Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

“I’m so sorry,” I cried. “I screwed up big time. I blew everything. I’m so sorry.” My tears wet his shirt.

  “Don’t worry. I think they actually believed you. I think it’ll be okay.” He stroked my hair and I let loose and sobbed until I couldn’t cry anymore.

  “I just couldn’t,” I whimpered, my breath ragged as I tried to regain control. “I just couldn’t—”

  “I know,” he soothed and rubbed my back. “I know.”

  “Oh my god, the horror. They were sitting in their own feces. The birds, their feathers ripped out.”

  “I know.”

  I sat back, rubbed my nose with the back of my hand, and faced him. “I was the top of my class. Hand to hand combat. I won the firearm medal. I aced the law exam, for chrissake. Why can’t—” My eyes teared up again and the words caught in my throat. “Why can’t I handle this?”

  He didn’t say anything. Not a dig, not an admonition, or even how to fix it. He just took me in his arms and held me some more.

  “How do you do it?” I sniffled.

  “You keep your mind focused on the big picture.” His fingers twirled in my hair. “You play for the long game.”

  “But meanwhile, all those animals suffer.”

  He nodded. “We can’t save them all.”

  “How can you stand it? We’ve gotta stop it. We’ve got to.”

  “We are.” He patted my back. “Every moment we get closer.”

  “We’ve gotta go back.” I jerked from his embrace. “We need to choose a monkey we can document, can identify, right? So when he smuggles it, we can bust him.”

  Dalton was shaking his head. “Listen to me. I told you before, we’re not here to bust anyone. We’re here to gather intel. Taking down someone so low on the totem pole will gain nothing.”

  “It’ll gain something for those animals!” I huffed. “I memorized the route we took in the van. I can draw a map to that barn. We can stake it out.”

  “That’s not our call to make. Do I need to remind you, we’re not on U.S. soil? We’re here under a special agreement. These are Costa Rican citizens. We have no authority for that.”

  “Then we call in the Fuerza Pública.”

  “It’s not our mission.”

  “But we can’t just ignore the, the horror of it.”

  “I know it’s hard, but that’s exactly what we do.” He smiled at me, the smile of someone trying to make someone else’s pain go away, then took me by the hand, pulling me to my feet, and led me out of the bathroom. We sat down on the edge of the bed. “We made a huge step forward tonight. This is the closest we’ve gotten.” He rubbed a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Smile. We did good.”

  “How can you say that?” I couldn’t stand it. My teeth clenched involuntarily and I started to shake.

  “Poppy, listen to me. If you want to work Special Ops, you have to accept the fact that this is what we do. It’s not all about saving fuzzy bunnies. This is syndicated, organized crime. We slowly work our way in. We have to pass up the small players to go after the big fish. Sometimes it takes years.”

  I huffed. “Meanwhile, millions of animals suffer.”

  “Yes, millions of animals are suffering. But we can’t save them overnight.” He sighed. “You seem like a really passionate woman. With all respect, I’m not sure this kind of work is for you.”

  “Not for—” I held my breath. I wanted to scream, to gouge his eyes out, to set something on fire. “I’ve dedicated my life to this!”

  Dalton held his hands up. “Whoa, hey.”

  “I could kick your ass.”

  He smirked. “No doubt.”

  “Now you’re being an asshole!”

  “I—” He threw up his hands. “I give up.”

  I crossed my arms and flopped back on the bed. The steam fizzled from my head and I was spent. “All I’ve ever wanted to be, for as long as I can remember, is a wildlife cop.”

  He eased back onto the pillow beside me. Smiled. “Because you love animals so much.”

  I nodded. “My father—” I sniffled “—my father said I was born with a love for every creature on Earth.” I closed my eyes. “He used to take me with him on photo shoots. He was a wildlife photographer.”

  “He sounds like a pretty cool dad.”

  I swallowed hard. I missed him so much. “He was.”

  Dalton said nothing.

