Operation Turtle Ransom Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The adventure continues...

  Author's Note

  Other Novels by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  Thanks

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  The man had the pup by the scruff of the neck, and the poor thing was yipping with fear. I leaned over the woman sitting next to me to get a better look out the bus window at what was going on. The man was getting a talking-to from a woman—his wife?—that was drawing some attention. She shouted, gesturing in the air, while a little boy clung to her leg with one arm, his other clutching a chicken.

  I speak Spanish, but at the rate of speed words were flying from her mouth, I was lost. “What’s she saying?” I asked the woman sitting next to me on the bus.

  She glanced at the scene. “El perro ha perseguido el pollo. Él tiene que ir,” she said. The dog has gone after the chicken. He must go.

  “¿Ir? ¿Qué quieres decir, ir?” Go? What do you mean, go?

  “Él persiguió el pollo” she said, as if it were obvious. He went after the chicken.

  Chickens are vital to rural Mexicans. Dogs are not. That meant—I leapt from my seat and pushed my way down the aisle. There had to be something I could do.

  As soon as my feet hit the dusty road, I made a beeline for the dog. “Disculpa. ¡Disculpa!” Excuse me. Excuse me!

  The man glanced my way, but quickly dismissed me.

  “¿Señor, permítame—”

  His eyes came around again, but this time he didn’t hide his annoyance.

  I came to a halt. What was I thinking? I quickly looked around, remembering where I was. Behind the man’s wife stood a one-room house, about ten by ten, hobbled together with pallets and other discarded wood. The roof was corrugated metal, affixed at a slant. A burro was tied to the corner of the house, the dirt beaten down around it in a half circle. The tiny yard was encircled by a fence, which was made of branches lined upright and strung together by rusted barbed wire. Two other chickens pecked at the weeds that sprouted at the base of it.

  I looked to the woman, but her expression was as unkind as her husband’s. I was interrupting their argument. I was being rude.

  I shifted from one foot to the other. Looked from her back to him.

  “Me estaba preguntando... sobre el perro…” I was just wondering... about the dog...

  Another man, a neighbor, strolled into my peripheral view. Then another, their eyes on me like bees swarming.

  The woman thrust her hands onto her hips and glared at me.

  My eyes dropped to the dog. Mostly black with brown on her face, ears and legs, and small white accents on her nose and feet. Part hound, part shepherd maybe. Who knows. A mutt. A mutt with floppy ears. Well, one flopped, the other stuck out to the side in an awkward, adorable angle.

  She was probably chasing the chicken for fun, like dogs do. Maybe trying to get the chicken to play? Or maybe she really was trying to kill it. She looked hungry. Her ribs showed through her short fur. She probably weighed about thirty-five pounds. I guessed by her size and skeletal structure she should have weighed more like fifty.

  She looked up at me with soft brown, pleading eyes.

  “¿Está de venta la perra?” I blurted. Is the dog for sale?

  The man’s eyebrows bent together and his mouth dropped open a little.

  The situation wasn’t ideal—offering money—but at the moment, I didn’t know what else to do.

  The man stared at me. Still no response.

  I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out a wad of pesos. I counted what I had. “¿Quinientos pesos?” I was offering him about twenty-five U.S. dollars.

  He stepped back, eyed his wife with confusion, then cocked his head to the side. He didn’t know what to make of me, a red-haired, freckled-faced American girl offering cash for a useless mutt, which probably wasn’t even his. She was likely one of the many strays that wander the countryside looking for scraps.

  The pup froze, eyes wide, as if she knew her life was in the balance.

  “¿Quinientos pesos?” I asked again, shoving the money at him. “Para el perro.”

  The man’s eyes settled on the cash in my hand, then broke away, back to his wife.

  The woman nodded in my direction, a signal to take the money.

  The man swung back around to face me. “Hay que llevarla fuera de aquí,” he said. You must take it away from here.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I said, nodding like a crazy woman.

  I stepped closer, holding the cash out to him, and he let go of the dog to snatch it from my hand.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  He shook his head. He thought I was nuts.

  The dog cowered, but didn’t go far. Now what was I going to do? I guess I hadn’t thought this through.

  “Hay que llevarla de aquí,” the man repeated.

  “No supongo que tenga una cuerda,” I said. I don't suppose you have a rope.

  The man rolled his eyes at me, shook his head.

  No. Right.

  He flung his hand my way. “Váyase ahorita.” Go away now.

  Right. I patted my thigh. “C’mon puppy.”

  The pup cowered, tail between the legs.

  “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. C’mon girl.”

  Her floppy ear perked up a little.

  “We need to get going,” I said and turned back toward the bus. It was gone.

  Well, crap. It was the last one of the day.

  I checked my phone. Battery dead. Well, double crap.

  It was nearly noon and the air smelled of roasted dirt. My clothes were soaked with sweat and my tongue felt like sandpaper.

  Oh no! My backpack! I spun around and peered down the road, the way the bus had gone. There it was, a tiny orange mound. Thank you! I shouted in my head to the kind woman who sat next to me. No doubt she’d realized I’d left it and pitched it out as the bus moved on.

