Page 1 of The Lost Guardian

Lima, Peru

The old man was dying.

He was well-seasoned enough in life to know that all men die eventually. But his death was ahead of schedule. Which was damned inconvenient.

Hot, sticky blood dripped from the wadded-up bandage he pressed into his abdomen. The rest of his body was cold, and he wondered if he was going into shock. If he went to the hospital right now, they might save him. But his pursuers weren’t far behind, and the man had something more important than his life to lose.

He stumbled from his workshop, a weathered envelope in hand. The metallic scent of his blood mingled with sawdust and the musty smell of damp wood.

Almost there, now, he thought to himself. Just a little while longer.

Shouts could be heard in the distance, louder than the roaring in his head. His name was called, several times, both taunting and urgent. He slipped out the back gate, shuffling forward as quickly as he could. It had become easier to move; his stomach had stopped hurting. He only felt numb now.

His neighbor’s house was far off the main road—if you could call their beaten rural pathway a “road.” They were a family who enjoyed their privacy, just as the old man had. But that was all right; he didn’t need to make it to their house. Only to their mailbox.

He reached it, the faded green paint winking in and out of sight among the foliage. He struggled to maintain consciousness. Trembling fingers gripped the handle, pulling it open to place his own envelope on the pile of their outgoing mail. Then he limped down the path, making a show of his attempted escape.

It took two more minutes for his hunters to find him.

“Where is it, old man?” someone called out.

A strangled laugh escaped his throat.

“Search the body, then the house,” he heard someone else command. “We don’t need him.”

The man only smiled as a gunshot ripped through the air.

You’re too late, he thought, and closed his eyes.

1

Los Angeles, California

The crate wasn’t supposed to be moved alone.

The label said so in bold red letters with two little stick figures carefully bearing the load.

But as there was no one else at the museum warehouse, Santiago decided that was more of a suggestion.

He crouched, testing the weight first. Then he adjusted his grip, one hand braced underneath the smooth plywood, the other steadying its side. His thighs tightened as he lifted, muscles straining briefly before adjusting to the bulk.

“You’re not that heavy,” he muttered as he moved.

The wood scraped softly as he shifted it onto the worktable. He felt his shirt pull as he rolled his shoulders, then leaned in to inspect the contents. Inside the box, nestled in a linen wrap, was a carefully preserved ceramic jar.

Santiago’s brow furrowed.

“That’s not coastal,” he murmured, already reaching for a pair of gloves. “That’s highland.”

He leaned in closer, eyes scanning. The jar was a yellow-orange color with geometric patterns in burnt umber.

“You’re from Cusco,” he said under his breath.

The tag read: Chimú. Northern Coast.

“You’re not?”

Five minutes, he told himself. Just long enough to confirm his suspicion.