  “My mom was always gone, out to sea or somewhere. My dad homeschooled me. We lived wherever mom was stationed or in the forest near the animal he happened to be obsessed with.”

  “He did a fine job raising you.”

  In a faked stern voice I said, “Not a proper upbringing.”

  He grinned.

  “I speak five languages. Learned them all from subtitles watching eighties reruns in whatever country we were in. My dad, he wanted me to be…” I held back the tears.

  Dalton took my hand. “You’re all that and more.”

  The damn tears started again. “People are so cruel.”

  “Listen, there’s no shame in it.” He cupped my face in his hands and made me look him in the eyes. “No shame in feeling what you’re feeling.” His eyes brightened and his lip turned up at the side. “It’s beautiful, actually.”

  He pulled me toward him and I snuffled in his chest and cried some more.

  I came awake slowly, with a warm, snuggly, safe feeling, like I was emerging from a cocoon. Too warm actually. I wasn't alone. I was cuddled against a man, my arm draped over his naked chest, my leg entwined with his leg. I sat up. Crap! “Sorry, sorry,” I babbled.

  He smiled lazily and his eyes opened. “You’re beautiful in the morning, you know that? With those rosy cheeks.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

  His eyes turned lustful. “I’m trying to tell you that you’re beautiful.”

  “Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what to do. “Thank you?”

  He grinned. “You don’t like compliments, do you?”

  “I don’t know. You could have mentioned my skill when I pinned you down with the thumb lock. Now that’d be a worthy compliment.”

  He shook his head. “You really are something.” He rolled over and sat up on his side of the bed. He combed his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes. He was wearing boxers. I sneaked a look.

  I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I was a mess. Dark circles under my eyes. My pupils ragged like a madman’s. My red mop needed an overhaul with a professional pair of scissors. I grabbed handfuls of my hair. “Arrrgh! You need to get your head on straight,” I said to my reflection.

  I washed my face and ran a comb through my hair. Then I went back out and plopped on the bed next to Dalton. “I suppose you’re going to send me home now.”

  “Actually, I was thinking, maybe this will be a good way for you to connect with Maria, you know, the lost baby thing.”

  “Now the wife?” I glared at him. “What is it with you?” Damn, why am I being like this?

  He frowned. “Or yes, you can go home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that…well, just because I, last night I, you know, doesn’t mean I’m not capable of helping with the real work here. I have skills. I’m as good as any man.” I launched from the bed. “I bet you’re one of those guys who thinks women shouldn’t be in combat.”

  “Uh, yeah. Women shouldn’t be in combat.”

  “I knew it. You think we aren’t strong enough, aren’t smart enough. You think we can’t handle it.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You got this macho frogman ego. Elitist military crap. You know what I’ve got? The element of surprise. No one suspects little ‘ol me. I can sashay right in and bam, knock you on your ass. I can outshoot you any day. Line up some cans, buddy.”

  “You know what I’m picturing right now,” he said. “Me with my hand on your head and you swinging in the air.”

  “You are such an asshole!”

&
nbsp; “You’re so cute when you get all riled up.”

  “Cute? I’m cute!”

  “Yes, my lovely, beautiful, cute little bride.” He smirked. “Get it? I know you don’t like it, but you’re the wife. That’s your role here. Take it or leave it.”

  I clenched down on my teeth so hard I thought my molars might shatter. “Yes. Thank you,” I said. I’d rather stick an icepick in my eye, but there it was. My directive—be a good wife. Shoot me now! “Maybe I can learn to play bridge and make a positively delicious soufflé.”

  “Now you’re talking,” he said. He shuffled around the room, looking for his phone. He called George and all I heard on this end was an occasional yeah or uh-huh. He hung up. “He wants me to play cards tonight. I’ll be late. Take the time to get your head together. Go to the beach, go to a spa. Whatever.”

  Like hell. I had something else in mind.

  CHAPTER 9

  I stopped by the butterfly gardens. He wasn’t there. I went straight to the tree house. Noah was stretched out in the hammock, playing his guitar, an old Johnny Cash tune. I called up. “May I come in?”

