Cash Cassidy Adventures: The Complete 5-Book Series (Plus Bonus Novels)

by K. T. Tomb

  As an answer the man with the rifle fired again. There was a scream behind her and she saw one of the American women who had come with them go down. She wanted to go over and check on her, but she saw the blood pooling between the woman's unmoving breasts. The shot must have hit her in the heart or aorta. There was no way she was still alive.

  “Identify yourselves!” the American shouted again. “Panama Border Patrol!”

  There was a rattle of rifle fire from the men around her and now someone shouted ahead.

  One of the Colombian men came to her side. He was one of the two men in the party who spoke English. “We've got to go east. The Venezuelan border is not as heavily guarded.”

  Cash nodded. She suddenly wished she had listened to Tim. It had been a stupid idea, and a dangerous one. And now she was in trouble.

  The men she was traveling with were in the business of producing cocaine and smuggling it to the United States. That was supposed to be her next novel, but now it was seriously in jeopardy. She cursed herself as a bullet hit the tree above her head. She wanted to scream, but she held her tongue. “Stay cool old girl,” she muttered to herself. “Damn yanks. Always shoot first, ask questions later.”

  The smugglers were running now, all heading toward her right. She took a deep breath and ran after them. She fell forward. Why, she did not know. She scrambled to her feet again and ran. She jumped a fallen tree and then ran. There was not much of a path, but she could see her companions running in the distance. She followed them.

  The other American woman fell down. Cash saw claret on her blouse. She stopped and helped the woman up, then helped her follow the others. Blood poured from the woman's shoulder onto Cash's green cotton shirt. It dropped onto the cutoff jeans she wore. But they kept running.

  Cash could barely keep her bearings. All she knew was to follow the others. The bullets kept flying all around her, but she knew the Panamanian border guards would not give chase. Unless they were CIA, then they would not care either way. Cash swore.

  The terrain started to climb again and she saw the men scramble up the hill. She hauled the American woman along and helped her up the slope. It seemed to take forever, and bullets were still flecking the ground, throwing up puffs of dirt and dead leaves. She kept wanting to scream, but she held it back. There was nothing to do but keep going.

  After a huge effort, she collapsed on the top of the hill. And then the shots stopped. The men around her cheered and the wounded woman laughed. “Made it.” she said. “Thank you. We made it.”

  “Made it bloody where?” Cash asked in one breath, not moving from her spot on the ground.

  “Escaped of course.”

  Once they had all recovered their senses, they kept going east. They would make another dash for the border soon. They set up camp by a river that evening. Once Cash had her hammock and tarp up, the first thing she did was find the river. The water seemed clear and she checked with one of the men to determine whether there might be anything nasty in the water. There wasn’t, he said. So Cash stripped her clothes off and jumped in. She did not mind being dirty, but she needed to wash the crusted blood off her body and her clothes. She had some spare clothes, but these clothes she had been wearing would need washing anyway. So she spent the next hour doing that, then she went back to the camp in just her pants, hoping there would be some food, after which she would climb into her hammock and sleep.

  But she was in for a nasty surprise.

  There was no camp. She had left the others while they cleared the ground, spanned tarps and put up hammocks, but there was no sign of them now. Her own backpack was on the deck, the side pocket open. She rushed over and dropped to her knees, dropping her wet clothes on the ground. “No, no, no.” she repeated as she searched through the side pocket of her bag. There were only two things missing from the pocket. The Jordan book and her passport. “Fuck.” she swore. “Bloody fucking pieces of shit.” She buried her head in her hands and sighed.

  Nothing else was missing. No equipment, nothing. Her compass was there, as was her map. Just her passport. But that was a big problem. Australian passports were valuable to criminal gangs, but it was even more valuable to Australian citizens in areas like this. There was no way she could cross into Panama without it. And she could not go back to Bogotá; she suddenly realized that. She knew too much; that is why they had left her here. She would be lucky if they did not come and finish her off in the night. That ruled out getting a new passport from the consulate there, if they could even issue her one there. They probably had to send to Santiago de Chilé for that. There were only three Australian embassies in the whole of South America: Brasilia, Santiago and Buenos Aires. She would never make it to any of those three.

