Native Tongue

by Shannon Greenland

  Jonathan turned to me. “And your program, GiGi? All set?”

  “Yes,” I lied, then immediately felt guilty. “Well, I have a few tweaks, and then, yes, it’ll be ready. I need to cross-reference the cave drawings in Rutina with known, documented glyphs and come up with a translation.”

  I didn’t mention the fact that I really didn’t feel confident about my program. They wouldn’t understand. And if they did, they’d just tell me everything would be fine.

  TL clicked his pen. “She’ll do fine.”

  See?

  Jonathan referenced his folder. “As you know, we’ve been hired by the North and South American Native Alliance to provide translation services with both language and the cave drawings. We’ve also been hired to guard the vase. So in other words, they know we’re the Specialists, former government employees who now work privately providing highly skilled services. But they don’t know our real identities.”

  Parrot raised his hand. “But you know I know one of the chiefs. He knows my true identity.”

  “We realize that,” TL answered. “Which is why you’ll go in disguise. You’ll be meeting with a makeup artist tonight to be outfitted.”

  “Parrot,” Jonathan continued, “will go under the name Flint Dunham. GiGi will be Hannah Flowers, and I’ll be going as Shane Young.”

  Oooh, I liked Hannah Flowers. It had a sort of country-girl quality to it.

  Jonathan looked first at me and then Parrot. “The talks are scheduled to go for one week. As you all know, Chapling intercepted a message that two unknown parties are planning to steal the vase. More intel has revealed that these two unknown parties are chiefs who will be attending the talks. At this point we do not know which two chiefs they are, but Chapling is continuing to research that.

  “This mission is going to be a bit different from others in the past in that we’re stepping back in time. This is a ceremonial tribal gathering, free of modern-day conveniences. The men sleep in one area and the women in another. The cave is approximately one mile from the village. The talks will take place in a ceremonial hut located in the center of the village. We’ll arrive and depart via horseback. The glyph historian has been there for a week getting a jump-start on things. Our contact will meet us at the airport to take us into the jungle. We’ll sleep, eat, and wash outside.”

  Bathe outside? Wait a minute. . . .

  “GiGi”—Jonathan nodded to me—“cultural differences between men and women are very strict. Our contact in Rutina has informed us that Jaaci will be your hostess. It’s important that you do exactly what she does.”

  “But wouldn’t it make sense that one of the Huworo women would be my hostess since they’re hosting the talks?”

  He shook his head. “Only married women in the Huworo tribe are allowed to host. And they’re only allowed to host Native Americans. Since you’re nonnative, Jaaci has been taken in by the Huworo and given the job.”

  I didn’t know if I liked the fact I’d been deemed a “job.”

  “Chapling,” Jonathan continued, “has installed updated satellite chips in our phones. However, being so deep in the jungle, there will probably be noncommunicative spots. We’ll have to figure that out when we get there. Other than our cells and GiGi’s laptop, which have been pre-approved by the Alliance, we’re taking no technologies with us.”

  I nearly pouted. No technology? That meant no cool gadgets or neat gizmos. What a bummer. At least I’d have my laptop, my own private version of the Swiss army knife. Only Chapling and I knew the cool things it was capable of.

  “The alliance,” Jonathan went on, looking at me, “does not know about your new program. Please remember that it’s top secret. They think you’re there as an assistant to the glyph historian, who will be joining us from the IPNC.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “Let me stress a few things. The Mother Nature vase is, like TL originally said, a highly coveted item. You are to trust no one. A lot of people want this vase, and I’m sure, if properly motivated, they would stop at nothing to get it. Let me remind you that a few of these tribes are long-standing rivals. I’m fully expecting some sort of altercation. Should anything happen to me, you both know how to get ahold of TL. Like he said, he’ll be here at home base handling meetings and wrapping up important details.”

  Should anything happen to me. That statement brought goose bumps to my skin and reminded me of the dangerous, life-threatening situations we were in while on missions.

  “Questions?” Jonathan asked.

  Parrot and I shook our heads.

  “We pull out at oh-seven-hundred hours.” Jonathan closed his file. “Dismissed.”

  [5]

  Early the next morning we boarded our plane. I tucked my laptop under the seat in front of me, and about five minutes later, my cell vibrated. I checked the display.

  BREATHE. I’M THINKING OF U.

  I smiled at my boyfriend’s message. David was on a top secret mission and yet risked a security breach just to reassure me.

