Death Echo

cousins’ families.”
    So did Mac, but all he said was “Not our part of the op.”
    â€œHow long will it take to get us to U.S. waters?” Emma asked, finally freeing her phone.
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œGotcha.” 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.
    â€œReport,” Faroe’s voice said in her ear.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œWait,” 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.
    â€œSt. Kilda will do what we can for the families,” he said. “Where are you?”
    â€œHauling 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.”
    â€œRadio traffic is quiet, too,” Mac said, loud enough to be picked up by her cell phone.
    â€œBut someone might want to tell Canada that ours was a legal seizure rather than an act of piracy,” she added.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œWhat?” Faroe demanded.
    â€œThe ocean is a lot bumpier than the strait,” she said.
    â€œNo shit. When and where will you cross into U.S. waters?” Faroe repeated.
    â€œWhere do we cross to the U.S.?” she asked Mac.
    As she spoke, she put the phone on speaker and held it toward him.
    â€œJuan 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.”
    â€œYou check the weather?” Faroe asked.
    â€œWhat good would that do?” Mac said. “We sure as hell can’t go ashore again in Canada.”
    â€œStorm coming” was all Faroe said.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhy? What’s different?” Faroe’s voice was hard, demanding.
    â€œAnswering that is on my to-do list,” Mac said. “After I find a handy freighter to hide behind and keep us off coastal radar.”
    â€œCall 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?”
    â€œA