  He glanced down at me and my insides went squishy. God, he was yummy. He flashed a grin and I steeled myself. No kissing this time. I took the stairs two at a time. He eyed me from the hammock, but didn’t get up. “Wasn’t sure if I’d see you again,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  “Yeah, about that. Sorry?”

  “I’m glad you’re here now,” he said and leaned forward and set down his guitar. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

  “Haven’t been able to get it off my mind actually. What you were saying, about the wildlife poachers.”

  “Oh, you were listening. Your first mistake,” he said with a grin. He wiggled his empty beer bottle at me. “What can I get you?”

  “Um, I’m not really a beer for breakfast kinda gal.”

  “Wine then?”

  “Ah, sure.” One glass wouldn’t hurt.

  Noah slipped across the hanging bridge, which I now saw led to a kitchen. He came back with two stemmed glasses in one hand and a corkscrew and a bottle of red in the other. “I figure you for a red kinda gal. Am I right?”

  I smiled. He was right. I did a quick double take. The bottle in his hand was a $150 vintage. “So what’s your story?” I asked. “All I know about you is that you volunteer at the butterfly gardens and in your spare time you like to dodge bullets.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t let the Superman costume fool you. That was a pretty foolish thing to do.” He handed me a glass (poured one-third full, the way it should be done) and held his up to mine. By the stem. “Here’s to a little foolishness,” he said.

  “Indeed,” I said, my eyes meeting his as we clinked our glasses together. Oh, what the hell. I leaned into him for a kiss.

  “Mmmm,” he said. “I like this vintage.” He kissed me again until I was breathless, then pulled away. “You know what I think?” he said.

  I held my breath.

  “You’re trying to woo me with your sexy wiles.”

  I grinned. “Woo you? Seriously? Who says that?”

  “My grandma.” He shrugged. “Of course, she was bat shit crazy.”

  “So you got it from her?”

  He raised his glass as if to salute her in thanks. “You got it, babe,” he said and took a sip. “Every bat shit crazy chromosome.”

  “How crazy are you?” I asked.

  His gaze turned heavy. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “I want to set those animals free. Every one of them. I don’t care about video tapes and ticking off the guards. Supply and demand be damned. I don’t care about the law either. It’s all bullshit anyway. I want those animals out of that barn and back in the wild where they belong.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I am, too.” He poured more wine. “So what did you have in mind? I can call the gang, get them over here.”

  “No,” I said. The more people involved, the more risky it would be. “Just me and you. Tonight.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I like the sound of that.”

  “So no more wine.” I set my glass down.

  His lips turned up into an exaggerated pout. “What about one more kiss?”

  I drew in a breath. He had my kryptonite. He set down his glass and moved toward me, his eyes on my lips. My pulse leaped into overdrive. Why’d he have to be so hot? His kisses so, damn, wow—I tilted my head back and he nuzzled my neck. He looked up at me and my eyes flitted toward the bed. “We could always storm the shed tomorrow night,” he whispered, his hand moving from my waist to my backside and down.

  “No,” I said, pulling away. “Tonight. They can’t be in those cages one more night.”

  “All right, all right,” he said. He took a step back and held up his hands in surrender. “Tonight it is.”

  Our plan was simple. Sneak in under the cover of darkness, deal with the guards, release the animals. We agreed—violence wasn’t acceptable. Taking out the guards needed some finesse. Distraction? Perhaps. Deal with them one at a time, tying them up? Could get dicey.

  “I have an idea,” Noah said. He picked up his phone. “I need a favor,” he said when his call was answered. “Where are you?” A moment later he disconnected and said to me, “I’ll be back.” And he was gone.

  I reclined in the rattan chair with my glass of wine. Why let it go to waste, right? Especially a Chateau Montelena. I stared at the label. What twenty-something year old guy, who lives in a tree house in Costa Rica and volunteers at the butterfly garden, can casually serve a $150 bottle of wine? He hadn’t given any other indication of trying to impress me with money. If anything, he’d been doing the opposite. His friends were all down to Earth, good-hearted folks. No one was knocking down six figures back in the States. They’d all freely talked about their jobs. Except Noah.

