“Clyde? Oh, dis one a few years.” She ran a wet rag down the length of the bar. “De owner has had many, all named Clyde. You know, from de Clint Eastwood movie.”
“That was an orangutan,” I said.
With an eye roll, she said, “I know.” She headed for the beer cooler, but made an abrupt turn, headed back toward me and quickly started restocking the plastic cups. A tico in his fifties, his dark hair slicked back, entered the bar area carrying a black satchel. He reminded me of an old, washed up Hispanic version of Vinnie Babarino.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
She kept her head down. “Oh, dat Carlos. He de owner.”
Carlos grabbed handfuls of bills from the cash register and stuffed them into the satchel. He called Isabella over to him. Her shoulders turned inward and, with her eyes downcast, she obeyed. He whispered something to her and glanced around the bar. I turned to the side and tipped up my beer so he couldn’t see my face. Then he was gone.
Isabella returned to the bar. “Another?” she asked.
I shook my head. “He looked familiar. I think he’s a friend of my brother. What’s his last name?”
She glanced his way as though she wanted to be sure he was gone. “Mendoza.”
“No, not him,” I said. “Oh well.” I shrugged. “How long have you worked here?”
“Too long,” she said and moved away. I finished my beer, set the empty bottle on the bar, and gave her a wave. That’s all I was going to get for today.
I took a walk down the beach and punched up Mom on my cell phone. It rang five times before Mr. Strix picked up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I was hoping you could look someone up for me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Carlos Mendoza. He owns The Toucan, the bar on the postcard.”
“How’d you get his name?”
“Long story. Could you also scare up a picture of García?”
There was a pause. “I’ll see what I can do. Hey, Roy called. He said to tell you they nailed the guy.”
I smiled. “And Honey Bear?”
“Roaming free.”
I smiled wider.
“So, Mendoza. How’d you—”
“Sorry. Gotta go.” I hit end and headed back toward the bungalow. I didn’t want to have to explain.
Within ten minutes, I got a text with a photo. It could have been the man who’d gone to the cash register, but I wasn’t sure. Mr. Strix called back. “You’re not going to believe this. The Mendoza family is quite large. Most live in Nicaragua. Besides the bar, a few years back, the family purchased a coffee plantation in Costa Rica. It’s no longer producing, but get this: it borders George’s property.”
Bingo.
CHAPTER 6
If Carlos was the buncher, he needed a remote location to house the illegal animals, keep them fed, alive. It needed to be far from the eyes of the law or meddling neighbors. Like an old coffee plantation.
After a quick exploration with Google Earth, I had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land. Only one structure still stood on the property, one that looked large enough to house animals—the old roasting shed. That had to be it. But I needed to find out for sure.
Field trip!
The farm sprawled across a steep hillside, quite rugged terrain compared to some of the larger plantations, leaving few locations for coffee trees. The rest appeared to be wild jungle. A river ran through the property from the northeast, meandered through the east quarter, then exited its boundary just north of the southeast corner.
The driveway, a rutted two-track, would likely be under surveillance. The best place to enter the property unnoticed was at that southeast corner, south of the river. It was going to be a trek.
I strapped my binoculars on my chest, tossed my new bird book in my backpack, laced up my boots, and was out the door. What better disguise than a bird nut, hopelessly lost in search of the resplendent quetzal?
From the edge of the dirt road where I stashed my moped among the tangle of jungle, I followed a power line for about five hundred yards, then headed up the side of the hill. I was in pretty good shape, but the humidity was stifling. My T-shirt was soaked in minutes. Flashes of color flitted through the trees—motmots and trogons, parrots and toucanets—birds I’d loved to have the time to stop and identify.
I did keep a sharp lookout for snakes, though. Central America is not a place to underestimate when it comes to poisonous creatures, especially the slithering kind. I didn’t want to stumble across a fer-de-lance. There was a reason it was known as the ultimate pit viper. Most snakes will avoid contact. When threatened, the fer-de-lance rears up and advances. The darn thing can strike above the knee cap. It produces an overabundance of deadly venom and isn’t afraid to use it. Forty-six percent of snakebites in Costa Rica come from this guy and they aren’t pretty. Symptoms rival that of simultaneously stepping on a land mine and being sprayed with poison gas. Yeah, I was watching my step.
