Free Piranha Assignment by Austin Camacho Page A

their luggage and a big trunk into a topless Land Rover he had reserved. They drove to their hotel room where they showered and changed. Twenty minutes after their arrival they were on the road again, driving northeast out of Panama City.
    Felicity’s travel clothes were replaced by a military styled khaki jumpsuit, designed to breathe with her. She would be comfortable, but her outfit still said all business. Morgan wore a similar set of khakis, with a safari jacket to cover his double shoulder rig.
    â€œYou’re sure you know where you’re going?” Felicity asked, grateful for the warm wind blowing her hair backand drying the perspiration on her face.
    â€œI checked the map thoroughly,” Morgan said. “Don’t you trust me?” Of course she did. Morgan’s infallible sense of direction, combined with his judgment of distances, meant he could load a map into his head, and follow himself on it with unbelievable accuracy. It may well be impossible for Morgan to get lost, Felicity thought.
    Morgan was familiar with this part of the world from past adventures, but Felicity stared around like any tourist. She was surprised that Panama City felt so much like an American city in the Southwest. Downtown looked like any downtown. She saw the usual high rise office buildings, hotels, nightclub, and bars. A huge bridge loomed in the background, which Morgan called the Thatcher Ferry. It crossed the canal, whose waters were too blue to be a river, but too clear to be ocean water.
    Most of all, it was the people that held her attention. They seemed to her a beautiful group, more homogeneous than anywhere she had been. Yes, she saw blacks and whites and Indians, but each seemed a small minority. At least two out of three people she saw were some charming blend.
    â€œI’ve seen mulattos, people of both white and black background, in France,” she commented to Morgan, “but not nearly in these numbers. And I’ll admit I’m surprised so many people here have a mix of white and Indian blood.”
    â€œMestizos,” Morgan said, weaving through traffic. “To tell the truth, that’s one of the reasons I like Central and South America so much. No prejudice problem here. For generations, these people have solved their racial conflicts the best way. In bed.”
    Felicity knew the canal had made Panama the crossroads of the world, and as expected, she couldn’t imagine a more bustling place than Panama City. She saw every late modelcar, and streets clogged with tourists. Foreign businessmen were in evidence, and a good number of Americans mixed in with the natives. She had to wonder how much the city had changed since losing its American military presence. She knew that people from other countries, like Colombia, fled to Panama to avoid violence. The government was stable since the U.S. forces departed, but like most places there was crime and violence, mostly related to drug trafficking.
    As they drove away from the canal area the city faded, replaced by more rural areas. The human mix slipped dramatically to the Indians. Everyone she saw exhibited the straight black hair, high cheekbones and reddish brown skin of the people who lived there before the Americans, before the Spaniards, before “civilization” destroyed their long history.
    At the small city of Chepo, Morgan turned north, toward the Atlantic Ocean. They drove through thick forests. People they saw were tending coconuts or sugar cane or the bananas Morgan had told her were Panama’s major cash crop. As they drove down from the central highlands, agriculture became more evident, and roads became narrower. Still, Morgan kept on unerringly to the north. He drove with a big smile, whistling some Spanish tune she didn’t know.
    â€œYou sure look happy,” Felicity said.
    Morgan looked around at the overgrown road and tropical vegetation. “Well, I’m home.”
    After a little more