Maroon Rising

by John H. Cunningham

  We needed to move.

  “You, sir, have a golden touch,” Stanley said. “I can’t believe we did it.” He glanced back to the ATVs. “This will be tremendous news for both the museum and the Jamaican people. iPads for all schoolchildren!”

  “Too soon to celebrate, ” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  And so we began the long circuitous journey through the hills toward the dead-end road where a lone truck waited—or so we hoped. The trip out was slow and painful, especially for the bigger men, with two of each crammed onto every ATV. Nanny had her arms around my waist, a necessity given the bumpy ride.

  A small plane flew along the valley, straight toward us. It wasn’t Betty, but the pilot looked interested in us, given his drop in altitude and course directly overhead. Would Jack have additional spotters out to keep track of our progress? I would if I were him.

  When there was a clear straightaway I accelerated to twenty miles per hour and passed Stanley, and everyone sped up. Nanny’s grip tightened as we bounced hard, dodged a boulder hidden in ferns, and splashed through shallow puddles that sprayed us with muddy water. Goggles would have been nice.

  After a twenty-minute span that felt like hours, I heard a honk over the growl of the ATV engine. I braked to a stop and glanced back. Stanley pointed ahead toward two gray hills separated by a narrow valley. I responded with a thumbs-up, then lifted my arm until each of the other drivers had lifted their thumbs. All of them were muddy, none of them were smiling.

  We continued forward—the route Stanley pointed to would have been invisible had it not been for the faint tire tracks through the grassy landscape. I followed the tracks straight toward the rocky gap between the hills.

  To my surprise, the tracks cut to the right. I let off the accelerator a moment to scan the valley between the hills—it was an impenetrable crevasse of boulders.

  A glance back to Stanley found him pointing up the hill.

  Nanny nearly slid off the back of the seat when I added power up the incline. We leaned forward, and her fingers dug into my rib cage. What seemed like a goat trail—narrow, rutted, chiseled by erosion—looped around the left side of the hill on a contour approximately halfway up, which afforded a good view of the valley.

  I started to feel a ray of hope.

  We rounded the side of the green mountain at the closest point to the hill on our left—it was the final hill from our previous trip here. Sure enough, the dead-end road was below. The huge truck Stanley had driven to tow in the ATVs was there and partially hidden under the forest canopy.

  I followed the tire tracks through tall grass, accelerating once out on the dirt road. Nanny held tight until we screeched to a stop behind the truck. The other ATVs pulled up behind us and came to a stop. Everyone climbed off and stretched, muddy messes each of them.

  “My butt is killing me,” Stanley said.

  The truck had a sturdy canvas top supported by rings over its bed, with an enclosed cab in front. I dropped the tailgate and rolled the canvas up, then removed the ramps they’d used to unload two of the ATVs. I glanced around and spotted the trailer in the tall grass, covered over with branches and leaves. That must have carried the other two ATVs.

  “Won’t be room for ATVs with all this treasure,” I said.

  “Who cares,” Pierce said. “We’ll come back for them.”

  Nanny sat on the lowered tailgate with a pad of paper and pen and took inventory as the men carried over armload after armload of precious metals and jewels. Everyone worked at top speed to hasten our departure. Inside the truck, I secured the booty with ropes so it wouldn’t bounce around.

  “That’s a lot of buying power for Jamaican schoolchildren,” Stanley said.

  “And a fine collection for the National Maritime Museum,” Keith said.

  Nanny’s face was serious. “We’ll set up a nonprofit—”

  “Which Nanny will run,” Stanley said.

  “And use our Maroon heritage of independence and self-determination to revolutionize Jamaica’s future,” she said.

  All the men stared at her with smiles on their faces.

  Whether part of her heritage, her own drive, or her DNA, Nanny was a bold visionary—just like the original Mother of us all.

  Once we’d unloaded everything, the men stashed their ATVs and trailers in the tall grass, then climbed inside the truck. I closed the tailgate and secured the canvas flaps. Since he promised to drive fast, Stanley took the wheel for the first leg of what would be a long trip, Nanny sat in the middle, and I was on the passenger side keeping watch. Our destination was Moore Town, via Albert Town, Ocho Rios, and then Port Antonio.