I turned twenty-five degrees and walked another four hundred yards figuring I’d arrive just south of the shed. When I got to within one hundred yards, I stopped dead. Good thing I’d been watching so diligently for snakes. About six inches above the ground ran a primitive tripwire—a thin cable stretched horizontally through eye hooks that had been drilled at the base of trees, then upward to an iron bell that hung about twenty feet in the air. Clever. Simple, yet effective. I stepped over it and crept forward more cautiously. Someone was definitely guarding something.
I found a perch in a banyon tree with a decent view of the shed. On the southwest corner, a guard paced back and forth in a way that was clear his training came from watching Schwarzenegger movies. Not good. He could be unpredictable, therefore dangerous. He carried an old rifle of some sort, its barrel wrapped with electrical tape.
The sturdy old structure he guarded was tucked into the hillside, longways. Corrugated tin walls supported a split-style roof that provided a three-foot gap at the peak for air circulation and natural light. Large bay doors stood open on either end, east and west. The driveway came up from the east.
On the open, flat land south of the shed, large, flat concrete slabs had at one time been used to spread coffee beans to dry in the sun. Beyond that was jungle. Two more guards with similar technique to the first paced at the edge of the clearing.
Using my binoculars, I scanned the eaves of the shed. No video cameras. In fact, looked like there was no electricity. I thought I heard the faint hum of a generator. Perhaps for lights at night?
I slipped back into the cover of the jungle and, keeping to the harsh, late afternoon shadows, I headed up the hillside on the west side, avoiding the driveway, to get a look from the north. I came across three more trip lines, the same setup, each attached to an old bell.
About five hundred yards from the northwest corner of the shed, I crossed a path that disappeared into the dense foliage. I followed it to a ravine where a cable stretched across from which a metal basket hung, large enough to carry two people. It was rigged with a pulley system that allowed the basket to be moved by hand in either direction. On the far side, all I could see was an outhouse. I hadn’t noticed it on Google Earth, but it was small and tucked under a tree. It would be too risky to get in the basket to check it out. If someone came along, I’d have nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. Besides, it might squeak and rattle and bang. I slipped back among the leaves and headed toward the shed.
I stayed on the north side, uphill of the shed, and crossed all the way to the east to a vantage point where I could clearly see the main entrance. Two guards posted there carried 9mm submachine guns, looked like MP-5s. There was definitely something of value in there. I crouched down on my haunches and wondered how I was going to get inside to find out.
And how I was going to tell Dalton.
I had to assume that if the place was guarded, it was guarded twenty-four hours a day. I could set up a diversion to draw the guards away, but, working alone, that would likely p
rovide very little time to get inside and back out. I could do a stake out, see what comes and goes. But that kind of operation took more time than I had and required constant surveillance, which I couldn’t do alone, nor could I make excuses for the time away from Dalton. Bribing one of the guards for information was way too risky; I could blow my cover.
I decided to pack it in. This was all I was going to get today. I circled back around to the south side of the shed and dropped into the thick brush when a bell rang somewhere to the west of me. Crap. I looked down. I hadn’t tripped a line. I was sure the closest one was a good twenty paces to my left.
Shouts came from the shed. The guards were scrambling. I had to get out of here. And fast.
A second bell rang. This time closer. Someone was coming my way and closing in fast. If I ran, I’d be spotted. I dropped to the ground and rolled under some ferns. A man went barreling by, laughing as he went. I pushed up on my elbows to get a glimpse of him. He went straight for the next tripwire, jumped up and down on it, causing the bell to clank back and forth. When he turned to listen for the guards, I got a good look at him.
It was Noah. I blinked. From the butterfly gardens. What the hell was he doing?
