Maroon Rising (15 page)

I pulled her into my arms. The warmth of her skin encouraged me to press her body against mine—with predictable effects.

Waves rocked us to and fro and we wound up rolling slowly across the surf-swept beach, moonlight reflecting off our wet skin, her chest lifting quickly with each breath as we kissed and allowed our fingers to explore one another, stroking, kneading, clutching.

A slight shriek escaped her parted lips, the sound lost on the breeze but not on me as I held her tight, thrusting, rocking her beneath the water, my shudders matching hers, until we both let our limbs fall flat and we drifted into the shallow water that lapped at our spent bodies. After a moment, when a larger wave lifted us for a second or two, she rolled on top of me and buried her face in my neck. I shivered.

“Apology accepted?”

“Almost,” I said.

Her laugh carried through the stone cavern around the beach.

I was gradually awakened by the sound of waves beating on the beach. The same beach in the framed black and white photograph on the wall of Ian Fleming in dark trousers and a white shirt with a woman behind him holding a rake. The same beach where Nanny and I had walked into the surf and made love last night.

Dawn had just broken, and the sky through the open curtains was a swirl of pinks and oranges. Nanny was spooning me, and the warmth between our bodies was incendiary. Her arm being draped over me, I studied her hand—fingers long and graceful, nails smooth without polish, skin brown against my tanned chest. The empty champagne bottle sat on the nightstand, one flute half full and the other lying on its side.

After our moonlight swim we’d beat a sandy return to Mr. Fleming’s former villa, where a hot shower led to a complete and thorough atonement. After which Nanny had promised there would be no more half-truths or omissions—all known facts would be in the open. While tempered by my usual paranoia, I believed she had been sincere.

The digital clock surprised me—I was supposed to meet Ray in ten minutes. I started to roll toward the side of the bed. Nanny flinched, then wrapped her arm tight around my chest.

“Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Reilly?” Her low, half-asleep voice was incredibly sexy.

I rolled back to face her. Our lips brushed—I felt my whiskers rub against her cheek. She didn’t complain.

“Ray’s waiting in the restaurant,” I said.

She let out a short breath, her eyes wide for a moment, then half lidded.

“Can you be a little late?”

I lowered my lips to her cheek, then down to her throat.

“I can be a
lot
late.”

My lips continued down to the darker brown circle of her areola and nipple, which tightened at the touch of my tongue.

Sorry, Ray.

B
reakfast was hurried, and while Ray didn’t ask why I was late he grunted and mumbled something about me and women. As for me? Once Nanny shared that the colonel had been responsible for her holding out on me and we viewed the missing pages, my evening with her had been beyond words, not a single one of which I was going to share with anybody.

My cell phone rang—Johnny.

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Like clockwork, mon. What else you expect from Johnny Blake?”

“That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

“Very funny, Mr. Buck. But yes, I do hope to get the big bucks you mention, and if this charade helps make them happen, I will perform like Denzel Washington for you.”

“You have the boats?”

“A fishing boat with salon—very nice old Viking. A work barge with enclosed bridge, two center console fishing boats, and a small tugboat for the barge. All fueled up, captains at the helm, just need your word to proceed.”

Ray’s eyebrows lifted at the smile on my face.

“Then go ahead and have your JNHT contact alert his counterpart on Dodson’s crew. Once that’s done, proceed with caution.” I remembered the bullet holes in the Beast’s wing—crap! Ray hadn’t seen them yet. “Just be careful, Johnny. These guys are very protective of their turf.”

“Well, they not found shit, so maybe not so worried anymore.” He laughed and I could almost see his bright smile at the other end of the line.

“And make sure to alert the Coast Guard station there at Port Royal, too. Don’t need them firing practice rounds toward our boats—we do have insurance, right?”

Johnny confirmed he’d paid extra for insurance and we disconnected.

Ray shook his head. “Even you have to admit this is one of your crazier schemes, Buck.”

