Page 116 of The Lost Guardian

And there it was.

On the side of the copter was a large mascaipacha. The feathered crown, symbol of the Huáscaros. The same one Leo and Mario had tattooed on their flesh.

“Huáscaros,” he confirmed, baffled. “How? How is this possible? How did they find us?”

“Torres,” Ali whimpered, and goose bumps broke out across Santiago’s skin. He had seen her face down live fire, predators in the mist, and a magical goddamn warrior risen from the dead.

And he had never seen her this afraid.

“We need to find cover,” Ali yelled, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward an enclosure of trees. “We’re too exposed.”

Santiago snatched up his pack and allowed himself to be led, but his mind whirled.

“How are they here?” he asked, his voice pitched high enough to travel over the roar of the approaching aircrafts—the whomp whomp whomp of blades like the thunderous heartbeat of some great beast. “How did they find us?”

“They must have figured out the clues,” Ali called back, pulling him toward the sloping curve of the mountainside. While it was the least steep route before them, it wasn’t a real path. They would have to slide down the mud and dirt and gravel, bracing themselves between trees and rocks, and hope that each stopping point held their weight. Still, it was the fastest way to the river. And, come hell or high water, they needed to get to that river.

Santiago paused at the ledge, looking down, and then back up toward the helicopters. He shook his head in disbelief.

“If they figured out the clues, wouldn’t they be behind us?” he asked. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Do you really want to argue about how Torres’s men found us, or do you want to beat them to the tomb?” Ali demanded.

“It’s all right.” He caught up to her, oddly calm. “They can’t land here; the brush is too thick.”

“They don’t need to land,” Ali shouted, pointing.

Santiago looked back up at the sky. They were close enough now that he could make out all of them without the binoculars.

And his heart plummeted in his chest.

Suspended beneath two of the aerial vehicles were ATVs, sling loaded, caged, and secured by cables. They hung beneath the bodies of the crafts, dangling like metallic spiders on a web. The third craft carried what looked like a small motorboat.

Their cargo swayed heavily in the tiny tempests of wind, and Santiago wondered how the helicopters kept aloft. The noise was earsplitting, the rhythmic thumping of their blades blending together in a roar that rang in Santiago’s head.

Birds that had flown so artfully before tore across the sky, scattering far and wide. Some of the thinner trees bent, branches whipping angrily as the air around the canopy was violently disturbed. It was only then that the reality of the situation struck Santiago, and panic caught up to his brain.

“We need to go!” he yelled. If Torres’s men had their location, it wouldn’t take them long to notice the snake-head boulder. Even if they didn’t, Santi and Ali were going to lead them straight to it. There was no way around that.

Santiago, heart in his throat, followed Ali down the mountainside.

It was a brutal, inelegant descent. He slid down at a forty-five-degree angle, his right forearm up and braced against the ground. Friction burned through his flimsy overshirt and scraped off the top layer of his skin as he attempted to control his fall.

His feet scrambled and pushed against tumbling debris; he angled his body to slam into the stem of a flimsy tree and slow his downward momentum. It helped for a moment, before cracking and bending under his weight as he continued to slide.

He could just make out Ali in front of him, looking far more assured than Santiago felt, though she, too, was falling at an angle. Her own movements reminded him of a winter Olympian as she shifted her weight left and right on her hips, attempting, like him, to control her descent. Until she hit a patch of particularly muddy terrain and gained momentum, sliding completely out of control. Her hands swept over her surroundings for a hold.

“Ali!”

Then he reached the mud, too, and it propelled him down the mountain, flat on his back. Like the world’s worst waterslide, the slick muck afforded them an uninterrupted plummet to the bottom. Bushes and shrubs swatted at their faces, loose stones and sharp roots digging into the backs of their legs. If they tried to catch themselves against a rock or a tree, they could slam into it with enough force to break bones, so they did their best to dodge them now instead.

The muddied track before them split around a scraggly cluster of brown bushes. He watched Ali propel left, while his body kept sliding right.

“Ali!” he called out again, but she was gone. In his attempt to move toward her, he twisted and rolled onto his side.

Not good.

Santiago wheezed, spreading his arms wide and clawing at the ground to try to slow himself, to right himself. Something, anything!