  But Cash's mind was always one of clear thought, and she made her plan in a few seconds. The British consulate in Maracaibo or the British embassy in Caracas were her best options. And if they would not help her, she would find a boat to Aruba or Curaçao. The moment she got there, she would be in the CARICOM region. If she got any help there, she could get some help to get to Trinidad and the Australian embassy there.

  Cash rubbed her forehead and checked her bag for some food. There was a salami in her bag, some rice and some dried fruit and vegetables she had taken with her as emergency rations. She ran down to the water and collected some, using her purifier and her kettle can. She set about making a fire, hanging the kettle can over it using a forked branch and a rock. Then, before the sun set completely, she began gathering more firewood. She crouched down by the fire, suddenly feeling very cold as the last of the sunlight disappeared. She rubbed her shoulders to warm them and suddenly realized her arms were moving her breasts more than they should. She looked down and saw she was still only dressed in her knickers. It made her laugh, despite everything. Perhaps she should dress like this the next time she was on a camping trip with Tim, she thought. It would certainly not go unappreciated.

  She took her dry evening clothes from her bag and dressed, then picked up her day clothes and hung them up under the cover of her tarp.

  The meal was not great, but it was nourishing. She left half of it in the kettle for her breakfast and then got into her hammock, hanging her boots from the straps of her hammock. She did not sleep; rather, she napped. Dozing and waking up again, always on her qui vive, waiting for a shot to ring out, or for someone to reach under her mosquito net and slit her throat. But when the sun rose over the trees, nothing of the sort had happened.

  Still half-asleep, Cash packed up her camp and relit the fire to warm her breakfast. She ate, still trying to keep her eyes from shutting, but once she splashed some water over her face, she was awake enough to try and find her way. She topped up her water bottles and set off. She navigated on her compass, heading southeast. That was all she knew, south east and then east.

  That night she set some traps, hoping that in the morning she would be able to supplement her diet a bit in that way. It worked and she was able to keep going. In fact she kept walking for four days, covering as much ground as she could. On day five, Cash reached a town and she got a lift on a lorry. At an intersection some hundred miles further she got out and was surprised to find another lorry driver who wanted to give her a lift. Catching rides with lorries, busses and even a truckload of people who looked suspiciously like they might belong to the FARC, she managed to get within ten miles of the Venezuelan border. She set up her camp in the woods that night and continued on in the morning.

  She knew she could not take the road without her passport, so she had to find a way through the woods and she thanked her lucky stars, or God or the universe, that her uncle had spent many a day and night teaching her about navigation on the plains and in the forest of South Australia. Maybe it was him she needed to thank, Cash thought as she lay in her hammock.

  Then, in the early light of the dawn, she made her dash for the border.

  Chapter Two

  “Between 1536 and 1541, the Spanish sent out five major expeditio
ns in search of El Dorado. After the journeys proved fruitless, the Spanish became certain that El Dorado must lie in the northern part of the continent into which they had not yet ventured—the jungle basin between the Orinoco and Amazon rivers.

  “Meanwhile, another mysterious appearance of a man who spoke of a city of gold he called "Manoa" only fueled their desire. His name was Juan Martinez, and he had been a munitions master on board a Spanish ship exploring the Caroni River that branched off from the Orinoco at San Thome. His group headed deeper into the jungle, but the journey was aborted when its gunpowder stores exploded. Martinez was left behind in an open canoe as punishment for the accident.

  “He claimed to have met friendly Indians, who blindfolded him for days and led him to their kingdom, called Manoa, where everything in the royal palace was made of gold. Martinez said that riches had been given to him as a departing gift, but they had been stolen by Indians on his way back.”

