Death Echo (9 page)

“The boss with more money than sense?”

“Have you ever heard of St. Kilda Consulting?” she asked calmly.

Mac frowned and searched through his memory. “Civilian. Private. International. Kidnap security.”

“Among other things.”

“What do they want me to do?”

Emma looked at Mac’s clear dark eyes and wondered why she kept thinking he was laughing at her.

“You’ll have to ask Joe Faroe,” she said.

“What do you do for him?”

“You can ask him that, too.”

“I’m asking you,” Mac said.

“Do you know if or when
Blackbird
is leaving port?”

“No.”

“Can you find out?” she pressed.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Then she closed her eyes and took a better grip on her temper. She knew how to recruit someone.

This wasn’t the way.

“Sorry,” she said. “Perhaps I should—” She stopped abruptly.

The server showed up with coffee, splashed it into their cups, and dropped two menus on the far side of the table.

Emma picked up the coffee, sipped, and grimaced. “Colder than the hostess. Pass the sugar, please.”

Mac’s smile was the warmest thing in the casino.

She enjoyed the vision, then smiled herself.

“If you’re interested in making some honest money,” she said, “I’ll put you in touch with Joe Faroe. Whatever St. Kilda wants from you will be legal in whatever country you do it in.”
So far, anyway.
“They don’t play politics, they’ve been honest with me, and they pay on time.”

“Do they work for the good guys or just anyone who pays?”

“Find me some good guys and I’ll let you know,” she said. Then she met Mac’s dark eyes. “They’re more trustworthy than the government.”

“Faint praise.”

“In this world, that’s as good as it gets.”

His expression changed. “I left that world.”

She laughed, as much at herself as at him. “Sorry, babe. It’s the only world there is.”

“If you can’t tell me what you’re doing for St. Kilda, I’m not interested in talking to Joe Faroe.”

Emma decided quickly. As long as her existing cover got the job done, she’d stay with it. “Missing yachts.”

“Piracy?”

“Not yet. Just yachts that are made in Asia and ‘fall off the ship’ before they get here.”

“They go through Vladivostok?”

Though Emma’s expression didn’t change, Mac sensed that she had come to a point.

“How did you know?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Anything that transits through the
FSU
is fair game for the local strongmen. Think of it as paying a toll.”

“The insurance company is tired of that game.”

“What can I do about it?” he asked. “I’m not in Vladivostok.”

“A year ago, a black-hulled, forty-one-foot boat—the exact twin of
Blackbird
—disappeared in transit from Asia.”

“It happens,” Mac said.

“Somehow only the multimillion-dollar yachts fall off in transit.”

“Shock and awe.”

“We’ve been watching
Blackbird
since Singapore,” Emma said, ignoring his sarcasm. “We want to keep on watching it until—” She stopped abruptly.

The server strolled up. “You ready to order?”

“Hamburger and fries,” Mac said without looking away from Emma. “Salad with blue cheese.”

“The same,” Emma said. It wouldn’t be the first cold hamburger and fries she’d eaten.

“There’s a fish special,” the server said.

“I smelled it first thing,” Mac said. “I’ll stick with the cow.”

“Whatever. You want beer?”

Idly Emma wondered if they served the beer as warm as the coffee was cold.

“Coffee’s fine,” he said.

“Same here,” Emma said.

The server turned and walked off in sneakers so old they fit like slippers. No socks.

When they were alone again, Emma said, “—
Blackbird
is delivered to its owner. Then the insurance company is off the hook.”

The continuation of a previous conversation didn’t throw Mac.

She hadn’t expected it to.

“What if the owner isn’t in Rosario?” Mac asked.

“I’ll need a captain and a boat to follow
Blackbird
until the owner appears and signs off.”

“A thousand a day, plus fuel.”

“Tell it to Faroe.” She held out her cell phone. “Punch two.”

Using his index finger, Mac nudged the phone away. “I don’t work for anyone I haven’t had face time with.”

“You’re going to love Faroe. He feels the same way.”

“When do I see him?”

“Tomorrow, unless he gets lucky and gets here sooner.”

“Here?”

Emma looked around the casino. “Right here? Doubt it. Probably at his motel in Rosario.”

“Which one?”

“You’ll know when I do.”