  The big diesel fired up. In the back, the men laughed and hollered. Stanley hooted and hollered right along with them.

  “I’d hold off on the celebration until we’re safely back in Moore Town,” I said.

  Nanny reached down and squeezed my left thigh.

  “You two did a hell of a job,” Stanley said. “I never thought there was any truth to the legend, much less that you’d be able to find—”

  The truck lurched forward, the brakes locked up—Whoa!

  The wheels slid on the gravel—toward—uh-oh…

  A huge crash sounded behind us and the men yelled. I knew the heavy piles I’d tied down neatly were now a massive jumble after Stanley’s screeching stop.

  Based on what I saw through the windshield, he’d done a heck of job halting the big truck at all.

  “Do you have 9-1-1 in Jamaica?” I said. “If not, somebody better call the police.”

  Five men, multiple dirt bikes, a black Land Rover, and a pickup truck blocked the road. The men held a combination of shotguns and automatic weapons. As soon as we stopped they rushed us, surrounding the truck, shouting for the men to exit the back. Some jammed their guns inside the cab toward us.

  “What’s going on here?” Stanley’s voice quivered.

  “Get out—all of you!”

  Cuffee stood in front of the truck, a handgun pointed at the windshield.

  “Too late,” I said.

  Nanny shuddered next to me. “What do we do?”

  “Exactly as they say,” I said. “These men won’t think twice about killing us.”

  I popped the door open and slid out, followed by Nanny. Stanley did the same from the driver’s side. There was shouting—a gun butt hit the side of the truck’s back bed—until Pierce, Keith, and the other men climbed out of the truck.

  “How dare you—” Stanley’s admonishment was greeted with Cuffee’s handgun pressed into his cheek.

  “Don’t shoot anybody!” The loud voice came from behind me.

  I spun to find Gunner stepping out of the black Land Rover, his square teeth yellow in the bright sunlight, his nose taped from my breaking it. The other men stepped back and made way for him.

  He stopped in front of me. The knife on his belt and the pistol in his holster were not lost on me. My fingers wiggled at the end of my arms, which trembled with rage.

  “Didn’t I warn you, Reilly?”

  “You’ve got no right—”

  “I got right!” The voice came over my back shoulder. I glanced back at Cuffee, his eyes bulging wide.

  “As Njoni’s distant relative?” I said.

  His mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly.

  “Damn straight, mon. He was the one who hid whatever you found—”

  “Damn, Cuffee!” A voice came from behind the truck. “Look at all this!”

  Cuffee’s teeth were white, and he was as big as Gunner, maybe even bigger.

  “Njoni’s father was Akim!” Nanny shouted. “He sailed with Morgan, who entrusted the treasure to—”

  “Shut up,” Gunner said. “Spare me the semantics.”

  Nanny stepped toward him. I grabbed her arm and pulled her back—hard—as Gunner exploded in laughter.

  “Pointless to argue provenance,” I said.

  She pulled her arm out of my hand, which made G
unner hoot with more laughter.

  “This is Maroon property!” said Stanley, who had hurried to our side of the truck.

  Gunner’s smile slid to a sneer. “We’ll etch that on your tombstone, old man.”

  “Everybody calm down,” I said. “Pierce, you, Keith, and the others step back.” I again took Nanny by the arm. “Let’s get out of their way.” Then, to Gunner: “You can let him go, too.”

  Stanley had paled and his legs were wobbling. I was afraid he’d collapse at any moment.

  Gunner’s men collected all our cell phones and the keys to the four-wheelers. We all stepped back, and the sounds of engines roared ahead of us with the ferocity of a Hells Angel’s chapter. Vehicles backed out of the way and motocross engines whined loudly as Gunner stepped toward us, pistol drawn.

  “We’re taking Nanny with us for insurance.”

  Nanny slapped Gunner’s hand away and he grabbed her around the waist and picked her up while keeping his gun aimed at us. She struggled—

  “No!” Stanley leapt forward. I grabbed the back of his pants and he collapsed like a jackknife.

