Native Tongue Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  [1]

  [2]

  [3]

  [4]

  [5]

  [6]

  [7]

  [8]

  [9]

  [10]

  [11]

  [12]

  [13]

  [14]

  Don’t forget to check out the next book in The specialists series.

  whatever you do, don’T look down!

  I jerked straight up in the saddle.

  “You need to stay awake,” Jonathan warned. “Look to your left.”

  Rubbing my eye, I looked to the left . . . and froze.

  We were on a cliff.

  And it dropped straight down.

  Hundreds, thousands of feet down. I couldn’t even see the bottom.

  Not moving a muscle in my body, I stared at the ledge we were on. Each time one of Diablo’s hoofs came down, pebbles skidded over the edge and disappeared.

  With my heart galloping, I inched my head to the right . . . and froze.

  Another drop-off.

  A really, really, really big drop-off.

  “J-J-Jonathan?”

  “Calm down, GiGi. Diablo knows what he’s doing. Concentrate on not moving. Don’t do anything to set him off balance.”

  Locking every muscle in my body, I stared hard at the black hairs of Diablo’s mane. I concentrated on not moving, not breathing. I heard a short, choppy, shallow intake of air and realized it was me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I forced a swallow, trying to moisten my mouth. I’d rather see darkness than the reality of the minuscule ledge and the vast jungle around me.

  I heard another choppy breath come in and out of my mouth and then a deafening roar. “Wh-what was that?!”

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  SPEAK

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

  Copyright © Shannon Greenland, 2008

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-436-26853-0

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  dedication

  A big, BIG, smooch to Tara for being, hands down, the best critique partner I could ask for. Love ya, girl!

  acknowledgments

  A HUGE thanks goes to Britta, Shelly, and Tara for helping me plot this book.

  A smile goes to Rob for talking vehicles with me.

  And to Sara, Anita, and Jeanine for giving me Native American guidance.

  [prologue]

  darren stared at the door to his grandmother’s apartment. He’d been living with her for seven years, ever since his mom left, and every day it was the same thing. He’d come home from school, and she’d be sleeping on the couch.

  Maybe today would be different.

  Not likely.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob on the front door and walked in. Grandmother never locked anything. Nobody on the reservation did. That sense of trust always brought Darren peace.

  As he passed through the shadowed living room toward his bedroom, he glanced at the corner where the worn-through couch sat, where his grandmother always was.

  Her skinny body lay half on/half off the couch. One leg and arm dangled over the side. Her gray braid trailed across a cushion.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure up a good memory of his grandmother. There had to be one somewhere in the recesses of his brain. Perhaps one day he’d recall it and know that she’d loved him, that she’d been happy.

  Setting down his backpack, Darren crossed the living room to the couch, and stopped.

  He studied her.

  Breathing. She wasn’t breathing.

  Darren tentatively reached forward and placed his hand on her cheek.

  Cold.

  He slid his fingers to her chest right where her heart should beat.

  Silently, he waited, holding his breath, every sense in his body tuned to his palm against her chest.

  No beat.

  Darren pushed away and stood over her, staring down at her lifeless form. No thoughts occupied his mind.

  He waited for his body to react with tears, sickness, sadness . . .

  But there was nothing. No emotion at all. Only the familiar emptiness in his heart.

  Without a last glance in her direction, he gathered his things, walked from the apartment to the stables down the road, jumped onto his horse—his only friend in the world—and rode bareback across the Arizona desert toward the sun.

  “vuv,” talon commanded Two days later. Sit.

  Darren sat on a low wooden stool across from his tribal chief.

  Between them a fire flickered in a shallow, stone pit. The smoke trailed upward out of a special opening in the roof.

  Darren had never understood Talon’s penchant for heat. It could be one hundred degrees outside and he’d still have a fire burning. Although Talon lived in an ordinary one-story home, he spent all his time in this added-on room built to seem like something from a century ago. Animal skulls hung on the walls, and skins covered the floor. A few pieces of roughly made wood furniture sat scattered about.

  Talon puffed his pipe and then extended it, keeping his black, heartless eyes level on Darren.

  Sharing a smoke with an elder was a great privilege, one any teenage male would jump at. Darren had tried it a few times and ended up coughing for days afterward. So now he preferred not to do it at all.

  Talon knew this, yet repeatedly offered Darren the pipe. It was one of the many reasons he had no respect for the tribal chief.

  With a grunt, Talon indicated the hand-carved pipe.

  Darren shook his head.

  Talon’s lips sneered, as if he got some twisted amusement from the pipe game.

  Darren hated coming to this room. The whole place had a wicked aura. Talon had a wicked aura.

  Straightening his back, the tribal chief placed his palms on his knees. Barefoot and without a shirt, he wore o
nly a pair of dark jeans.

  “Yjoto jixo aae doop?” Where have you been? Talon asked.

  “Vjo enuhhu.” The cliffs. Darren would still be there if not for his grandmother’s funeral ceremony tomorrow.

  Someone knocked softly on the door and then quietly opened it, sending in cooler air from the main house. Talon’s oldest daughter entered, head bowed, and shuffled across the floor to where Talon and Darren sat.

  Darren had never heard any of Talon’s daughters speak, or Talon’s wife for that matter. They all looked the same, with long skirts, blouses, and braided hair. And they always shuffled around with their heads bowed.

  The daughter knelt beside Talon and picked up a tray with the remains of his dinner. As she stood, he grabbed her arm and yanked her to him. The tray thudded to the floor.

