Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) (25 page)

“It’s okay.”
 

“You weren’t exactly straight with me either, you know. Sleeping with Maria. Is that even allowed?”

“I wasn’t exactly going to spell it out in the report.”

“But you already suspected her. No wonder you were so frustrated with me showing up.”

He wouldn’t acknowledge it.
 

“I’m sorry you were saddled with me, you know, a probie agent.”

He flashed a smile. “I don’t mind babysitting.”

I kicked him under the table.
 

He laughed. “Actually, I think of you more as a little bundle of bad ass.”

I laughed with him. It felt good. “Where will you be headed now?” I asked.

“Nash mentioned an op in Norway. Beautiful country.” He seemed pensive. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to share the details. “What about you?”

“I’m headed back to Michigan. I have a few weeks left of my field training.” I still wasn’t quite sure what Dalton thought of me. I sat up straight. “I busted a couple of rednecks taking a live bear the day I got called to Special Ops. My SAC got to catch the bastard they were selling to without me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he’s anxious to have
you
back.”

I shrugged. “He says I’m giving him an ulcer.”

Dalton threw his head back and roared with laughter.

“Hey, it’s not that funny,” I said with a grin.

His eyes settled on mine and for a moment I saw the kind, loving eyes of the man who had held me while I cried, who had kissed me so tenderly. He held my gaze, then turned away.

“Well, hey, Norway. Wow.” I reached for my sandwich. “I’m super jealous.”

With his one good hand, he fidgeted with his sandwich wrapper.

I opened it and tucked the sides for him so he could hold it like a fast food burger. “Don’t you want to go?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, I want to go. It’s just, the cover needs to be just right, you know, to get approved.”

Something in Dalton’s expression made me feel uneasy.

He turned to face me and with a sigh of resignation, he said, “Nash says I have to take my wife.”

Thank YOU for reading. If you feel as strongly as I do about the issues presented in this book and you want to help, PLEASE start by taking a moment to
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The
 
adventure doesn’t end for

Poppy and Dalton.

Join them in Norway as they pursue a notorious killer whale hunter in

Operation Orca Rescue

Order it today

Chapter One

Norway. Land of the midnight sun. Cascading waterfalls, deep fjords, breathtaking views and abundant wildlife—the mother lode to a notorious wildlife criminal.
 

Sure enough, a few weeks ago, Headquarters received an anonymous tip that Ray Goldman, the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service’s most-wanted, was sailing these waters, on the prowl for killer whales. Rumor was, he was planning a live-capture for the mega-aquarium industry. And I was going to catch him.

Special Agent Poppy McVie, reporting for duty.

Since U.S. law prohibits an American citizen from hunting, capturing, killing or even harassing a killer whale anywhere in the world, and we wanted him—we wanted him bad—here we were.

“I feel like a damn circus bear jumping through hoops,” said Dalton as he ended the call with the informant. “I’m starting to think he’s just some crackpot getting his kicks.”

My partner, Special Agent Dalton, up until now, had patiently dealt with him through every stage, even promised the man that his anonymity was a top priority, but the guy still wouldn’t even give his first name. We’d started referring to him as
Johnny, as in:
Here’s Johnny
, the nutjob.

“At least he stays on the phone longer than thirty-eight seconds now,” I said. “Maybe Hollywood called and told him that even they’d given up on that old drama ploy.”

“Hollywood.” Dalton rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that’s why he believes agents are all ‘gun-wielding, cowboy cops who shoot first and ask questions later’.” He paused, looked at me. “Well, maybe he’s got you pegged.”
 

“Hey!” I frowned. “We’re making progress with him. Now we have a time and location to meet, right?”
 

“He said he’d be at the Vikinghjelm pub down on Bryggen wharf after lunch. I’m supposed to wear my sleeves rolled up and sit at the bar with a beer and wait.”
 

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“All right. I’ll go in ahead of you and scope out the place,” I said, “see if I can identify him, then I’ll keep an eye on him for any suspicious behavior before you arrive.”

