Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) (2 page)

“That’s how it’s done!” Jed shouted and gave Larry a high five.
 

The dogs bounced around, barking themselves hoarse, yanking to the end of their ropes.

Jed leaned the dart gun against the tree and while Larry tied up Brutus, he took some twine from his pocket and hogtied the bear. He slipped a muzzle around her mouth, cinched it tight, then punched something into his cell phone. Texting the GPS coordinates, I assumed. He wasn’t stupid enough to drag this bear out of here right now, with the dogs and the dart gun. Someone else was the pickup crew.

I crawled out from under my tree, brushed off the pine needles, and straightened my hat. Then I walked right up behind the cocky bastards. “Howdy boys.” Jed spun around. Larry’s head bobbed over his shoulder, his mouth hanging wide open. He blinked twice, his eyeballs bulging like a bullfrog in a murky swamp. He wasn’t sure if I was real or an apparition.
 

He still had the shotgun slung over his shoulder. I kept my weapon holstered. Provoking an armed idiot wasn’t a good idea. I was glad it was Larry who had the firearm, though. He wasn’t a killer. He’d hesitate. Besides, his aim sucked.

Jed, the smarter of the two, screwed up his face, trying to figure out how I’d gotten all the way out here in the middle of the woods. He spit a glob of black goo out the side of his crusty lip. “Who the hell are you?”

“Special Agent McVie. You’re under arrest.”

“Really?” He smirked and glanced at his cousin. “And who’s gonna arrest me?”

Cousin Larry’s eyes darted back and forth, eyeing every tree another agent might be lurking behind. “Yeah, who?” he muttered.

“Wait, I know you,” Jed said as he took a step closer to me.
 

Good. Keep coming closer.
 

“You that new duck cop. Pippa, ain’t it?”

“Special Agent McVie. Now step back. Turn around, put your hands up, and lace your fingers behind your neck.”

“Pippa, huh?” said Larry. “Like that princess a’ England. Dude, she’s hot.”

“Shut up, Larry.” Jed took another step toward me.
 

That’s it. Keep coming.
 

“Now what you doin’ way out here all by yerself?” His eyes traveled down to my waist and back up, settling on my chest. “Ain’t it kinda dangerous? A sweet young thing, all alone in the woods?”
 

He took another step closer, just beyond my arm’s length. He wore steel-toed boots. That was to his advantage. And he stood a foot taller and had at least a hundred pounds on me, too. But his Carhartt coat would restrict his movement. I looked up at him. “I can take care of myself. Now turn around.”

He grinned. “You hear that, Larry.” He turned his head to spit. At least he was that polite.
 

Larry scratched his neck. “Jed, I think we oughta just go.”

“Well, Larry, that’s the thing. We can’t
just go.
She seen us.”

I nodded. “It’s true, Larry. I did.”

Honey Bear moaned and tried to get up, licking her lips like an old drunk.
Hold on, Honey Bear, just a bit longer.
I turned my gaze back to Jed. “You see, Larry,” I said, my eyes locked with Jed’s. “That beautiful bear is going to stay right here where she belongs, in the wild. And you and your cousin are the ones headed for a cage.”

“Sheee-at,” Jed said. “Ain’t you a feisty little thing?” His toned changed. “Larry, go get the dart gun. We gonna have us some fun.”

“Larry, don’t you move a muscle,” I said, my eyes still on Jed. I could handle these two, but if they got a dart in me…

Jed howled with laughter. “Woohoo, this is gonna be fun!” he shouted. Then he made a mistake. He took one step closer and grabbed me by the shoulder. I planted my foot, flung my arm up over his, and dropped. His elbow made a crack as it broke.
That’s for Honey Bear, you son of a bitch.
I butted him in the back of his knee and took him down. He landed on his belly, bellowing like a pig in heat. I rammed my boot into the small of his back, grabbed his broken arm at the wrist, twisted it to meet his other wrist, and slapped a twist-tie around both.
 

“Holy mother!” said Larry. He tossed his shotgun to the ground and took off running.
 

I kept my boot rammed in Jed’s back while I unclipped my radio from my belt. “Suspect is on foot, heading north-northwest from my location.”

“Yeah,” was all I heard. I looked up to see Roy at the edge of the clearing. Larry was backing away from him. He tripped and fell on his ass. “Got him,” Roy yelled with a wave.
 

