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

info. Maybe it makes sense to him.”
    I tried to read the postmarked date. “When did you get this?”
    “Two weeks ago. Nothing since. It could be he’s too deep to make contact.”
    Mr. Strix shifted to the edge of the desk. “It’s a dangerous operation, Poppy. When you work Special Ops, you’re on your own.”
    I sat back. I could handle that. In fact, I preferred it. “Is this typical protocol? To bring in another agent right in the middle of an investigation?”
    The two men looked at each other, tight-lipped. Mr. Martin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Undercover work isn’t like you’ve read in your textbooks, young lady.”
    Young lady? I could feel my teeth involuntarily clenching together.
    Strix drew in a breath. “Poppy, listen. This op is vital. We’ve had very short notice to find someone, the right someone, to send in.” He leaned forward and adjusted his glasses. “I believe that someone is you.”
    “So how do I fit in?”
    Mr. Strix grinned as if he were about to hand me a winning lottery ticket. “You’re going to choose your own pet monkey.”
    I looked to Mr. Martin, then back to him. “I’ve always wanted a monkey?” The Barenaked Ladies tune started playing in my head.  
    Mr. Martin picked up a pencil and tapped it on the folder. The beat didn’t match the rhythm of the tune in my head and it was aggravating. “You’ll be partnered with Special Agent Dalton. His cover is the owner of a chain of pet stores in Texas.” He handed me a business card with the info. “He spends about ten days in Costa Rica once a month. He’s built a rapport with George and recently hinted at wanting to buy class II species. Specifically,” he cocked his head to the side, “he mentioned how his wife wants her own pet monkey.”
    He paused, waiting for my reaction. The fluorescent tube above, as if on cue, flickered and hummed. As he had said, Special Ops is an elite group. Those guys were seasoned agents. The legendary Joe Nash was in his late sixties. Thinning hair, arthritis. Dalton must have been about the same. Probably has dentures.  
    “So I’m the trophy wife,” I said. The things I do for animals. I held out my hand for the folder. “How long do I have to study my cover?”
    Mr. Martin put out his hands, palms up. “That’s it.”
    I looked to Mr. Strix. “What do you mean, that’s it? How do I make contact? Where do I go?”
    He reached into a sack that had been tucked beside the desk and produced a wide-brimmed straw hat and a god-awful handbag—gold lamé with a giant buckle studded with sparkling bling. It was large enough to carry a poodle. “Seriously?” I asked.
    He examined the handbag, innocently perplexed by my reaction . “It’s my wife’s,” he said, as if that made it unquestioningly perfect.
    I zipped my lip.  
    Mr. Martin looked at his watch. “Your flight’s in one hour. You connect through Dallas where you’ll switch to first class.” He eyed my duffle. “Make sure you pick up a new carry-on bag that’s appropriate to your cover.”
    Mr. Strix took my hand and slipped a diamond the size of Montana onto my finger. I shook my head. “Whoa.”  
    “Yeah, well, you’ll be running with the big spenders. Besides,”—he gave me a wink—“Brittany’s worth it.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding. Brittany?”
    Mr. Martin harrumphed again. “This from a girl named Poppy.”
    My eyebrows stretched upward so far my eyeballs hurt. In a soothing voice, which from anyone else would seem condescending, Mr. Strix said, “Dalton had to pick something. He didn’t know at the time we’d be sending someone in.”
    I tried to smile, wondering if the next trick he’d pull from the bag was a voucher for a boob job.
    “Dalton will be at the airport in San José to pick you up. He’ll be wearing tan slacks and a light blue polo shirt. Make sure you wear this hat.” He plopped it on my head.  
    I flipped through the folder again. “Where’s