  Gunner shoved Nanny up into the passenger side of the truck and climbed in after her. Cuffee got behind the wheel and the truck lurched forward as the other vehicles scrambled in front of or behind them.

  “My cell phone’s in my sock,” Stanley said.

  I cut a glance back to our men.

  “Pierce! Don’t let Stanley do anything crazy. Stanley, call the police—Gunner will be heading south.”

  “What are you going to do?” Stanley said.

  “Get our girl back.”

  “Ride natty ride!” Pierce called out behind me.

  I sprinted toward the last of Gunner’s men mounting a dirt bike. He saw me coming and tried to gun the accelerator—the rear tire spun fast and slid hard to the left—

  I sprinted harder. He cut back to the right—I dove—

  We collided in midair. Both of us were knocked to the ground and the bike fell on me.

  My arm pressed against the exhaust pipe—hot!

  He lunged for me. I shoved the bike at the man and caught him on the side of the head with the gas tank. He tumbled.

  I climbed aboard and spun the accelerator down. The bike reared up on its back tire and the unintended wheelie lasted twenty feet until I switched gears.

  The front end slammed down as I gunned it, in pursuit of the small convoy.

  The truck swerved wildly to the right, then left—

  Gunner hung out of the passenger window, waving to his men on motorcycles ahead, then pointing back to where I was following. The biker on the right braked and reached into his jacket, then pulled out a gun and twisted around to his left.

  I accelerated toward him and cut to the opposite side. He tried to switch the gun to his other hand and turn to his right—

  I sped up, reached out, and grabbed his handlebar. I shoved it left—

  BOOM!

  He fired a shot as his motorcycle swerved hard into the woods—he overcorrected, his front wheel hit a rock, and he flew over the handlebars.

  Gunner waved at the other motorcycle. The driver shifted his attention toward me and swerved. I braked—

  BOOM!

  The shot from the motorcyclist was at near point blank range but whizzed past my head—had I not braked I’d be—

  BOOM!

  My tires screeched from locking the brakes, I continued dodging and weaving, then I accelerated up on his blind spot.

  He braked. I had to turn sharply—he pulled behind me—I braked hard.

  BOOM! BOOM!

  The motorcycle had been accelerating and had to swerve past me to avoid a crash, but his gun hand was on the other side. I accelerated up to his rear wheel. There was a curve ahead.

  He swung around and aimed his gun. I cut to the left. He craned back to aim again—I cut hard to the right. He flew off the road at the curve and disappeared in thick bushes.

  The truck was ahead. I downshifted and accelerated until I was nearly on the back bumper. Gunner hung out the side window, aiming his pistol as I veered to the other side. I saw Cuffee’s face reflected in the truck’s rearview mirror, accelerated, and glanced through his window at Nanny. She was struggling with Gunner.

  Dammit!

  Cuffee steered the truck toward me. I drove up onto the shoulder—branches slapped my body and face—then managed to cut back behind the truck. I saw movement in the bed.

  One of the men in back had opened the canvas flap. He held a goddamn machine gun. I cut back to the driver’s side—

  BAMBAMBAMBAM!

  They shot at me blindly through the side canvas. I accelerated in front of the truck.

  The black Land Rover was in front of us. Now Cuffee accelerated, forcing me forward—

  BOOM! BOOM!

  Gunner fired at me, the Land Rover braked, the truck accelerated. I cut to the right—

  I could see a series of sharp curves descending the steep hill ahead.

  BOOM-POP!

  Gunner’s shot had hit my front tire. Rubber flew apart. The motorcycle flipped through the air, and I sailed toward the bushes.

  I careened off thick plants that ripped at my skin before I crashed into a tree.

  Pain and the sense of burning surged through me, but a quick inventory revealed nothing broken.

  I was up, running down the center of the road—which turned hard to the right, the upper part of a switchback. The truck had just cut the corner back to the left and disappeared from sight below me.