  I rushed to retrieve my pack, then moved further down the street to find a patch of shade and plopped down in the weeds. Now what?

  I dug around in the side pocket of my pack and pulled out a map. Yep, too far to walk. Especially in this heat.

  The town I was in—if you could call it a town—consisted of about thirty houses or so, all relatively the same size, some made of block or adobe, some of them lean-tos. A few trees grew amid the tiny yards. Laundry was strung on lines, the shirts and dresses the only bright colors in a landscape of green and brown.

  It all spread from a crossroads where three buildings lined up next to each other—a grocery store, a beauty shop and a bar—with a mechanic’s garage across the street.

  In both directions, beyond the last house, were rolling hills covered in a patchwork of green. Vegetables mostly. But higher up on the hills, poppies. Not good.

  The police station and jail were housed in a small brick and adobe building at the end of a dirt road, two blocks down. If I got desperate, that’d be the place to stay the night.


  I turned to the dog, who’d followed me down the road. “We need to get out of here,” I said. “Before nightfall.”

  I’d been traveling south to meet my best friend, Chris, who was waiting for me at a seaside resort about twenty-five miles away. He’d invited me to Mexico—more like demanded, actually—for a much-needed vacation, to get away from my job, to relax. The Caribbean, I’d said. Or Greece. We could meet anywhere in the world. With his airline job, he flew free, and I used his cheap buddy passes. I’d even suggested Hawai’i. Nope. Had to be here.

  Why Mexico, I had no idea. He had some surprise for me, and had sent directions to meet him—a hundred and fifty miles south of Puerto Vallarta. Well, fine. I hadn’t put up too much of an argument. After all, I did need a break. Too much in my head. Too many decisions to make. And I really just needed some time with my best friend. I didn’t care where we met. Mexico wasn’t exactly the safest place. But honestly, I’d traveled the world enough to know how to handle myself.

  I’d taken the red eye and gotten a cab, then the bus. I only had three days off. Once I arrived at the resort, I planned to enjoy myself. Sit on the beach. Drink a margarita. Forget about life for a while.

  As soon as I got there.

  Now, looking over my shoulder at the men milling about, casting glances my way, I wished I had stayed on the bus.

  I took a sip from my water bottle and turned to the pup.

  “I don’t suppose you’re gonna return the favor, protect me now? Do you know any kill commands?”

  The pup cocked her head to the side and looked at me intently, trying with everything she had to understand what I was saying.

  “Yeah, you probably don’t even have a name, do you, girl?”

  She cocked her head to the other side. Then when that didn’t help, she eased down to the ground, stretching her front legs out in front of her and laid her head on her paws.

  “We’re going to have to hitchhike, I guess.” I glanced both ways down the road. “If anyone ever comes by.”

  As if on cue, from around the corner came a man riding a burro. He had the weathered skin of one who’d spent his entire life working the fields, wore the straw sombrero of a farmer, too. He rode my way, staring at me with curious eyes. When he got close, he brought the burro to a halt and raised a finger, pointing down the road, from where I had come.

  “La parada de autobús está ahí abajo.” The bus picks up down there.

  "Gracias, señor. Lamentablemente, he perdido el último autobús del día.” Thank you, sir. Unfortunately, I’ve missed the last bus for the day. Of course he’d know that.

  He gave me a wide grin, revealing two teeth. “Hablas muy bien español.”

  I nodded. The old campesino was genuinely amused by my ability to speak Spanish.

  “Necesito un viaje al sur, a unos treinta kilómetros. ¿Me puede ayudar?” I need a ride south, about thirty miles. Can you help me?

  “No, no,” he shook his head, slowly, as he patted the burro. “Esta vieja no lo sobreviviría.” This old girl would never make it.

  It was my time to grin. “No, señor. Quiero decir, ¿conoce a alguien que pueda ayudarme? ¿Con un coche?” I meant, do you know anyone who might be able to help me? With a car?

  He thought for a moment, looked down the road. I followed his gaze. The man who’d sold me the dog still stood at the corner of his lot, watching.

  “Puedo pagar,” I added. I can pay. Advertising, once again, that I had money in my pocket wasn’t a great idea, but I also needed to get out of here.

  “Habrá otro autobús mañana,” he said. There will be another bus tomorrow. And with no discernible signal, the burro started walking again.

  “Gracias,” I said to his back. My schedule wasn’t his concern. Nor where I was going to sleep tonight.

  I turned back to the dog. “Someone’s got to pass by eventually. We just need to be patient.”

  I wished I really felt as confident as I was leading the dog to believe.

  The delicate, gurgling twitter of a painted bunting arrived with a breeze. The male fluttered amid the branches of a bush—a blur of blue, green, and red—then landed on a fence post across the road. It made me smile.

  “See there,” I said to the dog. “It’s a good omen.”

  Maybe this was a test. Some kind of divine intervention. Instead of spending three days in a beach chair pondering my relationship woes while sharing margaritas with my bestie, I’d be killed on some backroad of Mexico by some drug cartel.