  My heart was all in, but my head, or more specifically my training, urged me to find out more.

  I wandered down the rope bridge to the kitchen. It was a wooden platform surrounded by a half wall about eight feet above the ground. A propane cooktop, oven, and chopping block lined one side, a sink built into the home-made counter top on the other. Nothing unique or extraordinary. I continued down the stairs to the shed below. An open padlock hung from the door latch. I eased the door open and stepped inside to find a state-of-the-art refrigerator, the kind that’s highly energy efficient, a critter-proof cabinet stocked with gourmet foods, and, built into the sandy ground like a bunker, a wine cellar that could grace the pages of Wine Aficionado. At least two-hundred bottles lined the walls.

  I backed out of the shed and pushed the door back to the position in which I had found it. Back up the stairs, I poked around some more. Clothes, shoes, underwear. Boxer-briefs. I paused, imagining him in them. I shoved the drawer shut. Beside the bed, a tiny built-in door hung askew. It seemed out of place. I eased it open to find a solid door to a safe behind. I snapped the door back shut, making sure it hung in the same crooked angle and went back to my glass of wine.

  He could be a trust-funder like Claudia had suggested. That would explain the modesty. But generally, in my experience, someone who spends that much on a bottle of wine does so because he feels he’s earned it. It didn’t fit.

  Noah came bounding up the stairs with a tiny travel case in his hands. He popped it open to display the contents, a sneaky grin on his face. “What do you think?” Eight sedative injection darts were clipped into the case, each large enough for a big predator. “The dart gun’s in the van.”

  “My god, that dose looks like enough to take down an elephant. That’s crazy.”

  “Jaguars, actually. I like to think of it as poetic justice.” He flashed that grin again and my heart skipped a beat.

  It wasn’t ideal, but it was a non-violent approach. “I guess we’re all set then,” I said. “Now we just have to wait for dark.”
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  He reached for his guitar. “I take requests.” A monkey zipped up the railing and into the hammock. “Hey Clyde,” said Noah. He turned to me. “Watch out. He likes the vino.”

  I tipped my glass and downed the last sip. Clyde leaped to the railing, wrapped his tail around it, pulled the hammock up to him, then leaped on. As it swung back and forth, he chittered and peeped with glee. When the hammock slowed, he jumped up and got it swinging again.

  “His favorite toy,” said Noah.

  I looked down the stairs. “Where’s Isabella?”

  “She lives in one of the houses here on the property. Clyde comes and goes.” He went to the bathroom and came back with something in his hand. He tossed it into the air and Clyde caught it with the skill of a miniature wide receiver. “It’s a monkey biscuit. They’re like Flintstones for monkeys. He loves ‘em. I have to keep them in there, though, because it’s the only place he can’t get. He can’t work the round door handle with only one good hand.”

  “Sounds like he can be a little stinker.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  Clyde held the biscuit in a tight grip, his one nimble little hand against the tiny stump of his right, as he gnawed away, crumbs cascading to the floor. His eyes flitted about, looking for other monkeys I assumed. Crunch, crunch, crunch and it was gone. He bounced up and down, flailing his little arms and chittering.

  “Clean up your crumbs,” Noah told him. “He wants another one.” He pointed at the pile of crumbs on the floor. “Clean ‘em up.”

  Clyde chittered away, whining like a toddler.

  “Not until you clean up that mess,” Noah said, shaking his head.

  Clyde slunk to the floor, swept up the crumbs with his hand, licked them off his fingers, then sprang back up to the edge of the hammock and squealed for another biscuit.

  “All right, one more,” Noah said and went to the bathroom. Clyde spun around, jumping up and down with excitement. Noah lobbed the biscuit into the air and Clyde scrambled up the hammock line, up the support post, grabbed a ceiling truss, and flung himself into the air, catching the biscuit in mid air before he landed on the coffee table.