I leaned over and whispered to Jed. “Tell me who you’re selling these bears to.”

“Screw you,” he growled and spat.

I rolled him over, sat him up, and just as he drew in a breath, I smacked him on the back. He coughed and hacked.
 

“How’s that chew taste?” I asked.

“Bitch, I ain’t telling you nothin.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Something tells me he’s on his way. We’ll just wait here for him.” Jed closed his eyes and put his head down.

Roy had Larry handcuffed and leaning against a tree. He stomped toward me.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped. “I told you to wait.”

“I had to catch them in the act.”

Roy closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his left hand. He looked over at the bear, then down at Jed who was moaning, his right arm twisted at the wrong angle. “What am I gonna do with you?”

I clenched my teeth together. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Well…most of the time. Roy shook his head and walked away.
 

I went to Honey Bear, knelt beside her, and stroked her head between her ears.
You’ll be all right. Just sleep for now. It will all be over soon.

Roy had gotten about four paces before he turned around. “While you’ve been out here galavanting around, the CO’s been trying to get you on the phone. I didn’t want to use the radio.”

“What’s he want?”

“Dunno. Said to call right away.”

“As in right now?” Our CO, head of the Midwest region, was headquartered in Minnesota, an hour behind. “He’s up early.” I had to walk about two hundred yards to get a signal. Three missed calls.
Crap.
I punched the call back button. “This is Special Agent McVie, I—”

“Hold the line,” I was told. Then seconds later, “McVie?”

“Yes sir, what’s—”

“Pack a bag and get to the Detroit airport by six p.m. You’re booked on a flight to Georgia.”

“Georgia?” The federal law enforcement training center, FLETC, is in Georgia. “I just had my FLETC training. Wait, did you say six p.m.? But, sir, Detroit’s an eight hour drive from here.”

“Yeah, you better get moving. Leave your badge and firearm with Roy.”

“My badge, sir?” Why would he ask me to leave my badge? “Have I done something wrong?”

“Temporarily reassigned.”

“Reassigned?” I’d been a field agent for only four months. I was still doing field training. This was unheard of. This couldn’t be good. “Where?”

“Uh—” There was a long pause. “Actually, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
What the hell is going on?

“I was told to tell you to wear civilian clothes.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

He huffed. “It’s above my pay grade. Alls I know is you’ve been specifically requested. That means they ain’t askin.”

This wasn’t making any sense. I glanced back toward Roy and the Lawson boys. “I can’t leave now. I just busted a couple poachers taking a live bear. We’ve got to stake out—”

“Roy can handle that.”

“Yeah, but Roy—”

“Poppy.” He sighed. “Just get your ass on the damn plane.”

As I exited the jetway in Atlanta, I ran smack into an airport employee holding a paper plate with McVie scribbled across the back. Nice. I followed the young man but started to get the feeling I was getting punked, like I was being walked onto the set of a seventies horror movie—the long, confusing corridors, the lone flickering fluorescent bulb, all the closed, unmarked doors.
 

He finally came to a halt in front of what looked like a broom closet. Porn movie then? He gestured for me to go on in. “Thanks?” I managed.

I gripped the door knob and flung open the door. “Hi, I’m Poppy McVie.”

A balding man in a crumpled white shirt and a tired striped tie looked up from his desk and frowned. His left hand lay atop a briefcase that looked like it had been issued during the Vietnam War. It was crammed full of manila folders. Definitely from headquarters.
 

“Poppy!”

I turned. It was Mr. Strix, my favorite instructor from FLETC. What was he doing here? He bowled me over with a bear hug. This was new. “I’m so glad you were available,” he said. He gestured toward the stuffed shirt. “This is Stan Martin, head of Special Operations.”

I snapped to attention and glanced back to Mr. Strix, my eyebrows raised in a did-you-just-say-what-I-think-you-said question. The head of Special Ops? Mr. Strix gave me a quick wink.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I said.
Holy crap, Special Ops! Special Ops! Okay, calm. Stay calm.
I pasted a professional smile on my face—not too wide, no teeth.