He took off, heading south, then dropped with a thump. He let out a moan.
Crap. I couldn’t afford to get caught here. But I couldn’t let him get shot.
I scanned the jungle for pursuers, then left my hiding spot and sprinted to him. He was rubbing his right shoulder. “Is it broken?” I whispered.
“No.” He got up and brushed mud from his shorts. It took a moment, but I could see recognition set it. “What are you doing here?”
There was movement behind him. I held up my hand in a gesture to be quiet. He turned to look and I slipped behind a tree. A guard burst through the brush and skidded to a halt, aiming his weapon at Noah. “Ah, ha! Te he cogido,” the guard muttered. He turned his head and drew in a breath to shout. I pounced, slamming him to the ground. I knocked the rifle from his hands and with a quick punch square on the temple, put him out cold.
“Holy crap! Where'd you learn that?” Noah said, his eyebrows arched all the way to his hairline.
“Self defense class?” I shrugged, trying to look surprised myself. “Ha, who knew it would pay off?” I grinned.
“Yeah,” he said, staring at the guy.
“I think there might be more coming,” I told him. Four to be exact. Two heavily armed.
“Yeah.” He turned east. “Follow me.”
I hesitated. I had no idea what Noah was up to or why he was here.
“C’mon, trust me,” he said and flashed his adorable smile. “You don’t want to stick around.”
I glanced down at the guard. At this point, my fate was tied to Noah’s anyway. He launched into a full-out sprint, crashing through the brush. I followed as he ran down a shallow ravine, up and over a ridge. Shots rang out behind us and a bullet went zipping by my head. And Noah was headed toward the river. We needed to cut south.
“I think there’s a river ahead,” I said. “It’s whitewater. Too strong to cross.”
“I know,” he said and kept running.
“But—”
“Trust me,” he hollered over his shoulder.
The land sloped downward and we burst through some thick foliage at the edge of the river. “Go, go, go!” Noah shouted as he plowed into the water. I glanced around. In a small eddy just downriver, a young woman sat in a two-man inflatable kayak, a paddle in one hand, a rope loosely tied around a tree trunk in the other. She let loose the line and dug in with the paddle, shoving off. “C’mon,” he shouted to me as he launched himself into the kayak. I hit the water and in two strides I was straddling the edge of the kayak, one leg in, one dragging, as it caught in the main current and sent us spinning.
He grabbed me under my arms and heaved me up and into the kayak. “Hang on,” he said. “Whatever you do, stay in the boat. Listen to Claudia. She’s a world-class rafting guide.”
Water gushed and roared as it propelled us downriver in a turbulent, angry fury of white foam. I glanced back at Claudia. She looked calm and capable, focused on calculating the flow of the rapids. “Sounds goo—” I managed to say before we rammed a wall of water and white froth crashed over my head. I gripped the sides of the narrow boat with both hands and blew water out of my nose.
Noah dug in with his paddle at Claudia’s commands. “Forward, now back paddle,” she hollered over the thunder of the rapids as we spun sideways and rolled up one side of a crest and down the other. “Duck!” Our boat scraped under branches that jutted out from the bank. “Now hard left!” Noah obeyed and no sooner were we facing downriver than we hit a rock and the front of the kayak shot upward, stalling on the rock, jolting us to a halt as water roared past.
The back end slowly caught in the current and spun us around, lifting us off the rock, shooting us downriver facing backward, bobbing in the waves. Claudia looked over her shoulder. “Get ready,” she said. Ready for what, I wondered, and we were airborne. Claudia dropped down, clinging to the back side of the kayak, as it flipped. Noah launched into the air. I rolled into the churning maelstrom, my arms flailing, grasping in the air for anything. Then the boat was there and I grabbed hold and heaved myself up onto it, coughing water from my lungs.
“Where’s Noah?” His head popped up to our right, then got sucked under again.
“Grab him!” she shouted.
I reached out and when he popped up again, I grabbed ahold of his T-shirt and hauled him onto the overturned kayak. He coughed and sputtered.
