Death Echo

73

DAY SIX

MANHATTAN

10:50 P.M.

Alara paced like a caged cat.

Steele wished he could join her.

Both of them listened to the open line Mac had left between himself and Faroe.

Nothing human, just the liquid hammering of water against glass, the skid and roll of loose equipment.

Alara’s cell phone hummed. She listened and broke the connection.

“Harrow and his teams are in place. They’re a thousand feet inside the international boundary line in Juan de Fuca Strait,” she said tightly. “The weather is growing ugly. Gale winds predicted.”

Silence. Then Alara’s hand smacked hard on Steele’s desk.

“Why doesn’t he make a move?” she snarled.

“He’s waiting for an opening that won’t kill Emma.”

“If Temuri is still in control when Blackbird crosses the line, Harrow’s teams will sink her.”

“I know.”

She looked at Steele. His eyes were gray, his mouth thin.

“We don’t have a choice,” she said.

Steele didn’t answer.

Alara didn’t speak again.