  I ran as hard as I could straight into the woods to my left. Daylight sparkled through thick vegetation. I dodged trees—stickers tore at my arms—

  I skidded to a stop.

  A sheer cliff dropped off from the woods, the road thirty feet below. The truck was coming fast from the right. The Land Rover, well ahead of it, passed by me.

  Oh, crap. Thirty feet, aim for the canvas—

  I jumped. Landed on the back edge of the canvas top, slid to the right, and clung to the side.

  The truck swerved as Gunner opened the door and pointed his pistol at me.

  Click.

  His clip was empty. A snarl curled his lips. He yelled but I couldn’t hear what over the wind whipping past—we had to be going fifty miles per hour—

  BAMBAMBAMBAM!

  The machine gunner shot through the canvas top, missing me by inches. I pulled myself across the canvas until I was on top of the truck’s cab and grabbed hold.

  BAMBAMBAMBAM!

  Cuffee braked, flinging me forward. My hands caught the front of the truck’s cab. He hit the gas—I flopped backward.

  “Aaggh!”

  Nanny’s voice!

  Gunner’s door swung open. He stood up to face me, the huge knife in his right hand. The wind blew him around and his left hand clutched the canvas.

  “Let her go!” I said. “Take the fucking treasure, but let her—”

  “I’m tired of your shit, Reilly!”

  The wind whipped his blue-mirrored sunglasses off his head and I was momentarily distracted as they disappeared behind the truck. Both his eyes were bruised and the tape across his nose flapped in the fast air.

  Gunner jumped off the seat and landed on the canvas roof—his foot tore through the top. He glared at me, the knife still clutched in his hand. I kicked at his face, which he blocked with one arm, and swung the knife at me with the other.

  I glanced ahead and saw blue flashing lights down the hill coming toward us.

  Gunner’s beady black eyes squinted. He pressed his yellow square teeth together, balled his left fist, and lunged toward me. I ducked to the left, away from the knife, but he caught me around the shoulder with his free hand. I tried to spin but he pressed harder. I twisted toward him and bit his hand.

  A shriek was lost to the wind as he shook the hand. His eyes were black as a dead man’s heart, and this close I could see his pupils dilate.

  He raised the knife high. Just as his arm
launched forward I spun onto my side, nearly off the roof—and with a heart-stopping rip of material saw the knife buried up to the handle in the thick canvas roof. He pulled hard to withdraw it, and it came out halfway. Blue lights flashed in my peripheral vision. A final yank and the knife was clear. He raised it back up—I had no more roof left to negotiate.

  Just as his arm launched forward I rolled off the driver’s side of the truck, my feet landing on the running board. Cuffee shouted, then Gunner cocked his arm back again—

  “No!” I said.

  Cuffee grabbed me with his left arm around the back of my neck and slammed my head forward into the side of the door. I sensed Gunner getting in position above with the knife—

  “Buck!”

  The sound of sirens was suddenly loud. Our tires screeched—I was flung forward off the truck—bounced into the truck’s hood—Gunner flew forward—crashed into me.

  The screech of brakes cut my ear—

  He hit the asphalt first. The knife flew from his grip—I crashed onto his chest. We rolled over and over on the asphalt, which ripped at my exposed arms, legs. My shirt shredded as we rolled into the gravel on the side of the road.

  We came to a sudden stop, as did the truck just behind us.

  There was movement below me, a growl sounded. Gunner stood and I fell off him, face down in the dirt. He jumped to his feet.

  I heard tires screeching. My peripheral vision caught blue lights flashing. And then came a shrill whistle.

  “Stop right there!” a voice boomed. “Nobody move, and I mean nobody!”

  Still face down, I lifted my head. Three police cars and a van blocked the road. A swarm of blue pants rushed past me.

  “Everybody out of the truck!”

  Black combat boots stopped by my head. Legs in blue pants. A policeman bent down.

  “You alive?” he said.

  I coughed.

  “Anything broken?”

  I rolled onto my back, lifted my head, then dropped it down. Lifted each arm and leg. Every limb was bleeding from a scrape or road rash or both—I felt like a scaled fish.