Death Echo

didn’t talk about it with me.”
    â€œWould he?” Emma asked.
    Mac shrugged and looked at her. “Usually, yes. He always talks about his next run like it will be the answer to all his problems.”
    â€œIt never is,” Faroe said. Not a guess.
    â€œNo, it never is.” Mac sighed and ran his hand over his short hair. “Damn, I don’t want to get Tommy into any more trouble than he’s found all by himself.”
    â€œSt. Kilda isn’t looking to hang the errand boy,” Faroe said. “We don’t fish for minnows.”
    â€œNot even to use as live bait for bigger fish?” Emma asked, thinking of her own childhood.
    Mac looked at Faroe and waited. “We work very hard to limit any collateral damage,” Faroe said. “But we’re not perfect.”
    â€œNothing human is,” Mac said. “But some things sure are more imperfect than others.”
    â€œYou want to investigate St. Kilda before you sign up?” Faroe asked. “If we talk long enough, we’ll find people who know people who know other people.”
    â€œI already did. ‘Merry’ Marty Jones sends you this.” Slowly Mac raised the middle finger of his right hand.
    Faroe almost fell off his chair laughing. “Good to know the son of a bitch is as mean as ever. If he wasn’t pushing eighty, I’d harass his ass into signing on with St. Kilda.” Then Faroe’s smile vanished. “You in or out?”
    â€œI’ve got a few more calls that I’m waiting to be returned.”
    â€œDon’t wait too long,” Faroe said bluntly. “This op has a real short clock on it. Call the instant you decide.”
    Mac gave Faroe a long look before he nodded curtly.
    Faroe headed for the door, with Emma right behind him. She paused at the open door.
    â€œWhat if we have to contact you?” she asked Mac.
    â€œI have your cell phone number.”
    Emma bit back what she thought of Mac’s response, turned on her heel, and followed Faroe. They had a lot of intel to go over together and damn little time.
    There was never enough time.

18
    DAY THREE
ON THE REZ
1:35 A.M .
    A stiff breeze blew through the mixed forest, making needles whisper and leaves rattle. Demidov was just another shadow moving among shadows, sliding between the scrubby trees with an eerie kind of grace. It had taken him an hour to discover the overgrown dirt lane leading into the forest. The “address” he’d found in the Blue Water Marine Group’s office was more of a general direction than any specific guide.
    The reservation reminded him of the farthest fringes of Vladivostok, where cart roads became footpaths that unraveled into the wild, ragged land, places where somebody’s location was a matter of spirited discussion among natives.
    The wind helped Demidov find his destination. He followed the odor of feces and burning trash to the moonlit clearing where bottles and plastic bags studded the wrecked vehicles in bizarre decoration. Again, it reminded him of Vladivostok. Even the can of kerosene he carried brought back memories.
    There was one light burning in the sagging trailer at the far side of the clearing. Demidov circled the trailer once, then again, before he climbed carefully up the broken steps at the back door. After listening for a minute, he caught the stem of the handle in a pair of grip-lock pliers, and twisted. The lock came apart with the small whine of inferior metal.
    He slid back into the shadows and waited. One minute. Two.
    Ten.
    The trailer remained quiet, motionless but for the occasional quiver beneath the rising wind.
    Demidov waited some more. If he was a religious man, he would have prayed, but his only god was power, so he simply waited, listening.
    No noises came from inside the trailer.
    Quietly he skimmed over the broken steps and through the door, a shadow dancer taking his place on a shabby stage. Any small noises he made were simply part of the performance, the night and the wind and the forest dancing together.
    The inside of the trailer smelled like the clearing, with an overlay of sour pizza and beer. His target was facedown on a lumpy couch, snoring into the crook of his arm. Crushed beer cans lay scattered on the floor like a fallen house of cards.
    A loaded, cocked pistol waited among the cans.
    This becomes more like Vladivostok with every moment, Demidov thought in wry disgust. Fear makes them drink.