Dalton started shaking his head before I’d finished my sentence.
 

“What? You don’t think I can handle a little reconnaissance.”

“No, that’s not it.” The edge of his lip curved upward into a half grin as his eyes traveled down to my waist, then back up. A slight tilt to the head. “You don’t exactly blend in.”

“What? I blend in.” I winked and, in my best Irish brogue, said, “Me Ireland’s jist a 'op, skip an' a jump dare, fella.”

“I don’t mean your American accent, my dear.”

I thrust my hands onto my hips. “What then? I don’t
look
Irish enough with this red hair and freckles?”

“This isn’t a tourist pub. It’s a local hangout for dockworkers and fishermen.”

“So,” I said. “I can blend in.”
 

He frowned.

Geez
. “Have some faith.”
 

I wasn’t going to give this informant a chance to change his mind and slip out the back door. Ray Goldman was a ghost. If there was any chance, any chance at all, that Johnny-boy actually had real intel, I wanted a piece of it.
 

In the 1970s, Ray Goldman had single-handedly decimated the Pacific Ocean killer whale population. He had permits to capture, but so many died in his careless capture attempts, scientists say that group of whales might never make it back to sustainable numbers and have declared them endangered. During his escapades, some drowned entangled in the capture nets, some died after being tranquilized with darts, and in at least one instance, he and his cohorts feared the terrified orcas would capsize their boat and opened fire with high-powered weapons.
 

His rogue methods started a political shitstorm and details only emerged later, when his help finally talked. By then, he’d fled to Iceland, where, at the time, whaling was not only acceptable, but welcomed. Fishermen wanted the competition gone, claiming the whales depleted their stocks. Which is absolute bullshit.

In 1982, the International Whaling Commission enacted a total ban on whaling, trying to protect whales from total annihilation, but Icelandic whalers used a loophole to continue to kill whales on a commercial scale under the guise of scientific research. Like Japan still does today. Iceland only quit whaling because of a public boycott of Icelandic fish in Europe and the U.S., plus the threat of U.S. Government-imposed trade sanctions.

Even with the public outcry for the whales, Ray Goldman never showed an iota of remorse. Then, he simply vanished into the ether.
 

Until now. Assuming it’s really him. But it seems plausible. China and Russia are building new mega-aquariums and the demand for live orcas has resurged. One live killer whale carries a one million dollar price tag. That’s a lot of dollars floating around in the sea. And nothing brings a trafficker back to work faster.

I turned to head for the pub when Dalton’s phone rang.

He held up one finger, signaling me to wait. “It’s Nash.”
 

Joe Nash was our supervisor, a legend in Special Ops. He’d been the Special Agent in Charge on my first assignment with Agent Dalton in Costa Rica. Dalton and I were undercover as a married couple, buying illegal animals for the pet industry. Nash thought Dalton and I made a good team. He had no clue that, before we caught the kingpin, we’d damn near killed each other.

Dalton punched the speaker button. “Yep.”

“Hey,” said Nash. “How’s it going over there?”

“We’re heading to meet the informant right now,” said Dalton.

“Good. Proceed with caution.”

Dalton flashed me a like-I-said look.

“I don’t have to remind you, we’re out on a limb on this one. I did some fancy dancing to get you on this special joint effort with NOAA. Your directive is to confirm it is indeed Ray Goldman, gather the evidence we need to convict, then call in the Norwegian authorities to make the arrest. Got it? Just do that cute couple routine and you’ll slide in under his radar.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. From day one, our fake marriage felt like it was headed for a fake divorce.

“Got it,” said Dalton, winking at me.

“A lot of people around here have been wanting to bust this guy for years. Keep it by the book. I don’t want any loophole he can slither out of.”

“Right, boss,” said Dalton and disconnected.

Before he could say anything, I said, “I’m going to head in.”

He shook his head.
 

“What?” My cheeks flushed pink. “I’m quite sure I can handle a little reconnaissance. You just make sure you’ve got those shirtsleeves rolled up.”
 

