Death Echo

checked out herself. Thoroughly. Recently.
    â€œTwo-hundred-millimeter lens.” Josh whistled through his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “And the lady wants details.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem?”
    He held up one finger. “That great pig up ahead is throwing a ten-foot bow wave.” A second finger uncurled. “The Coast Guard patrol boats would be on us like stink on a cat box. After 9/11, they lost their sense of humor about bending the rules.”
    No news there for Emma. “You saying it can’t be done?”
    â€œDepends. How bad do you want to swim or go to jail?”
    â€œNot so much, thanks.” She let out a long breath and remindedherself that impatience was a quick way to die, and she was chasing nothing more dangerous than luxury yachts.
    At least she had been, until Alara appeared like a puff of darkness.
    â€œI can wait until the tugs are nudging that ‘great pig’ against a dock,” Emma said.
    â€œIf you’re working on a really short clock,” Josh said, “I’ll be glad to take a run at the Lotus right now.” He grinned suddenly. “It beats my usual gig—hauling seasick tourists out to chase whales.”
    She thought about it, then shook her head. “It’s not life or death.”
    I wish.
    She laughed silently, bitterly. That was why she’d quit the CIA and taken an assignment from St. Kilda to investigate yacht thefts. No alarms with this job. No adrenaline exploding through her body.
    No blood.
    No guilt.
    And best of all, no corrupt politics.
    Guess again, she told herself. Then get over it.
    â€œBack to shore?” Josh asked. “Not yet. Keep the Lotus in sight while you give me a sightseeing tour of the famous and beautiful Elliott Bay.”
    â€œLegal distance maintained at all times?”
    â€œUntil I say otherwise.”

2
    DAY ONE
ELLIOTT BAY
AFTERNOON
    S tanding on top of seventy-foot-high stacks of containers, with only the unforgiving steel deck below to catch him, MacKenzie Durand wrestled with the cargo sling that would lift the yacht off Shinhua Lotus . He looked up to the glassed-in cab of the deck crane, where the operator was waiting for directions.
    Hope he knows what he’s doing, Mac thought as he held up his right hand and made a small circle in the air. Sign language for giving more slack to the cable that held the lifting frame.
    The operator dropped the frame six inches at a time until Mac’s hand clenched into a fist.
    The cable stopped instantly.
    Damn, but it’s sweet to work with professionals, Mac thought as he began positioning the sling on the yacht’s black, salt-streaked hull. The man in the cab might be a miserable son of a bitch who beat his wife and was an officer in the most corrupt labor union on the waterfront, but when he was at the controls of his pet hammerhead crane, he could be as sure and gentle as a mother cradling a newborn.
    Mac manhandled a wide strap into position just ahead of the spot on the hull where twin prop housings on Blackbird thrust outlike eggbeaters. Lift points were crucial in controlling a vessel that weighed almost thirty tons.
    Besides, if anything went wrong, he was going to be splat on ground zero. He’d been there, done that, and vowed never to be there again. He’d been the lucky one who survived.
    At least he had been told that he was the lucky one. After a few years, he even believed it. During daylight.
    At night, well, night was always there, waiting with the kind of dreams he woke from cold, sweating, biting back howls of fury and betrayal.
    Long ago and far away, Mac told himself savagely. Pay attention to what’s happening now.
    When he was satisfied with the position of the lifting strap, he signaled the crane operator to pick up cable. The frame went from slack to loaded. The aft strap was in front of the propellers and the forward strap was even with the front windshield. Both straps visibly stretched as the overhead cable tightened.
    Just before Blackbird lifted out of its cradle, Mac clenched his fist overhead. Instantly the crane operator stopped bringing in cable.
    Mac checked everything again before he scrambled up the ten-foot ladder that stood against the swim step at the stern of the yacht. When he was aboard Blackbird, he gave the crane operator a palm-out hand signal with fingers spread.
    Take a break, five minutes.
    The operator nodded and reached for a cigarette.
    A Lotus