Death Echo

would be her.
    It infuriated Lina that she had grown older while he had grown more dangerous, but she wasn’t stupid enough to act on her emotions. In that, at least, she was his equal.
    â€œThat’s far enough,” Demidov said abruptly. “Turn off the big outboards and get on the little one.”
    â€œAre you talking about the kicker ?”
    â€œIs that the small engine?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œThen do it.”
    Lina bit back her objections. Her gear would keep her dry from the neck down—she hated hats and only wore them when the temperatures dropped below freezing. If she got a saltwater face wash and cold water down her back today, she’d still be more comfortable than the devil who had commandeered her boat.
    She cut the big outboards and staggered back to the stern, thrown off-balance by the choppy, unpredictable waves. Not for the first time, she wished she’d replaced the little kicker with a biggerone that had an electronic starter. But she hadn’t. She would pay for that now.
    As she reached for the pull rope to start the kicker, water slammed into the boat and spray slapped across her face. She yanked the starter rope once, and again, then again. On the fourth try the small outboard shuddered, belched a cloud of unburned gas and oil that wind swept back into the boat, and died.
    Demidov looked sharply at her.
    She ignored him and yanked on the starter rope again. This time the engine not only caught, it held. Bracing herself on the stern gunwale, she steered Redhead II with the kicker.
    It wasn’t easy, but it could be done.
    Barely.
    Rather savagely she hoped that Demidov appreciated the uneven, sloppy, stomach-churning ride.
    At least it isn’t raining, she thought. It shouldn’t take long for Blackbird to spot us.

44
    DAY FOUR
STRAIT OF GEORGIA
2:31 P.M .
    E mma was comfortable enough with the wind and water that she had hopped up into the pilot’s seat behind the wheel. More a loveseat than a simple chair, the cushion was big enough for two to use. Once she sat down, the riding-a-horse analogy was even more apt. She let the motion of the boat go through her spine in an invisible wave.
    Mac settled on the padded bench seat next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth. She liked that almost as much as the fact that both of them were relaxed with the silence and one another.
    The multitude of pleasure boats that had cluttered the water near Nanaimo had disappeared. The few boats she could see were well off in the distance, much closer to land, leaving white streaks on the water as they slammed from wave-top to wave-top in a run for whatever safe anchorage was within reach.
    â€œHow often do they change the weather report?” Emma finally asked.
    â€œDepends.”
    â€œOn the weather?” she asked sweetly.
    â€œOn how bad they missed the forecast the first time.”
    â€œI don’t know much about weather, and less about water, but…” Her voice faded into the hiss and smack of waves against the hull.
    â€œYeah.” Mac looked at the whitecaps, measured how much spray lifted into the air. “The wind looks closer to twenty than fifteen, much less ten. The gusts are at least twenty-five.”
    â€œStill want to go to Campbell River?” she asked.
    â€œIs your stomach kicking?”
    Emma looked surprised. “No. Should it be?”
    â€œSome people get seasick on a floating dock.”
    â€œGuess I’m not one of them.”
    â€œWe could take a lot more wind than this and be perfectly safe,” Mac said. “Unless you’re uneasy—”
    â€œAs in puke green?” she said, smiling.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œSo kick the throttles up a notch and keep going.”
    â€œHow much is a notch?” she asked.
    â€œTake it up to twenty knots, more if the motion doesn’t bother you. We’ve got time to make up.”
    â€œAye, aye, Captain,” she said, and hit the throttles.
    The sound of the diesels deepened. The wake behind the boat churned out even more white. Surprisingly, the ride didn’t change much, neither smoother nor rougher. The fuel consumption sure shifted, though.
    â€œWe’re filling up the tanks in Campbell, right?” she asked.
    â€œYes. Why?”
    â€œWe eat a lot more diesel at this speed.”
    â€œWait until you see it above twenty-four knots. Sucks diesel like water flushing