Death Echo

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 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.