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Marine, this is
Blackbird
outside the breakwater.”
    The response was immediate.
    “
Blackbird,
this is Blue Water Marine, switch and answer on six-eight.”
    He twisted the channel selector and punched the transmit button. “Blue Water, this is
Blackbird
. You have somebody down there to catch a line?”
    The man-made marina looked calm in the deceptive light, but tidal currents could be a bitch.
    “With those pod drives, you won’t need help,” Bob Lovich said, “but we’re coming down to watch.”
    Whatever,
Mac thought impatiently, and punched the send button instead of answering.
The worst part of this job is owners who don’t know as much as they think they do.
    No matter what the spec sheet said,
Blackbird
was an untried boat. It took a lot of arrogance, plus a full helping of stupidity, to assume that the spec sheets were the same as the actual boat in the water.
    He pulled the engines out of gear, flipped off the engine synchronizer, and stepped out onto the main deck. Quickly he coiled bow and stern lines and placed them on the gunwale where someone on the dock could reach them. Because he was cautious, he put most of the weight of the lines on the inside half of the gunwale. If something went wrong, the lines would slide to the deck, rather than into the sea, where they could tangle with the props and cripple the boat.
    Caution was also why he tied fenders on the dock side of the boat. He didn’t want sudden wind or current to push him against the dock and mar
Blackbird
‘s hull. Salt washed off. Scrapes didn’t.
    As he stepped back into the cabin, he heard the radio’s impatient crackle.
    “Stop wasting our time playing with fenders, Mac,” Lovich said. “That boat can dock herself.”
    Only if the captain knows the drill. Even a pod drive isn’t idiot-proof.
    Yeah, the worst part of his job was the owners.
    Mac knew that
Blackbird
was equipped with the latest and greatest pod drives, but he didn’t want to rely on a system he’d never used in the close quarters of a marina. He knew what the boat would do if he used the twin throttles for maneuvering. He couldn’t say the same about the joystick for the pod drives.
    Mac glanced around the deck, planning his moves, and then stepped back to the helm station inside and put the engines in gear. Dead-slow, he passed through the slot in the breakwater and entered the boat basin at a crawl. Using throttles and helm, he cruised down the outside alley, stopped and pivoted between two docks that were crowded with moored boats.
    The Blue Water dock was flooded with light, more to discourage theft than for safety reasons. Mac saw three men waiting at a gap between a fifty-two-foot sailboat with tall aluminum masts and a smaller pleasure boat with a square stern and long, overhanging bowsprit. He recognized two of the men, Bob Lovich and Stan Amanar, owners of Blue Water Marine Group. The third man was a stranger.
    On the approach, Mac kept going in and out of gear to keep his speed down. The gap awaiting him at the dock left him maybe two feet to spare on bow and stern.
    Hoohah, this should be fun.
    The tide was on a steep ebb. Beneath the glittering dark surface of the water, heavy currents pulled and shoved. He came out of gear and let
Blackbird
drift to a stop parallel with the gap where the three men stood, impatiently waiting for him.
    Immediately Mac felt currents work on
Blackbird,
pushing it away from the dock. He stepped out and called to Amanar.
    “You sure you want
Blackbird
in this spot? I’d hate to put a mark on your new boat.”
    “Ever play video games?” Amanar asked.
    “I’m male, what do you think?”
    Lovich laughed.
    The stranger didn’t change expression. Though he looked about Mac’s age physically, his eyes were older than the first sin. Mac’s instincts started crawling over his neck. He’d seen men like this stranger before, usually on a killing field.
    “Forget the wheel,” Amanar said. “Use the joystick. It’s just