There must have been a replicator in the kitchen, because the server appeared with two plates of food and two small bowls of salad. She dumped them on the table. French fries leaped onto the cloudy surface. The salad was too heavy with dressing to scatter.

This so won’t be worth the calories,
Emma thought.

But she needed fuel. It would be a long day and a longer night.

She picked up her burger and bit down. Not quite as cold as the coffee. Definitely warmer than the fries.

“Ketchup?” Mac asked, holding out a plastic squeeze bottle to Emma.

“Good idea.”

The server dug in her pocket until she found a piece of paper. She dropped the bill on the table and walked away to talk to the hostess.

Emma finished slathering ketchup over her food before she looked at the bill. Without a word she dug a ten and a twenty out of her wallet and put them on the check.

“I can make change,” Mac offered.

“No need.”

He lifted black eyebrows. “Fine tip for lousy service.”

“Her ankles are swollen.”

He bit into his own hamburger, chewed, and swallowed. “I think I like you.”

“Same goes.” She lifted a limp, ketchup-drenched fry. “I think.”

Mac’s slow smile transformed his face. “Get back to me when you know for sure.”

“I’ll have to find you first.”

“I’ll be nearby.” He looked at her expression and knew she wasn’t happy. Fair enough. Neither was he.

He couldn’t wait to see what a sober Tommy had to say for himself.

ON
THE
RESERVATION

1:30 P.M.

A
s Mac turned onto Tribal Road, he kept watching his mirrors. Apparently the intriguing Ms. Cross was more interested in hanging out at the marina than she was in following him. All he saw behind him was the glorious blue sky and whipped-cream clouds of a San Juan Islands autumn.

The air flowing through the open truck windows was cool, silky, and rich with the smell of intertidal mud flats. The state highway leading past the casino and gas/liquor store deeper into the reservation was lightly, if carefully, traveled. The few vehicles that were out had no interest in anything but getting wherever they were going without getting tagged by the state, county, city, or tribal speed teams that haunted the area.

When he turned off the highway, Mac set the cruise control to equal the ridiculously low posted speed limit on the rez. Zero tolerance for outsiders was the rule. Just one more way of getting even.

Or getting respect, depending on which side of the rez blanket you were born and raised.

Mac turned off onto the rutted, overgrown dirt lane that led to Tommy’s trailer. The truck’s water pump was making the kind of unhappy mechanical noises that told him he’d be lucky to get home without a tow truck. He hoped everything would hold out until tomorrow, when the much-needed water pump would finally be in stock at the Rosario auto supply store.

All around the truck, alder and big-leaf maple competed with cedar for a place in the wet earth. In the mixed forest, twilight was pretty much an all-day thing. He parked behind the old cedar stump, locked up, and walked deeper into the trees. When he reached the clearing, the trash fire and outhouse still flavored the air, telling him that Tommy was probably still around.

“Yo, Tommy! You there?” Mac called.

“Who cares?” Tommy called back, opening the front door a crack and peering out.

“Hey, it’s me,” Mac said. Tommy looked a little wild-eyed, but it could just be a hangover.

Hope it isn’t crank. He’s snake-mean on that poison.

“Thought you might like food and a beer, my treat,” Mac said. “We didn’t get much time to talk last night.”

The broken screen leaned drunkenly, halfway covering the front door. Tommy kicked the bent frame out of the way.

“Last night?” Tommy stared and shook himself hard, like a dog coming out of water. “You here last night?”

“That bourbon really tanked you.”

Tommy blinked, rubbed the dense beard shadow on his face, and blinked again. His hazel eyes began to clear. With his chestnut hair, Tommy looked less Native American than Mac did. They used to joke about it.

These days, Tommy didn’t have much sense of humor.

“Oh. Yeah. You were here.” Tommy cleared his throat. “Guess I had a little too much.” He looked behind Mac. “You alone?”

Mac nodded and wondered why Tommy cared. He was giving off a deadly-edgy kind of vibe.

“You tweaking?” Mac asked.

“Nah. Got any more bourbon?”

“They have beer at the bowling alley.”

“Can’t leave,” Tommy said roughly.

“Problem with the town cops?”

“No. Just waiting. Got a job coming down. Supposed to be tomorrow, but could be sooner. Dude’s going to pick me up here. I have to be ready to roll.”

