Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham

right, where a dark mountain thrust up high above the others around it. The peak wasn’t close, even though its presence dominated the horizon.
    “Are there trails from the Rio Grande that lead to it?” I said.
    “Several, but only a couple go all the way to the mountain.”
    “Would Njoni, if it was him, have abandoned the river and headed toward the mountain, or continued on to Moore Town?”
    “Hard to say, but climbing is very rough going from here. While the climb is still significant from Moore Town, it’s an easier course.”
    If what Nanny said was accurate, they might have paddled all the way to Moore Town and hiked up the mountain from there rather than disembark here. Either way, my paddling up the river now helped me envision what Njoni and presumably others had seen and possibly done.
    I studied the foothills that led to Blue Mountain. Maybe they didn’t climb the peak at all—maybe they just used it, and the flash the notes referred to, as a reference point. Nanny deduced this to mean a flash on the mountain, but that seemed odd to me. Could it mean from atop the mountain instead?
    From a distance came the sound of an outboard motor. We hadn’t seen any boats since turning into the current toward Moore Town, but there had been several underpowered rental boats circling around when we reached the Rio Grande. The deeper rumble coming up behind us sounded like the larger, more powerful boats I heard in Key West Harbor that raced out to grab anchored buoys and fish for tarpon.
    When the engine sound became a roar, a flat-bottomed skiff rounded the corner of the curve we’d just navigated.
    We were in a fairly narrow section of river. I glanced back and lifted the pole to make sure the driver saw us. All I could see of him was the top of his head—black hair—over the center console. The banks of the river here were the closest of any place we’d passed yet but opened up in another fifty yards—and he was hauling ass, carving his way from side to side like a slalom skier.
    The boat swerved toward us, now fifty feet away—I swung the pole high.
    “Hey! Watch out!”
    “What’s happening, Buck?”
    “Get down!”
    If he didn’t change course in seconds—
    “Buck!”
    “Jump!”
    Just as I yelled and leapt to the opposite side from the boat’s path, the driver changed course. As I splashed into dark water I caught a glimpse of a dreadlocked male driver in dark glasses who never, ever reduced speed.
    “Bastard!” I yelled as the speedboat disappeared around the next bend. Then I pulled myself back up on the raft.
    To my surprise, Nanny was lying on her back, hanging onto both sides, the plastic bag with the case of archives inside it clenched in her teeth. The raft lifted up and crashed down hard in the wake of the damn powerboat.
    “You okay?” I said.
    “Just great.”
    With the bag still between her teeth, her voice was a hiss, which even in the wake of nearly getting killed made me laugh out loud. She rolled to her side, spit the bag onto the deck and started laughing herself. We were both totally soaked, my T-shirt plastered to me like a thick layer of skin. She edged up on her elbows, and the way her wet white shirt clung to the curve of her breasts inspired another James Bond moment: I pictured opening credits with silhouetted beauties swimming or dancing.
    As if reading my mind, she sat up and peeled her shirt over her head, revealing a frilly, full bra.
    “No sense in wearing wet clothing.” Her gaze hung on me, and as if on signal, I peeled my shirt off. She allowed her eyes a quick glance at my abs, recently enhanced through frequent swimming and SUP boarding, then spun to face forward and draped her wet shirt over her knees.
    “Now mush, Reilly, we have an appointment.”
    I stood, the bamboo pole again in my hand. I was in front of her, so she couldn’t see my smile.
    “Yes, my queen.”

A vision of Cuffee, the leeward maroon from yesterday, filled my mind as I pushed the