  —Gale Encyclopedia of the Unusual and Unexplained | 2003

  Cash Cassidy swore violently when she heard the noise in the center of Maracaibo. It had taken her another two days to get from the border to the second city of Venezuela in the hope the British consulate might be able to help her get home. But the loud noises presaged her imminent disappointment in that matter. She screamed in frustration as she saw the flames of fires, heard the shouting and screaming above the sound of sirens and explosions.

  Since the death of Hugo Chavez, the country had been in chaos. The happiest and most healthy population in South America had begun voicing their discontent with the government and some elements in the society had accused Chavez's successor, Maduro, of having won the elections by fraud. Since then the riotous protests had rolled on and on. And just now, when she needed it to be quiet, they were at it again.

  For an hour, Cash tried getting into the center of the city, but it was hopeless. She had not been afraid to join a gang of cocaine producers and smugglers in their activities. She was hardly ever afraid. Or maybe she was just very good at telling herself she was not. But Cash knew going into Maracaibo while there were riots was folly.

  The trouble was, of course, that she did not know when the riots would end. It could be done today, or it could be another week.

  Cash walked along the road and found a farm on a hill overlooking the city. From the hill, the explosions and fires in Maracaibo were clearly visible.

  The farmer was gone, but his wife and daughter were still at home. In her imperfect Spanish, Cash asked them about the riots. The wife answered, but spoke so rapidly that Cash could not understand any of it. The daughter had passable English though, and she explained it was the second day now. But even between the riots, it was incredibly dangerous in the city for a woman on her own. Because of the troubles, armed gangs now roamed the streets. She shook her head and told Cash some of them spoke English and had guns, but others spoke Spanish. Quite a few of them robbed and killed, even when there was no riot. Cash swore again at that news.

  The young woman invited her to stay there for the night. It was not right for anyone to be out alone anywhere near the city during these times. Especially not unarmed.

  As an answer, Cash laid her hand on her sheathed machete, but the woman smiled and Cash knew it was a weak answer too. A machete and a knife were no defense against the assault rifles some of these people carried.

  That night, Cash stood out on the veranda of the farm house. She looked over the fires in the city and wondered how it had ever come to this here. When she first came to South America many years ago, only Venezuela seemed to not have succumbed to violence and dictatorship, yet here were the signs of chaos all around. The daughter came out to stand beside her.

  “So what are you going to do now?” the young woman asked. “Going to Caracas?”

  Cash had thought about it, but she had decided against it. If Caracas was like this, it would be a wasted journey. “Think I'll go to the coast and find a boat. Should be possible to find someone sailing to Aruba.”

  The daughter nodded. “My boyfriend's cousin lives down there.” She pointed to the headland north of Maracaibo, still several miles inside the bay. “He sails to Aruba to sell fresh fruit every other day.”

  “Really?” Cash smiled, quietly very relieved. It might not turn out to be as hard as she thought to find passage to the island.

  The daughter nodded. “He might let you come along. He's very kind.”

  “That'd be nice. And on the matter of kindness, you're rather kind too.”

  That brought a smile to the face beside her. “We just try to help.”

  Cash nodded to the window of the guest room that had been prepared for her. “It means a lot to me that I can stay in a good bed in a nice house for the night. My hammock is perfectly comfortable, but to have company when there's this crap happening on the doorstep is great help indeed.”

  The girl nodded. “How did you come to lose your passport anyway?”

  “Stolen from me,” Cash answered with a wry smile. “Now I just have to try and sort it out.”

  She nodded again. “But not tonight.”

  Cash shook her head. “Not tonight.”

  The girl smelled something on the air that drifted from the house. “Not tonight; tonight you are our guest and my mother has dinner ready.”

  The food was delicious and the bed was soft and comfortable. For the first time in weeks, Cash slept properly. She felt at ease, despite the noise in the city at the bottom of the hill. When she woke in the morning, she felt properly rested for the first time in a long time. It had been the first time she had slept a night without being plagued by the worries of being followed, or being discovered by rebels or border patrols. It had not been the waking she did naturally when out in the jungle, but it was the uncertainty that had stopped her from resting well. But that morning she woke well-rested and, of course, hungry.