  I had been in a plane crash when I was six, the same one that killed my parents. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why I hated flying so much.

  I’d learned to tolerate it, though. I had no choice. It came with being a Specialist. Travel was inevitable, and this flight marked my seventh one. Not bad for a girl who was inconsolable the first time around. David had been there that first time, telling me to breathe. Somehow just thinking of him always made the trip go smoother.

  I texted him back. I’M BREATHING AND THINKING OF U 2.

  I put my cell phone away and turned to Parrot. “How are you?”

  He yawned. “Tired. After the farewell party, I wasn’t able to sleep.”

  I lowered our shade and handed him the pillow wedged between my seat and the wall. “Try to sleep now. We have a long week ahead of us.”

  Through another yawn, he nodded, put the pillow behind his head, and closed his eyes. Just as our plane took off, I heard him inhale a soft snore. It made me smile.

  Hours later, in the late afternoon, our plane touched down in Maires, the capital city of Rutina.

  Jonathan, Parrot, and I departed the plane into muggy brightness.

  “¡Hola!” A small man with a bushy kinky beard called from the other side of the security fence. I assumed he was our local contact.

  Jonathan hitched his chin. “Hola, Guillermo. ¿Cómo estás?”

  “Bien. Bien.”

  Jonathan hadn’t said if Guillermo was an IPNC agent or not. Since the Specialists used to be a division of the IPNC, and because we were so small, TL still used IPNC agents for freelance work, like this.

  We grabbed our duffels and backpacks from the luggage trolley and made our way across the steamy tarmac.

  Couples, families, and singles bustled along with us, finding their luggage, talking on cell phones, heading toward the security gate.

  The airport stood off to the left. Jonathan had explained that only certain airlines accessed the terminals and everyone else used the outdoors.

  Too bad we weren’t one of the “lucky airlines.”

  We joined the long line to security check, and, while the sun baked us, we waited our turn.

  Men in military fatigues wandered the crowd, holding machine guns in front of them. Dark shades hid their eyes, and their faces wore matching scowls.

  All around us everyone spoke Spanish. The more I listened to the rapid-fire rolling r’s, the more I wanted to know what they said.

  The woman in front of me laughed at something her friend said, and they both glanced back at me.

  “What did they say?” I whispered to Parrot.

  He smiled. “Tell you later.”

  It couldn’t be that bad if he was smiling . . . through his mustache. His disguise was too cool. The makeup artist had lightened his hair to brown and woven in extensions, making it fall straight to his shoulders. He wore blue contacts that seemed so real, even if you looked close, you couldn’t see the rims
of them. He had a mustache and beard trimmed neatly to his face. And randomly placed moles on his forehead, neck, chest, and arms. The moles wouldn’t come off unless a specific solution was used to take them off.

  Shifting, I peered over everyone’s heads (being tall had its advantages) to the security gate, and sighed. We still had at least sixty people in front of us.

  Sheesh, you’d think they’d have more than one security check.

  Using my shoulder, I wiped sweat from my cheek and fantasized about an icy soda. I repositioned the strap on my laptop case to crisscross over my body and tried to ignore the heat. Maybe if I ran code, my brain would be too sidetracked to think about it.

  Raised voices brought me from my temporary reprise. I focused on the military men pushing through the crowd, not caring if they shoved a woman, child, or man aside.

  I turned to Jonathan. “What’s going on?”

  He barely shook his head in response.

  They yanked a blond woman from the line, and my gut clenched. I watched wide-eyed as they dragged her kicking, clawing, and screaming to an awaiting van.

  Her echoing wails brought cold prickles to my skin.

  Was this actually happening? Out here in the open? And why wasn’t anybody doing anything?

  I glanced around. Nobody even looked in the frantic woman’s direction. I turned to Jonathan.

  He death-gripped my arm a split second before a military man yanked me in the opposite direction.

  Jonathan held tight to me as the guard barked something in Spanish.

  Jonathan calmly responded.

  The guard gripped my other arm and barked the order again.

  Jonathan calmly responded.

  The guard gave another yank on my arm, and I grimaced and tried to move closer to Jonathan.

  He didn’t move, but he seemed to grow in size as he pulled back his shoulders, accentuating his already straight posture, solid muscles, and towering height.

  The guard didn’t let go of me, but it occurred to me then how small he was next to Jonathan. I’d say the guard stood about five foot eight. Shorter than me even.

