Page 22 of The Lost Guardian

Plus the gunmen in his own apartment… Santiago’s stomach clenched, a wave of nausea threatening to double him over.

“Are you saying,” he said slowly, deliberately, “that my grandfather was murdered?”

Ali eyed him cautiously. Then she nodded.

The space around Santiago seemed to expand, then contract, as if he were viewing the world through the glass of a fishbowl. The thrall of traffic outside the windows grew to a roar—until he realized that it wasn’t the road at all but the blood rushing in his ears. His lungs burned, his chest feeling like it was being crushed under the weight of an enormous bookcase.

“Breathe, Santi.” He could barely hear Brooke. She sounded so far away, like he was miles underwater and she spoke to him from land.

“Breathe.” He heard it again, and then he noisily gasped in oxygen. Black spots faded from his vision. The world righted itself.

He squeezed Brooke’s hand, which gripped his sleeve. She was half out of her spot, seat belt straining across her chest.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, and she released him slowly, still eyeing him with concern. “I’m okay.”

Maybe if he said it out loud, he would believe it.

“I’m sorry,” Ali said, and Santiago forced himself to meet her gaze. To his surprise, she really did seem remorseful. “You didn’t know?”

Santiago could only shake his head, fighting back tears.

Had his grandfather been afraid?

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “He was killed by the same person who sent those men to your home today.”

“But why?” Santiago asked, his voice desperate.

“They are huaqueros, under the direction of a very bad man named Bernardo Torres, who wants nothing more than Atahualpa’s treasure,” Ali responded.

“What are wah-kiros?” Brooke asked.

“Huaqueros,” Santiago corrected. “Grave robbers.”

“Not only are the Guardianes the only living souls who know the location of Atahualpa’s tomb, but the tomb itself is only open from the death of a Guardian to the return of their remains. Any other time, it would be impossible to find, even if they were standing right in front of it,” Ali said.

That was a bridge too far for Santi, who considered himself a firm believer in science.

“That’s impossible. There’s no such thing as the Guardianes de la Tumba. And there’s definitely no such thing as magic. None of this makes any sense.”

“Of course it does,” Ali argued. “In order to protect Atahualpa’s treasure from colonizers, his tomb must be hidden. The Guardianes are loyal protectors of Atahualpa, which grants them the honor of being laid to rest by his side. It makes sense that the tomb would only be revealed at their passing.”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Santiago demanded. “I believe in evidence and history. Not magic. Certainly not the type of magic you’re suggesting. It’s all superstitious nonsense.”

Ali’s nostrils flared.

“Fine,” she growled. “If you don’t believe in the legend, can you at least believe that there is a secret sect of people who have passed down the knowledge of Atahualpa’s lost tomb? That they’re the only people who know its location?”

Santiago hesitated. It was plausible.

“Maybe,” he conceded.

“If your grandfather was one of those people, then you can see why a group of money-hungry huaqueros would want that information from him. By any means necessary?”

Santiago felt cold. Pressing his lips together into a thin line, he nodded once. The contents of that tomb would be a dream come true for tomb robbers. The amount of gold and treasure raised for Atahualpa’s ransom had been staggering then. With the weight of history behind it, it would be worth a fortune ten times over.

“And if your abuelo passed that information to you, his last living relative, would that not explain the trouble you find yourself in?” Ali continued.

Santiago inhaled sharply. “But he didn’t pass the information on to me,” he insisted. “He sent a goodbye letter, that’s all. I don’t have what they’re looking for!”