Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham Read Free Book Online

produced a sweat bloom in my armpits. I was driving blindly into a village with a history of barbaric assaults on opposition. If somebody decided I was the enemy, I was well and truly screwed. On the other hand, if they wanted to work with me, it would significantly enhance my position and prospects in Jamaica.
    We drove slowly up the dirt road past a group of men I guessed to be in their twenties. When they spotted me their expressions turned hard. One noticed Nanny. His eyes opened wide and he elbowed his friend as we drove past.
    “Anything I should know about Colonel Grandy or the people of Moore Town before we get there?” I said.
    Nanny gave me a long glance before offering a small smile.
    “They don’t trust strangers here. And the colonel is old, prefers to speak in Ashanti. He’ll speak English for you and will seem charming, but he’ll be judging your every word and movement.”
    I swallowed. “He asked to see me —”
    “But he knows you’re a treasure hunter, so he’ll expect the worst.” She looked away as she said that last part. I suddenly felt as if the dirt kicked up by our tires had coated my skin.
    Or maybe I just felt dirty from the inside out.
    We rounded the corner and the small village came into view. Houses were spread around the hills in a haphazard fashion. I spotted a flagpole surrounded by a fence, then a small blue building with an image of a woman’s face painted on one side, the same face from the $500 bill. A landscape of the valley was painted on the other side. I glanced from the painted face to Nanny and back. She smiled. I saw no resemblance other than the notable glint in her eyes.
    “The house in the middle there, with the red roof, is where we’re going. Park down in the square.”
    Now came the familiar adrenaline rush, that buzz I always got when closing in on a lead.
    I turned the Jeep off and Nanny looked hard into my eyes.
    “Don’t screw this up, Buck Reilly.”

I nside the house it was dark and smelled of smoke and boiling vegetables. The living room was neat, with sturdy, well-used furniture. There were paintings and photos on the walls, images from the countryside and what I presumed to be family.
    Nanny called out in a dialect I couldn’t follow—whether it was an announcement or a familiar greeting, I wasn’t sure.
    “Back here,” a male voice said in English.
    We turned a corner into a kitchen, void of contemporary conveniences but suited to the needs of the local lifestyle and cuisine. The colonel’s eyes lit when he saw Nanny only to narrow at the sight of me behind her. He brushed his palms down his blue denim shirt and stepped forward.
    “Colonel Grandy, meet Buck Reilly from e-Antiquity.”
    I extended my hand. “Actually, my company is now called Last Resort Charter and Salvage.”
    He shrugged. “Sounds desperate.”
    The colonel didn’t fit what I’d expected. Short hair, lighter skinned, wearing a brown baseball hat and a scruffy week’s worth of stubble. I wasn’t sure of his age, given his slight frame, but he could be anywhere from his late fifties to early seventies. He was tall, too. I’d made a fortune reading people back in the heyday of e-Antiquity, and I didn’t need Nanny’s description to peg the colonel as distrustful and wary.
    I reminded myself that he’d contacted me, not the other way around.
    “You offered 75 percent of anything you recovered at Port Royal to the museum,” he said.
    “Excuse me?” I said.
    “Your offer to dig up Port Royal. It included 75 percent of anything of value you found for the museum. You forget already?”
    “That was a sealed bid.”
    “Ha! You funny, Buck Reilly. This is Jamaica, not Washington, D.C. We know things here. And your bid wasn’t enough.”
    I bit my lip, unsure how to respond.
    “And what did SCG International offer?”
    He laughed and I saw he was missing a few of his molars.
    “They offer 50 percent to the government—”
    “What!”
    He smiled and glanced at