  The lady of the house had prepared a decent breakfast, and she gave Cash some fresh tortilla flat breads and vegetables and beans for on the road. After helping with the morning chores, Cash left, walking down the hill and toward the seaside. She waved goodbye to the two women and then turned a corner in the road and was on her own again.

  She stopped again at nightfall, finding a clump of trees to make her camp, and then she was on the march at dawn. Several hours later, she was in a village at the head of the bay. A fisherman offered to bring her to the other side and she gratefully took the offer, sailing on the little boat to the other side of the water. The fisherman even sailed on a bit, setting course for a little village on the beach. There would be people there who would sail for Aruba.

  There were, too. She was incredibly lucky again, Cash thought. From the boat, they could see a convoy of little boats heading out to sea. When they got closer, Cash could see they were laden full with produce, fruit and vegetables, pigs, chickens and even an ox. The fisherman turned the engine open to the fullest and waved and shouted to the convoy. One of the boats of the convoy slowed down and headed toward them. It seemed the skipper recognized the fisherman and his boat. When the boats met, they chatted for a moment and the merchant gestured to Cash to come aboard.

  It was perilous. Cash threw her bag over into the boat first and then jumped. She barely made it. Her shin jarred on the gunwale and she swore. The skipper was laughing. She looked down and saw a big purple bruise already appearing on her leg. She swore again as she felt the pain rushing through her leg. But she was on the boat, and she was going to Aruba.

  It had been a short journey over a calm sea to Aruba and Cash's first stop was going to be the British consulate, which she assumed would be on the island. But when she asked around, she found there was no consulate or embassy. The one responsible for Aruba would be in Amsterdam. So Cash was reduced to bumming a lift off someone again. This time to Curaçao. She reached that island close to sundown, and finally she was able to find someone who could help her in her present predicament.

  As an Australian national, the Britis
h embassy in Willemstad could not help her directly, but after she flew into a rage and banged her fist on the desk a few times, they began to do something anyway. They checked and found she was a British resident and as such, they contacted the Australian consulate on Trinidad and issued her temporary papers, which she could use to travel within the CARICOM area. They also put her up in one of the local tourist hotels, which she was rather pleased about. At least she would get two meals a day and a half decent bed to sleep in, rather than having to sleep out on a crowded island. With no money, she could not have afforded it.

  It still left her wondering how on earth she was ever going to get to Trinidad to pick up her passport, but when she left the embassy, she decided that was a later concern. She had found a way to Willemstad, so there had to be a way to get there too if she had to. But right now, she was going to enjoy a hot shower, a full meal, at the expense of the Commonwealth, and the beautiful city of Willemstad.

  She had a huge plate of pasta in the hotel's restaurant, then went up to her room and lay down on the bed. For the first time in weeks she turned on her phone. She had checked her messages in Bogotá, not replying to Tim's messages or to those of her agent, then had taken the battery out when she left that city. She had not wanted anyone tracking her, and she did not want to be bothered with Tim's worries about her. But now she turned the thing back on. She also grabbed her laptop and logged onto the hotel network. There were dozens of messages for her, mainly from Tim, who was worried about her. She deleted those without even looking at them or listening to them. One message from her agent stated she would lose her contract if she did something incredibly stupid that would bring the publisher into disrepute, but she deleted that too.

  She found a film and lay back on the bed, the duvet pulled over herself. She dozed off like that.

  In the morning, she found a big breakfast buffet downstairs and after eating returned to her room and showered. When she was done she went outside. The bright colors of the houses of Willemstad made for a jolly scene and she heard several languages being spoken. She knew the traders from Venezuela from their speaking of Spanish. The locals seemed to speak their own Creole language, which she knew from vague memory to be called Papiamento, but many on the streets spoke Dutch and English too.