Death Echo Read Online Free PDF Page A

charming help.”
    Mac almost smiled. “Charming, huh?”
    “Yeah. Bet no one has ever accused you of that.”
    This time Mac did smile. “No bet.”
    Emma almost stepped back. The difference between this man with and without a smile was enough to make a woman think about doing whatever it took to keep the smile in place.
    “Wow. You should try smiling more often, Mr. Whoever.”
    He shook his head and decided he was going to find out just what kind of trouble this woman was. Give her enough rope and she might just tie herself up.
    Now that was an intriguing thought. “MacKenzie Durand,” he said. “If you want me to answer, call me Mac.”
    “One hundred!” called out the dockhand.
    Mac loosened his grip on the nozzle, replaced the tank cover, and walked around the stern to the tank on the other side. The dockhand leaped forward to feed more hose aboard.
    Emma looked at the thick hose, stepped behind the dockhand, lifted a few coils to help, and almost staggered.
    Heavy. Who knew yachting was hard work?
    Silently she revised her estimate of the captain’s physical strength. He was handling the stuff like it was garden hose. That rangy frame of his was deceptive.
    “Hey, no need to get that cool top dirty,” the dockhand said. “I can handle it.”
    “That’s what washing machines are for,” Emma said. “Do you do this all day?”
    “Every day. The other dockhand quit. But I’m making a lot of money toward my degree.”
    “In what?”
    “Engineering.”
    “That’s a lot of hose hauling,” Emma said.
    “Beats waiting tables. I love being outside with boats.”
    “Ready,” Mac called from the other side of the yacht.
    “Coming on,” the dockhand said as she flipped a lever on one of the pumps. The dial began to spin, fast.
    Another smaller yacht nosed in behind
Blackbird.
The dockhand went quickly to catch the lines.
    Emma watched the dial on the fuel pump for a time. She was just reaching for the shutoff lever when the dockhand appeared, turned off the pump, and went back to feeding hose to the second boat.
    “One hundred,” Emma called to Mac.
    Moments later he appeared with the nozzle and heavy hose trailing. “New job?” he asked Emma.
    The dockhand teleported into place, took the nozzle, then began dragging hose back and coiling it out of the way.
    “Just a helping hand,” Emma said. “Poor kid has her work cut out for her.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Permission to come aboard?”
    “I’m on a short clock, but I can spare a few minutes.” He called out to the dockhand. “Go ahead and take care of the other boat. I can wait for the fuel ticket.”
    She waved and looked grateful. The other customers were fishermen, eager to get out on the water.
    Short clock.
    Emma noted the military phrase as she headed for the stern of the boat. She grabbed the yacht’s stainless-steel rail, felt the grainy residue of salt spray, and lowered herself to the swim step. Her weight was nothing compared to that of
Blackbird;
the boat didn’t bounce or jerk as it accepted her.
    Yet she sensed immediately the difference between dock and deck.
Blackbird
was alive with subtle motion.
    Years peeled away and she was ten again, fishing with her father on the Great Lakes. She shook it off and concentrated on the mission.
    “You aren’t staying in the marina?” she asked Mac.
    He’d already decided to tell her the truth, because she could easily find it out anyway. Nothing like appearing helpful to catch someone off guard.
    “I’m a transit captain,” he said, waving her toward the steps leading up to the deck. “I’m being paid to deliver this boat to the commissioning yard in Rosario.”
    She walked onto the deck and looked around. “What’s a commissioning yard?”
    “The hull and most of the interior of the boat is built in Shanghai. The navigation electronics, water maker, satellite linked chart plotter, TVs, radar, computer uplink, speakers, dishwasher, washer-dryer, stove,