Mr. Martin was staring at me with that look. The oh-my-god-she’s-just-a-girl look. He frowned. I frowned. The thing is, I’m five foot two and all of one hundred and four pounds. I have unruly red hair and freckles and in high school, kids called me Pippity-Poppity-Poo, as in Pippi Longstocking, the precocious Swedish children’s book character who has no manners and—this is my favorite part—can lift her horse with one hand. Not exactly the moniker of which a teenage girl dreams.
 

In college, I wore fake glasses for a semester, the kind with clear lenses, thinking they’d make me appear older, more sophisticated. Damn things gave me headaches.
 

Now, at age twenty-four, on looks alone, I could probably pass for Pippi’s older sister. I’ve learned to accept people’s reactions to me. Well, mostly. Okay, sometimes. When I’m in the mood. Like when I’m meeting the head of the organization of which I’ve dreamed of working since—well, forever.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” said Mr. Strix, his hand on my back, gently guiding me toward a chair. I dropped my duffle next to the door and sat down. He perched on the side of the desk and adjusted his thick round glasses. “We don’t have a lot of time, so why don’t we get right to it.”

“Yes, sir,” I smiled and turned to Mr. Martin. “So I’m being promoted to Special Ops?”
 

Mr. Martin harrumphed. Actually harrumphed.
Oops. Apparently that wasn’t the thing to ask.
He crossed his arms and shook his head. I looked to Mr. Strix for help. He cleared his throat and put on a smile. “Temporarily reassigned. An Ops team is in need of a, well they need some help, an agent with your—” He sat up straighter. “Unique skills and talents.”

“Okay,” I said. What else could I say? No one knew what I was capable of better than Mr. Strix.
 

Mr. Martin closed the briefcase. “Jim, I’m not sure she’s—”

Strix held up his hand. “Now Stan, you asked for my recommendation. Poppy is as bright as a whip. She was top of her class.” He beamed with pride. “I have every confidence in her—”

“I got the resumé,” Mr. Martin said. “But for Special Ops, an agent needs—”

“Balls,” I said.

Their heads snapped in my direction.

“That’s your concern, right?” I sat up straighter and looked him in the eye. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

Mr. Martin regarded me with skeptical eyes for a long moment. His lips puckered and unpuckered. Twice. Finally, he sighed and said, “We’re nine months into a long-term investigation.” From the briefcase he plucked a folder, flipped it open, and handed me a photo. “Our target: George Hillman. An ex-pat living in Costa Rica. He sells legal species for the pet trade, frogs, snakes, whatever. We know he’s the contact for the sale of some exotics, CITES class I and II species, but the offer to sell always comes anonymously, so we can’t pin it on him. More importantly, we think he’s the connection to the kingpin of shark fin exports. Shark fins are big business and the Costa Rican government has asked for our help.”

I knew a bit about shark finning. In a few short years, fishermen had decimated ninety percent of the shark population off the coast of Costa Rica. The black market price for shark fins soared up to $700 a kilogram. Shark meat, which is legal to harvest, has remained inexpensive and, therefore, not worth carrying for the fishermen. To maximize the space in their holds, they’d begun hacking off a shark’s fins while they had it on the hook, then tossing the still-breathing creature back into the sea, unable to swim. It’s heinous.
 

“This George is the target for shark finning? You said he deals in exotics for the pet trade.”

Mr. Martin shrugged. “We know he’s connected. But he’s slippery. We don’t know much else.”

“What
do
you know?”

His eyebrows narrowed. Lips puckered.
 

Oops.
“I mean, what else can you tell me?”

Mr. Strix shifted his position on the desk. His head pivoted around so he could see me through the narrow vision of his glasses. “Poppy, you must understand, the guys on the ground are undercover. It can be risky to make contact with headquarters and when they do, they don’t always have time to tell us much.”

“So what are their assignments then?”

“That’s the thing,” said Strix. “They—”

“This is an elite team. The best of the best. I don’t give these men assignments,” said Mr. Martin with impatience. “I give them objectives and they work independently.” He closed the folder and frowned. “You’ll be briefed when you get there by the SAC, Joe Nash.”

Joe Nash!
Joe Nash was a legend. A super legend. He practically wrote the book on Special Operations. In as indifferent a voice as I could muster, I said, “I heard he has his years in for retirement.”

“He does, but he says he won’t file until he nails this guy.”