  Jonathan slowly and deliberately enunciated his Spanish, not so calmly now, more threatening and serious.

  The guard switched his narrowed dark eyes to me and then beyond me to Parrot.

  I swallowed.

  Letting go of my arm, the guard stepped to the side. He jabbed his machine gun in the direction of the security shack and snapped out an order in Spanish.

  Still holding on to me, Jonathan gave a little tug. “Get your backpack. Let’s go.” He glanced over his shoulder and motioned with his head for Parrot to follow.

  Leaning down, I swung my oversize backpack over my shoulder. “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “Not sure. Be quiet and let me do all the talking.”

  Not a problem, seeing as how I didn’t know the language.

  The heat from the asphalt seeped up through my flip-flops as we crossed the tarmac.

  Jonathan eased his hold on my bicep, and my muscles immediately pulsed with the release of pressure.

  I glanced down at my forearm, where the guard had yanked, and saw deep red stripes. I’d probably bruise.

  Another man stood guard at the security shack’s door. He shifted his gun and gave the metal door two hard whacks. The sound of his fist connecting with metal vibrated in the air around me.

  The door opened and a guard dressed just like the others appeared. Both men nonchalantly pointed their machine guns in our direction, telling us in their silent, threatening terms not to try anything.

  Jonathan’s hold on my bicep tightened again as he led me through the door. Cigarette smoke and air-conditioning overpowered the small, dim interior, bringing goose bumps to my sweaty body.

  To the right, a small window let sunshine filter in. In the back left corner a metal desk sat catty-cornered. A man in a suit sat behind that desk, with another guard standing to his side. Newspaper clippings and wanted posters littered the walls.

  The guard who had let us in closed the door and moved into position to block the exit. With his feet spread wide, he held the gun diagonally across his body. He grunted something in Spanish, and Parrot looked at Jonathan. Jonathan nodded once, and Parrot moved away from us to stand by the window.

  The guard beside the man in the suit stepped out from behind the desk and came straight at me. I resisted the urge to back up as he approached.

  Before I had time to blink, he yanked my backpack off my shoulder, and I sucked in a breath. He grabbed hold of my laptop strap, and I ducked before he yanked that and dislocated my shoulder. Luckily, my ducking at the same time he yanked slid the laptop right over my head without injury.

  He tossed my stuff against the wall, and I watched in horror as my laptop bounced against the cement.

  “Don’t say anything,” Jonathan ordered, handing over his duffel bag and indicating Parrot to do the same.

  The guard tossed their stuff on top of mine. Briskly he patted down Parrot, Jonathan, and me. Then he shoved Jonathan and me toward the desk. Behind me, I heard a zipper as the guard began rifling through our things.

  The man in the suit slowly rose to his feet. His serious brown eyes surveyed me from top to bottom and back up. He picked a cigarette from an ashtray and took a long drag and exhaled, squinting at me through the smoke.

  Holding back a cough, I quietly cleared my throat as the man continued to scrutinize me.

  What was going on? I wanted more than anything to look at Jonathan, but kept my gaze steady with the man in the suit.

  He stubbed his cigarette out and continued studying me as he slowly ran his fingers back and forth across his bristled chin.

  He said something to me in Spanish.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.”

  He let out an annoyed sigh and switched his attention to Jonathan. The two of them began a rapid-fire discussion. Back and forth they spoke, and the more they spoke the more agitated the suited man became.

  He slammed his fist down, and I jumped. Jonathan didn’t even move. The man jabbed his finger at scattered papers, bringing my attention to his desk and upside-down color sketches of a woman.

  I tilted my head slightly, trying to make out the drawings.

  Jonathan and the suited man continued their argument as I studied the sketches. Something about the woman seemed familiar.

  The phone rattled, and the suited man yanked the receiver from its cradle. As he talked, he turned one of the drawings around so we could see it.

  The woman had blond hair and light either blue or green eyes. The large shape of the eyes, the thick upper lashes, and the defiant, alert look flashed my brain back to Barracuda Key. My last mission.

  A female agent had interceded when I’d confronted Eduardo Villanueva, the man who killed my parents. The female agent’s face had been hidden behind a hood, but those eyes . . . something had seemed familiar.

  I stared at the picture, itching to pick it up. This woman had the same eyes. My focus switched as I took in her whole face and my gaze touched each of her features.