I turned on my heel and left him standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk holding onto his phone.

Bergen is the second-largest city in Norway, as modern as any other in the world, but for some reason Johnny-boy wanted to meet at the Bryggen wharf in Old Town.
 

A series of buildings lined up in a row, all the same shape and size, distinguished only by their bright colors—red, yellow, orange, and white. I wished I had time to explore, learn about the history of this place. All I knew was that these buildings had been here since the late Middle Ages, part of the Hanseatic merchant guild that stretched along the north European trade routes. There was even a Hanseatic museum here to get the whole, sordid scoop. Alas, maybe next time.

Occasionally an alley separated two buildings where a wooden-plank boardwalk provided passage to the many shops and pubs tucked behind the storefronts. On this late fall afternoon, the shadows were already darkening the corners. I made my way down the main thoroughfare, through the crowd of tourists, then turned down one of the deserted alleys.
 

When I managed to find the pub, I had to admit, Dalton had been right about it. The place smelled of stale beer and fish guts and everything was coated with the brownish hue of tar from decades of cigarette smoke.
 

Five locals hunched over the dimly-lit bar—fisherman, or dockworkers maybe. Two other men ate at a table in the corner. At another sat three looking like they’d spent the last ten weeks on a boat and had dragged themselves down the dock to land here before hitting the showers. Otherwise, the place was empty.
 

With the exception of the computer cash register, it felt like I’d stepped back in time to circa 1650.

Yeah, I got the looks, the side-glances, the what-the-hell-is-she-doing-here expressions. But hey, a girl should be able to get a beer in peace, right? Wouldn’t take long and they’d forget I was even here.

I climbed onto a stool at the end of the bar and waited for the portly barkeep to mosey my way.
 

He wiped his hands on his apron—also appeared to be circa 1650 by the amount of crusty grime glommed onto the front of it—and gave me a curt nod, his way of welcome.

“A Beamish, please,” I said in my best Irish accent. Everyone knows the Irish drink Beamish. None of that Guiness sludge.

In good time, a frothy mug of my favorite, tasty malt beverage was slid my way. I took a sip and settled in to watch for unusual behavior.
 

The five men at the bar eased back into their conversation. Thankfully, nearly everyone in Norway speaks English and I could follow along.

The one who sat on the end, closest to me, seemed to have the attention of the others and I got the sense he wasn’t from around here. He was about my dad’s age, though this man’s manners would never have been accepted at my mom’s table. He had both elbows propped on the bar, his chin leaning on grubby hands. His features—large, bulbous eyes, pointy nose, protruding ears, pencil-thin lips—weren’t all that odd, individually, but the combination somehow didn’t quite go together, like he was a toddler’s Mr. Potato Head creation, come to life. Even his weathered skin resembled an old spud.

“I tell you what,” he said to the other four men. “Another go at it?”

They glanced around at each other, nodding, then dug some paper kroner from their pockets and slapped them on the bar.

“All right,” the first man said. “I'm a slippery fish in a cloudy sea; Neither hook nor spear will capture me; With your hand you must hunt and seize this fish; To see that it ends up in the dish.”

The four fishermen’s eyes darted about, to the ceiling, to the floor. One scratched his beard in thought. A few glugs of beer, some barstool shifting, but no one spoke a word.

“Not even a guess?” the riddler asked. He waited. “Do you need a hint?”

One of the men eyed the pile of cash on the bar and grimaced, shaking his head in frustrated resignation.

The first man slapped his hand over the money and slowly dragged it in.
 

“A bar of soap,” I said, then quickly drew in my breath.
Dammit.
I’d said it out loud.

The man flashed me a dirty look.
 

I flashed back an innocent, apologetic smile.
 

He turned back to the men. “One more? Just for fun?”

A young, rosy-cheeked man with a round, cheerful face piped up. “Sure, man.”

The riddler glanced at the bartender and some unspoken signal passed between them.