  “Nov jot ia!” Let her go!

  Both Talon and his daughter snapped surprised eyes toward Darren, as if neither could believe someone actually had the nerve to speak up against Talon, to defend a female.

  He’d witnessed Talon treat other women harshly, too. And the women never fought back. In one way the subservience annoyed Darren. Why did the women allow themselves to be treated like that? Why wouldn’t they just leave? The reservation had no iron gates, anybody could walk off at any time.

  Darren’s mother had.

  In another way the situation irritated him. Actually, it ticked him off. What gave Talon or any man the right to treat women like that? Did it boost his ego? It didn’t do that for Darren. It made him physically ill.

  With a sardonic chuckle, the chief shoved his daughter away. She quickly picked up the tray and scurried out of the room.

  Talon placed a small log on the fire, making the flames grow.

  Shadows flickered off his Mohawk and his chest.

  Evil and dark, two words Darren had always associated with the chief.

  Talon rubbed his fingers over the thick, black stripes tattooed down his chin. “Auet itipfoavjot uu foif.” Your grandmother is dead.

  “U mpay.” I know.

  “Jot eotooapa uu vaoattay.” Her ceremony is tomorrow.

  Darren wiped a trail of sweat from his cheek. “Unn do vjoto.” I’ll be there.

  Silence fell between them as they stared at each other in the dim light.

  All he wanted to do was get on his horse and ride, fast and hard. Anywhere. Everywhere. His horse had been and would always be his refuge. But out of respect for his mother, he would attend the ceremony.

  Talon cleared his throat and spit into the fire. “You will stay here,” he said, switching to English, “in your grandmother’s apartment.”

  No way. Darren had already thought about it. He was leaving as soon as Grandmother’s ceremony ended. “I’ve made other plans.”

  The chief chuckled low and humorlessly. “What plans? You are seventeen. You have no money.”

  It didn’t matter. Darren would live in the cliffs, the mountains, the woods, any place but here. “I’ve made other plans.”

  Talon ran his tongue across his teeth. “You have a unique gift. The gods chose you. You must repay the gods by honoring your blood.”

  Even in the overheated room, Darren’s body chilled. “What do you mean?”

  “Your tongue is magic.”

  Darren had never told anyone about his special ability. His grandmother must have opened her mouth. But not even she knew the extent of his gift.

  No one did.

  You keep this a secret, Darren’s mother had made him promise. Not until you’re grown and gone, old enough to have wisdom, do you tell anybody of your talent. People will expoit it if they have the chance.

  He remembered how she’d play a tape in another language, and he’d mimic the speech. They’d laugh. It was a childhood game. One he often thought of fondly.

  “My tongue is like anyone else’s,” Darren lied.

  “I have a job for you. It pays well.”

  “Not interested.”

  The chief grunted. “You will be.”

  Not likely.

  “The Uopoei Nation does great business. International. Thirty-one countries now. You will translate transactions. Interpret the meetings.”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s important business. There’s a lot of honor that goes with being involved.”

  Illegal, I’m sure. “I said no.”

  Talon smirked as he took a small poker from the fire and touched it to his pipe. “I know where your mother is.”

  Hope surged through Darren. Talon knew Darren would do anything for that information. “Where?”

  The chief puffed his pipe three times. “Aae fu lad. U vonn aae xjoto aaet oavjot uu.” You work for me, and I’ll tell you where your mother is.

  squinting against The venezuelan sun, Darren watched a plane touch down on the deserted runway.

  Why did these business transactions always take place in the middle of nowhere?

  Two weeks ago he’d been in a Russian forest.

  Three weeks ago it’d been the Swedish mountains.

  Last week it was a boat in China.

  Never once had Darren seen “the cargo.” Nor had anybody called it anything other than “the cargo.” And Talon never came with Darren on these trips.

  Something illegal was definitely going on.

  Darren cared, sure he cared.

  But he cared more about finding his mother.

  Six months, Darren reminded himself. That was what he and Talon had agreed upon. Six months and he’d know where his mother was.

  The big guy beside Darren adjusted his dark sunglasses. “Esta supuesto ser el mejor cargamento.” Supposed to be the best cargo yet.

  Darren didn’t know the guy’s name. Nobody knew anyone else’s name. All Darren knew was what languages to speak. Today it’d be Spanish and German.

  The plane pulled past them, pushing a warm, fuel-scented gust of wind across the runway. Holding on to his cowboy hat, the South American guy led the way over the packed dirt to where the plane stopped.

  The back of it slowly lowered, and a man and a woman walked out, both blond and dressed in white business suits. Behind them in the plane’s belly sat a huge silver crate, big enough to hold livestock.

  The cargo.

  Cowboy-Hat Guy nodded to the man and the woman. “Bienvenidos.” Welcome. “¿Todo está listo?” Is everything ready?

  “Wilkommen. Ist alles fertig?” Darren translated to the German couple.

  The woman glanced beyond him to the semitruck that Cowboy-Hat Guy had driven and the motorcycle Darren rode. “Haben Sie unser Geld?” Do you have our money?

  As soon as the money and the cargo exchanged hands, everyone would go their separate ways. Darren never knew where “the cargo” ended up.

  “¿Tienes nuestro dinero?” He interpreted for Cowboy-Hat Guy.

  Cowboy lifted the brown leather duffel bag he held in his left hand.