Claudia managed to get us into a backwater at the edge of the river and we got the kayak flipped back over. “It’s not over yet,” she said.
Noah and I got back into the boat. Claudia gave it a shove into the current and crawled onto the back. The kayak bucked and tilted as we hit some big swells, then just as Claudia got her paddle in the water, we slid into a white hole of swirling water. The kayak jerked and spun in a white vortex, water pounding over us from all directions, pummeling us with surge after surge while Claudia shouted commands to Noah. I felt helpless, hanging on to the sides. Finally, the bow tipped upward and we shot out of the hole.
The kayak rolled sideways, then with a jolt, rolled the other way as Claudia shouted, “Lean left! Now right!” We countered our weight and managed to keep it upright as we squeaked through a narrow gully, water smashing into boulders on either side of us. “Hold on!” Claudia warned. The nose dipped downward and we plunged over a waterfall. Wham! We rammed into the water, slamming us forward. We hit the water so hard my eyelids yanked wide open and my eyeballs were washed inside and out. I let go to give them a rub and the kayak dipped and spun sideways, tipping to starboard. Somehow, Claudia kept us upright.
Then finally, the kayak slowed in a stretch of riffles. Noah got up on his knees, held the paddle over his head, and shouted, “Ha! Take that, you bastards!”
Claudia paddled us around another bend to where the river crossed under the road and they’d stashed a beat up old VW bus. We hauled out, strapped the kayak to the roof, and after three attempts to get the engine started, sped away, Claudia at the wheel and me and Noah on the floor in the back.
As soon as we caught our breath, Noah asked, “What were you doing up there?”
“I was out birding and kinda got turned around, I guess.” I conjured some surprise and added a helping of fear. “Then you ran by and scared the crap out of me. Who were those men? They were shooting at you! At us!” And why were you purposefully ringing the bells to get them to chase you?
Claudia glanced back at Noah and something passed between them.
“I guess I’m lucky you came along,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.” He shook his head. “Claudia, you should have seen her take down that guard.”
I winced, but he didn’t notice. That was an unfortunate complication and could be a problem. “He’s making it sound like more than i
t was,” I said, trying to produce a blush. “He scared me is all. I just reacted.”
“Sounds like he got what he deserved.”
Noah gave her a quick shake of his head. He looked at me and grinned.
If they were organized activists, they’d be cautious. Too many questions right away would cause suspicion. But I had a thousand. What did they know exactly? How had they found out about the shed? Did they know who was involved? I had to be careful. I wouldn’t force him to give me an explanation. Better to act the flirt, see how things played out.
“All I know is we stumbled onto something.” But I didn’t want to look like an idiot. With narrowed eyes, I looked to Claudia and back to Noah. “Wait a minute. Are you cops or something?”
“Ha,” he huffed. He shifted his weight and leaned forward. “Do we look like cops?”
I smiled and shook my head. He was looking mighty scrumptious with wet hair and his damp T-shirt clinging to his chest. If Claudia was his girlfriend, I needed to be extra cautious. I think he read my mind because he said, “You’re shivering.” He held out his hands, gesturing for me to scoot over and lean against him. “C’mere.” I flipped around and cuddled into his embrace. “You should come to the bonfire tonight, meet the gang. Claudia’s boyfriend will be there and Jack’s doing a fish boil.”
I grinned. “I’d like that.” And all the intel you can give me.
CHAPTER 7
I wondered how the agency governed undercover affairs, what was allowed, how one handled relationships. I fully understood the risk in becoming emotionally involved, but a little fun while getting information couldn’t hurt, could it? The agency had no authority over my sex life anyway. Maybe some fraternization clause, but civilians were none of their business. Besides, I needed to work this informant for all I could, right?
All this flashed through my mind when Claudia hopped out of the van, leaving me alone with Noah, his warm breath on my neck. He ran his hands up and down my arms. “We should get you out of those wet clothes,” he whispered in my ear, his voice husky. My breath caught in my throat and all I could manage was to nod.
Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) Page 6