  Do you really have what it takes to be a Special Agent, McVie?

  I had the badge, but I’d gotten it in a not-so-traditional way. Actually, it was more like the fast-track express. A couple of senior agents had been working a case in Costa Rica and needed a female agent posthaste to join the operation and play the wife. I was still in training, but I fit the bill—which meant I had breasts, a trait not common among U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service agents—so off I went. I’m not complaining. The mission was for Special Ops. My dream job. The one I’d been working toward for years. But I wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms.

  My new partner, Special Agent Dalton, wanted nothing to do with me at first. He’s a Navy SEAL, a follow-the-rules kinda guy, and my approach to undercover work is, let’s just say, unconventional. But in the end, we busted the kingpin. And Dalton and I have come to respect each other. Like each other even. Okay, things have gotten a little heated between us, in more ways than one. Until the last op, we’d managed to keep it professional, in spite of our attraction for each other, but then things got, well, out of hand. Problem is, fraternization is strictly forbidden. Then, to complicate things even further, he and I got appointed to a Presidential Task Force, which we’re supposed to report to on Monday. Together.

  That is, if I don’t get myself lost, or worse, here in Mexico.

  I glanced down the road. Nothing coming our way.

  The eyes of the locals still lingered. I felt like a sitting duck.

  Life is funny sometimes. Here I was, on vacation to figure out how to forget about Dalton and all I could think about was how, if he were here, he’d have my back.

  I grabbed hold of the edge of my T-shirt and flapped it about, trying to get some airflow underneath, dry the sweaty patches. Then I unfolded the map again. The location Chris had given was on the beach, but there wasn’t a main road leading to it. The resort was obviously in an area they probably advertised as ‘off the beaten path,’ telling tourists it was the perfect place to ‘get away from it all.’ Fine by me. Where was Uber when you needed them?

  Over an hour later, a dust-covered pick-up truck—its brand and original color unidentifiable—rumbled down the road toward me. I jumped to my feet and stepped into the road, waving my hands for the driver to stop.

  “¿Conduce al sur?” I asked as it rolled to a stop next to me. Are you headed south?

  Two young boys, ages ten or eleven, sat on the tailgate, their legs dangling over the side. The bed of the truck had wooden slats for sides. A dirt bike was strapped to one side with bungee cords. A few bales of hay and a cardboard box were stacked against the cab.

  The young man in the passenger seat, about age eighteen, said in perfect English, “You need a ride?”

  I nodded and held up the map, pointing at the spot where Chris had said to meet him. “How much to take me here?”

  The boy eyed the map, a look of amusement on his face. He took it from me, held it for the driver, a man about my father’s age, to look at. The man shrugged. The boy turned back to me. “There’s nothing out there but jungle.”

  I was sure of the location. I’d double-checked with Chris, thinking the same thing at the time. But he’d assured me. It was possible these men didn’t know about the resort. “Nothing?” I said. Something didn’t feel right.

  The boy consulted with the driver again, mumbling something I couldn’t make out, then he turned back to me, rested his elbow on the window frame and leaned out a little. “He th
inks there’s a bar on the beach there.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it.” Chris had said to meet at the Tiki bar. “How much to take me there?”

  He grinned. “Eighty pesos.”

  I glanced down the street once more. The man was gone, but now the woman was pacing in front of the house, broom in hand, watching.

  Getting in the truck with these men wasn’t the best option. It could have been a set up. By the old man on the burro. By anyone who’d been watching. But what options did I have? I had to get to Chris somehow. And, more importantly, get out of here.

  My dad told me once: people are people the world around. Most are good. Trust your gut.

  A sarcastic voice inside my head said, “What could possibly happen?”

  Shut up, I told the voice.

  The thing was, I could take care of myself. I had martial arts training, not to mention, I was a federal officer. But still. I was alone. With no backup.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” I said to the guy. “Eighty pesos it is. But the dog goes, too.”

  He shrugged.

  I handed him the money. He quickly pocketed it and the driver put the truck in gear.

  I bent down, scooped the dog up in my arms, set her in the back of the truck, tossed my backpack in beside her, then crawled up in after her.

  A cloud of dust swirled behind us as we bumped along the road.

  Not a half mile south, the truck slowed and the two boys hopped off the back, waving as the truck continued.

  The dog’s claws were dug into the rusted truck bed, a look of terror in her eyes.

  “At least we’re on our way,” I said.

  In another mile, the truck slowed, then turned off the main road into a meadow and came to a halt. The driver slammed it into reverse and backed into a mound of dirt.

  The dog leaped off the tailgate and shot down the side of the mound like her tail was on fire.

  “¿Qué pasa?” I asked as the young man on the passenger side piled out and slammed the door shut behind him.

  He came around to the back of the truck, and with one step on the mound, he was in the back with me.

  I immediately shifted to a defensive stance, my feet and body aligned, elbows bent, hands out in front of me. His demeanor seemed carefree. His hands were free of anything—weapons or otherwise. Nonetheless, I was in the middle of nowhere. Alone.