Free Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham Page B

now?” she said.
    “That was my friend Ray Floyd. He’s my airplane mechanic in Key West.” And one of the few people I could count on.
    “Is he coming to help us look for Morgan’s booty?”
    “Indirectly, but don’t say booty in front of Ray or he’ll get distracted.”
    Nanny tipped her head back and laughed.
    “We’re all set here,” she said. “It could take a couple hours to get to Moore Town, but they said the current’s mild today, so maybe less. Do you really think you can paddle upriver against it?”
    “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. If Morgan really did entrust treasure to his Maroon allies, we need to try and figure out what they might have done with it. You know the landscape pretty well?”
    “A little, but I’m a university professor, not a Maroon warrior.”
    “Well, that’s why we asked Colonel Grandy to meet us, right?”
    Nanny wasn’t looking at me. My heart sank.
    “You did talk to him, right?”
    “Yes … but he’ll most likely be sending someone else.” She clutched her hands together.
    “What’s wrong?”
    She took in a deep breath and dropped her hands down to the side.
    “He said he fell and got hurt, but I think someone may have attacked him.”
    I froze, the bamboo pole in my hand, just about to launch the raft.
    “Attacked? Like maybe that asshole from yesterday who cussed us out?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know, Buck. Maybe. Anyway, the colonel might be sending another trusted person along.”
    “You soft-pedaled that guy yesterday,” I said. “Who was he?”
    She frowned. “His name’s Cuffee. A hothead, obviously, but I’ve never heard anyone say that he’s violent—”
    “Let me tell you, it’s better to recognize danger and prepare for it than to pretend everything’s fine.” I paused. “And Jamaica does have a reputation for gang violence, so—”
    Her eyes flared. “Maroons are not gangs—”
    “No, but they all may not be just Maroons, either.”
    “I’ve survived thirty-four years on my own and don’t need—”
    I took her shoulders and squeezed them.
    “I’m sorry if that came out wrong. That’s just me thinking out loud, trying to prepare myself in case something does happen.”
    She took a deep breath, but the expression on her face was taut, not fearful. It made me like her even more. Strong women have that effect on me.
    “Provided you can make it upriver against the current,” she said.
    “Only one way to find out.”
    We set off down the tributary toward the Rio Grande. My mind was back on the notes we’d transcribed and Nanny’s mention of the Blue Mountain peak at dawn. I hoped the flash was something more tangible than the green flash you’re supposed to see at sunset over the ocean. While it may happen, it’s damned rare, and we needed better odds than that.
    Mountains loomed on both sides of the river, and myriad shades of green seemed to swirl beneath the clouds and mist that enveloped them. At the confluence of the Rio Grande I steered us right, upriver into the current. As I did, brown water slapped over the front of the raft, which was only a few inches above the water’s surface.
    “I feel like Cleopatra on the Nile.” Nanny was seated behind me, her bare legs—runner’s legs—now wet, as were her dark shorts.
    Our conversation trailed off as I poled deeper into the water against the strong current. Thirty minutes of that and my shoulders and lower back started to ache and lock up. I often used a stand-up paddleboard out behind Louie’s Backyard in Key West—in fact, using a SUP had become my favorite form of exercise since my basketball group broke up. But obviously there was a big difference between the aqua dynamics of a SUP board and large sections of bamboo strapped together. Not to mention paddling against the current of a mighty river. The sweat rolled off every exposed surface of my skin and soaked my shirt.
    “That’s the Blue Mountain peak over there.” Nanny pointed up to our