Maroon Rising (32 page)

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.

T
he 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!”

S
till 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.

“No,” I said.

“Get up.” The officer gave me a gentle nudge with his boot.

“Buck!”

Nanny’s voice. And she was running over.

“Hold it, miss!”

Nanny ignored him, bent down, and hovered over me.

“Are you … okay? You look …”

“A little scratched and dented, but—”

“This is private property!” Gunner, shouting from a distance.

A loud shuffling sound, closer.

“Whoa! Get away from those weapons, all of you—arms in the air!”

The clatter of metal landing hard on tarmac—guns, I assumed.

“Out of the back, everyone. Now!”

A loud crash—the tailgate falling open.

I slowly got to my feet, only to find a dark-skinned police officer pointing a Glock 9mm at me.

I held my hands up. He waved his gun toward the truck.

“Hands on the hood. You too, miss!”

He frisked me—gingerly, but it still hurt like hell. Then he moved to Nanny.

“I’m a professor with the University of the West Indies! These men robbed us—”

“Step to the back of the truck,” the officer said.

We joined Cuffee and two other men. All three had their hands up.

“What the hell is all this?” One of the policemen was peering inside the bed of the truck. “You rob a museum, or what?”

“Those are ancient Maroon antiquities these men stole when they attacked us!” Nanny said.

“That’s bullshit!” Gunner said.

“My relatives buried all this hundreds of years ago!” Cuffee said, his voice booming with authority.

I just focused on breathing. My skin felt as if I’d been put through a meat grinder.

“Officer, thank God you came when you did,” Gunner said. “My name is Richard Rostenkowski, and my company, SCG International, was awarded the contract to restore part of Port Royal. We also have a claim against anything belonging to Captain Morgan.”

The officer, who by his demeanor was clearly in charge, put both hands on his hips.

“The rum company?”

Gunner forced a smile. “The former lieutenant governor of Jamaica back in the late 1600s.”

“I am Professor Nanny Adou from the University of the West Indies.” Nanny stepped forward with fire in her eyes. “This man is a thief, a liar, and he kidnapped me! He’s a thug, not an archaeologist—”

“What about you there?” The officer pointed to me, leaning against the truck behind Nanny. “Who are you, Indiana Jones?” He cracked a smile and all his men snickered.