Death Echo

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.
    â€œWe’re coming up,” Emma’s voice said. “He says to tell you he’ll cut my throat first, then gut you.”
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œDoes Temuri need a light?” Mac asked. I could blind the bastard.
    â€œNo. 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.
    â€œSeattle,” Temuri growled.
    â€œSeattle,” Mac agreed.
    â€œMove fast.”
    â€œWhatever,” 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.
    â€œTemuri wants you to run for the international line,” Emma said.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œHe wants a more direct course to Seattle. Closer to shore.”
    â€œHe’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.

73
    DAY SIX
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.
    â€œHarrow 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.
    â€œWhy