“If it works, it’ll be great. If not, we’ll still be a burr under their saddle.” An expensive burr, to say the least. Harry Greenbaum would definitely not be happy if that turned out to be the case, which reminded me that I really needed to update him on our progress. I winced. I’d been hoping to have more news of tangible progress.

McGyver, Chris Blackwell’s friend and driver, got us in ten minutes to Ian Fleming Airport, where the Beast was tied down. A big, friendly man, he laughed when I asked if his real name was McGyver.

“Plenty rock stars call me McGyver, so you can too.” His smile was so infectious it gave me confidence that the day—this trip—might actually work out.

Once inside the barbed wire compound, I suggested that Ray go do the preflight inspection of the Beast while I filed the flight plan.

“Aren’t we just going to Kingston?”

“Water landing, Ray? Let’s not get shot at like Buffett did.”

“Oh yeah. ‘Jamaica Mistaica.’” He scowled. “Is this going to be—”

“That’s why I’m filing the flight plan. It’ll all be fine, don’t worry.”

He headed off for the Beast while I went into the pilot’s lounge. I looked at my area chart, pulled out one that covered a broader territory, used the computer to check weather, scratched some notes. I peeked in on the airport manager and told him what I had planned. He wasn’t happy—in fact he tried hard to discourage me—but in the end he sighed and said he’d make the necessary phone calls.

With my flight bag over my shoulder I left the terminal and walked to the Beast. Ray was scurrying around, making animated gestures at the wing. I took in a deep breath. It was a miracle Ray Floyd was still my friend after all I’d put him through, but I was convinced he secretly enjoyed the fly-by-the-edge-of-our-seat trips he sometimes took with me—not that he’d ever admit it.

“These
are
bullet holes!” He glared at me. “You said they weren’t!”

“I said I wasn’t sure—”

“How can you not be sure? Either someone shot at you or they didn’t.”

“Jack Dodson thought I was there to poach his dive site—”

“Which is exactly what he’ll think again with your mini-flotilla heading out there!”

“Which is why I filed our flight plan coming in from the west. We’ll land nearly a quarter mile away from them, Ray. Relax, I’ve got it all figured.”

Ray turned away and continued to apply the patching material to the wing. Although it was temporary, it would keep out water, which could lead to corrosion—or worse, throw off our center of gravity.

“Got it all figured, my ass.” He’d muttered it to himself, but I heard it.

I ignored him and climbed inside the open hatch.

“Hello, girl,” I said. “Ready for some fun?”

Once Ray was aboard, we completed the preflight check, then cranked up the ancient twin Pratt & Whitney 450 horsepower Wasp Junior engines. I checked the elevator trim tabs, the rudder, and the wing flaps—no warning lights lit. Satisfied, we taxied out to the end of the runway. I pressed the throttles forward and we hurtled ahead to the east. Once airborne we continued east and climbed to seven thousand feet.

“Don’t we need to vector south?” Ray pointed his thumb back over his shoulder. “Kingston’s back that way.”

“Yeah, but first we’re going further east.”

I pressed my lips together to stop a smile.

I could hear Ray breathing heavily inside my headset. The eastern tip of Jamaica appeared ahead of us.

“How much further east?”

I cleared my throat. “Two hundred and four miles, to be exact.”

“Fucking Haiti?
You said we weren’t going to Haiti!
You know I don’t do voodoo, Buck—”

“Calm down, will you? We’re not going to Haiti, we’re going to—”

“Isla Vaca, which is in Haitian waters, so yes, we are going to Haiti.”

“I’m not planning to land.”

“
Unless
?”

“Well, if we see something of interest—”

“Interest? Like what?”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out another sketch—this one from memory—of the petroglyphs I’d seen up above the shelf on the rock wall at the crossroads, and handed it to Ray.

“Looks like someone drew the Olympic symbol when they were drunk.”

“That may be related to Morgan’s hidden treasure, missing since his death in 1688.”

