves.

It would be hell on the passengers.

Silently Mac widened his stance, prepared to absorb the beating
Blackbird
would give anyone stupid enough to take the wrong course. He put the controls on autopilot.

And waited for a decent break.

MANHATTAN

10:50 P.M.

A
lara paced like a caged cat.

Steele wished he could join her.

Both of them listened to the open line Mac had left between himself and Faroe.

Nothing human, just the liquid hammering of water against glass, the skid and roll of loose equipment.

Alara’s cell phone hummed. She listened and broke the connection.

“Harrow and his teams are in place. They’re a thousand feet inside the international boundary line in Juan de Fuca Strait,” she said tightly. “The weather is growing ugly. Gale winds predicted.”

Silence. Then Alara’s hand smacked hard on Steele’s desk.

“Why doesn’t he make a move?” she snarled.

“He’s waiting for an opening that won’t kill Emma.”

“If Temuri is still in control when
Blackbird
crosses the line, Harrow’s teams will sink her.”

“I know.”

She looked at Steele. His eyes were gray, his mouth thin.

“We don’t have a choice,” she said.

Steele didn’t answer.

Alara didn’t speak again.

SOUTH
OF
TOFINO

8:01 P.M.

A
wave crashed hard over
Blackbird
‘s starboard bow. Water foamed gray and silver in the thin moonlight that penetrated the massing clouds. Even though rain hadn’t begun, the ship’s three windshield wipers moved furiously to clear the forward windows after each wave broke. And they broke all the time.

Emma and Temuri lurched sideways, held from a fall only by her hand wrapped around the overhead handrail that ran down the center of the salon ceiling. She groaned and said something in Russian.

Temuri’s response was blunt.
“Nyet.”

“I can’t hold both of us with one hand! My wrist…” She sagged and flinched.

Her fingers slipped.

The knife drew more blood.

“Watch it, Temuri,” snarled Mac. “Another cut like that and we’re all going to the bottom.”

Emma repeated it in Russian as she struggled to balance herself and Temuri’s much heavier weight.

Waves hit
Blackbird
one after another, sending the ship wallowing from side to side like an egg rolling in a bowl.

Even in the dim light of the computer screen, Mac could see that Temuri was turning green. He had a fine sheen of moisture on his face.

Cold sweat,
Mac thought.
It’s about time. If one of those big waves catches us wrong, the side windows will blow out.

And Mac would let it happen. He and Emma were wearing float harnesses. Temuri wasn’t. Those were better odds than they had right now.

Temuri said something guttural to Emma. She moaned as he freed her right hand. She shook out her arm. With agonizing slowness she raised her fingers toward the rail.