“It won’t be today.” Mac watched Tommy without seeming to. “
Blackbird
is still being fitted out.”

Tommy flinched and looked away. “What the hell you talking about?”

“Your job. Blue Water Marine Group wants a boat moved. The boat’s name is
Blackbird.
”

“Who told you about that?” Tommy snarled, flushing. “They told me they’d beat the crap out of me if I—” He stopped abruptly. “They wanted it real quiet, you know? How’d you find out?”

“I brought
Blackbird
from Seattle.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but Tommy nodded.

“You want it quiet,” Mac said, “it’s quiet.”

Tommy made a visible effort to calm himself. He dug a limp cigarette out of his T-shirt pocket, lit it with a match, and took a long draw.

“Quiet. Yeah. Dead quiet.” He laughed wildly, then looked around the dark clearing as though expecting people to be listening behind every tree. “Let’s go inside. Better there.”

Mac doubted it, but followed Tommy into the trailer. Mac didn’t know if the man’s paranoia was a side effect of tweaking or based in reality.

“You never used to worry about Stan,” Mac said easily.

“Screw him.” Tommy slammed and locked the door. “It’s his buddy I worry about.”

“His cousin?”

“That pussy?” Tommy waved his cigarette in dismissal. “Nah. The other one. Temuri. At least I think that’s the bastard’s name. Blood brother to a shark.”

Mac filed the name and went back to fishing for information. The instincts he had tried to leave behind in Afghanistan had taken a single look at Temuri and come to a quivering point.

That was one stone killer.

“Wonder why Bob and Stan got in bed with someone like that,” Mac said.

Tommy went to the window, stood to the side, and looked out. “Money, dude. What else?”

“Are they hurting?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Tommy kept squinting out the window, searching the dim forest. “Besides, I heard Stan talking about it in the inner office with Bob. The Temuri dude is a prick, but he’s some kind of family.”

Mac shrugged. “So long as they pay.”

“Oh yeah. Half up front. Half on delivery. Forty big ones. Supposed to go tomorrow. Having trouble with some of the electronics. Wrong size or some such crap.”

“Forty thousand American?” Mac asked, black eyes narrowed. That was a lot for the kind of short-haul transit the other man did.

Tommy nodded, making his lank hair jerk.

“Sweet,” Mac said. “Want another hand aboard?”

Tommy turned on him with a snarl. “No. And you never heard of the job, hear me?”

“Sure,” Mac said easily. Unless Tommy was taking the boat across the ocean to Vladivostok, it was an outrageous payday. “Long trip, huh?”

Tommy took a hard drag before he ground the cigarette out under his shoe. “Don’t know.”

Mac didn’t push it anymore. “You hear anything from Jeremy?” he said, asking after the last of the wild ones who once had run together as a teenage pack.

“What do you care?”

“Shove the attitude. It’s me, Mac, the dude you used to steal crabs and boost beer with. Sometimes Jeremy went along, remember?”

Tommy blinked, seemed to refocus. “Sorry, man. I’m a little tweaked, waiting for this job. I really need it.”

“I get that.”

“Jeremy’s pulling pots for some white guy.”

“Thought crabbing was closed.”

Tommy lit another cigarette. “The white guy’s a sport crabber.”

Mac didn’t need to hear the details. If Jeremy got caught—unlikely, given that the fish cops couldn’t afford to put gas in their boat—he played the Indian card. White courts couldn’t touch him. Tribal courts wouldn’t.

“It’s a living,” Mac said.

“Pays shit.”

“And all the crab you can eat or sell on the side.”

With a jerky movement, Tommy flicked ash onto the floor of the trailer. “It’s still shit. That’s all we ever get. Fucking whites.”

“Present company excepted,” Mac said neutrally.

“Huh?” Tommy blinked, focused again. “You know I don’t think of you as white.”

“And I don’t think of you as not white. Ain’t we the rainbow pair.”

Reluctantly Tommy smiled, then laughed, the kind of laugh that reminded Mac of all the good times they’d had as kids, running wild in a ragged land. They hadn’t been innocent, but they hadn’t believed in death.

If that isn’t innocence, what is?

He and Tommy had come a long way since then. They hadn’t ended up at the same place.