“What are these, crop circles? Did aliens hide Morgan’s treasure?” Ray was studying the drawings.

“Maroons
were
aliens back in those days. They certainly didn’t want to be here. But that petroglyph was probably carved by Taino Indians long before, so I’m not sure of the connection or significance. That’s why this is just an aerial research trip.”

We closed the distance in forty minutes. I alerted Air Traffic Control that we’d be flying low altitude over Isla Vaca and held my breath.

Permission was granted. I exhaled and mentally thanked the airport manager back at Ian Fleming.

We flew low with the banana-shaped island on our port side. As I studied the landscape I explained that this was where Henry Morgan used to have all his privateers gather before they commenced one of his strategically planned invasions. I’d slowed the plane to 125 knots, but on my first pass only saw a high peak, a large pond, some nice beaches, resorts, and a lot of flat area covered with mangroves.

When I flew back around and Ray studied the island from the starboard side, he noted some large boulders and cliffs above a beach.

“Those big rocks could sort of replicate these circles,” he said. “But I don’t know.”

Good point. But if Morgan had buried his booty under large rocks, he’d had a
lot
of help. I flew back around so I could see what Ray had described. There was a beautiful deserted beach that led straight to a massive rock cliff with five large boulders at its base, right on the water’s edge. From the aerial perspective, it was the only thing we’d seen with any resemblance to the petroglyph.

“How’s the water look?”

“Shallow—look how light blue it is,” Ray said.

“And consistent, so it must be sandy.”

He sighed. “You’re landing, aren’t you.”

I vectored directly south a few miles, then banked back around. Ray went through the water-landing checklist as I reduced power, and about a half mile out I settled the Beast into the light chop. Water splashed in all directions as we continued toward the white beach ahead, and within minutes we felt the sensation of the plane’s bow settling onto the sand. I added thrust to get us up a little further, then cut the engines. Ray hopped out the front hatch and started setting anchors.

I climbed through the back hatch and jumped into the water, which soaked my shorts and orange fishing shirt. The short slog through the warm water led me to the beach, where Ray stood with his hands on his hips.

“Let’s make this quick,” he said.

“Unless we find something.”

We walked to the end of the beach and searched for signs of—well, anything.

A distant rumble sounded overhead. Ray heard it the same time I did.

“Police?” he said. “Already? There an airport on this island?”

“No, that sounds like …”

My stomach sank. “Ray, hide in those bushes—quick!”

He scurried into some scrubby brush and I walked down to where the beach and rock wall met the water.

A plane flew low, just over the waterline—the roar of the twin engines made me cover my ears. The plane banked hard to the south, and all I could see was the dove-gray of her belly and the floats that hung from under each wing.

“Hi, Betty,” I said.

She circled back around, even lower this time, and I caught a flash of Gunner giving me the finger from the starboard window. Jack must be at the helm.

Was Heather on board? I didn’t see any other faces as they blew by.

“Breaks my heart to see you with those assholes, girl.” I sighed. “I meant that for you, Betty, not Heather.”

They continued east and I heard her change course and turn back around to the west. They didn’t buzz me again, no doubt satisfied they knew where I was. They were clearly focused on my efforts at this point, having dug up nothing of value at Port Royal.

But how did they know we were here?

Had they seen my boats yet?

Would that blow their minds?

Hopefully.

Ray rejoined me and we silently resumed our search—he knew better than to mention Betty’s name.

When we reached the colossal boulders, I used my mask, snorkel and fins to check the waterline along them but found nothing—no underwater caves or anything that appeared to be man-made. I’d need a magnetometer to detect whether or not there was any gold or silver here, but my gut said there wasn’t. Given that this was the only thing we’d spotted on the tiny island that resembled the petroglyph drawing, and since Morgan’s diary hinted at treasure off-loaded near the Rio Grande, I concluded there was nothing of value here. But the process of elimination in itself was valuable.