Native Tongue (15 page)
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.
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.
These policemen thought I was this woman, probably because of the blond hair and eye color. But to me it was obvious I was not.
I glanced over at Jonathan to find him staring at the picture as well. I wanted more than anything to ask him if he knew that woman, but doubted he’d tell me if he did.
Fastening my attention back on the sketch, I decided the woman was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Was it a recent drawing, I wondered, or an old one?
A list of aliases headlined the sketch and beneath it her crimes. The crimes were written in Spanish, though, so I focused in on the alias names.
Yetta Blomqvist, Wandella Dacey, Fabiene Uarov, Sabine Hiordano . . . on and on I read the names, all from different nationalities. I almost laughed when I got to the last one, Oki Li Ming. The woman in the sketch was most definitely not Asian. I scanned the names again, but none of them rang a bell.
The man in the suit slammed the phone down, jolting me back to attention.
He snapped a hand out and barked an order to Jonathan.
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder to Parrot and nodded, reached inside his back pocket, then said to me, “Give them your passport.”
Unsnapping the side pocket on my cargo pants, I slid my passport out and handed it over.
Behind me, the guard who’d been searching our luggage said something. I glanced over my shoulder to see my backpack wide open, with extra computer batteries, bras, underwear, clothes, and toiletries scattered. I nearly groaned at the sight, not only because my box of tampons was on display, but because it had taken me
forever
to get everything packed.
forever
to get everything packed.
Then I saw my laptop opened and powered up, and my jaw clenched. No one touched my laptop without asking.
No one.
No one.
The guard repeated what he’d said, and I just looked at him.
“Give him your password,” Jonathan translated.
“What?!”
“Do it,” Jonathan emphasized.
For a couple of seconds I didn’t say anything.
Calm down, GiGi, calm down.
Other than Chapling, no one knew how to infiltrate my computer. Different passwords led to different levels of my computer. To any regular person they would find only standard software packages.
Calm down, GiGi, calm down.
Other than Chapling, no one knew how to infiltrate my computer. Different passwords led to different levels of my computer. To any regular person they would find only standard software packages.
“BBCGMPW,” I gave him my first-level password, the first initials of my teammates and me. Beaker, Bruiser, Cat, GiGi, Mystic, Parrot, and Wirenut. Just thinking of them helped to calm me down.
Jonathan repeated the letters in Spanish, and the guard typed them in. While he waited for my screen to appear, he pulled a folder from Jonathan’s backpack and brought it to the suited man.
I watched as the man rifled through the file. It contained documentation that we had been hired by the North and South Native American Alliance. Proof that we were who we said we were.
Shoving the folder closed, the suited man yanked a piece of paper from a desk drawer. He slammed the blank paper down in front of me and put a pen on top. “
Escribe tu nombre cinco veces.”
Escribe tu nombre cinco veces.”
“Write your name five times,” Jonathan translated.
Normally I wrote with my right hand. But TL taught all of us to use the opposite hand when on a mission. I had to admit, I’d gotten quite good at writing with my left hand.
Hannah Flowers,
I scrawled my fake name five times.
I scrawled my fake name five times.
The man in the suit tore the paper away and with a hard jaw he studied the signatures, comparing them to my passport.
I felt a smile tug at my mouth, suddenly amused by his mannerisms. Snapping, yanking, banging, and barking. I wanted to tell him that if he were more in control, like Jonathan or TL always were, his point would come across more effectively. The suited man was angry, we all got it. And I bet he was really upset none of us was acting intimidated.
He looked up at me then, and his eyes narrowed. “
¿De qué te estás sonriendo?”
he shouted.
¿De qué te estás sonriendo?”
he shouted.
“He wants to know what you’re smiling at,” Jonathan repeated, and I swore I heard a hint of amusement in his voice.
I flattened my mouth and dropped my head. “
Lo siento.
I’m sorry.” I did know how to say that in their language. Plus, I figured the whole dropped-head, submissive thing would make him feel authoritative and not press the issue.
Lo siento.
I’m sorry.” I did know how to say that in their language. Plus, I figured the whole dropped-head, submissive thing would make him feel authoritative and not press the issue.
He grunted and walked from behind the desk across the room to the door. I heard him open it and start speaking to the guard posted outside.
With my head still dropped, I looked at the sketch of the woman again. I quietly but quickly reached out, snagged it, and slid it from the desk. I didn’t know who this woman was, but I wanted to know. Especially with the similarities to the agent in Barracuda Key who had taken Eduardo.
Carefully, and very rapidly, I folded the drawing into a small square.
“Front of pants,” Jonathan barely whispered.
Head still bowed and body held very still, I tucked the sketch down the front of my cargos, wedging it in the elastic of my underwear.
Seconds later the door closed, and the suited man came to stand back behind the desk.
I turned my head a fraction to the right, and moving only my eyes, I peeked at the guard who’d been searching our things.
He was busy clicking through my laptop looking at random files. Many of them fake, serving as decoys in case something like this ever happened.
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