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They still had work to do, and time was running out.

“Would you like to do the honors?” he asked Torres, motioning toward the bridge.

“That’s Ichu grass,” Ali whispered to him, too low for the others to hear. “It doesn’t last long. Most people who build bridges like these replace the grass every year.”

Santiago eyed the bridge more closely. The ropes were indeed made of strands of long yellow grass, woven together for strength. Four huge, thick ropes comprised the bottom of the suspended structure, each larger around than Santi’s considerable biceps, and two more made the handrails. Thousands of smaller ropes were tied on the sides, like a grass banister. Some of the grass had split away from its braiding, giving the bridge frizzy vines jutting from its sides.

“There’s no way this thing is maintained once a year,” Santiago whispered back, grabbing one of the railings and giving it a shake.

The bridge swayed slightly at the action.

“Looks great to me!” Santiago met Torres’s gaze and smiled. Then he turned back to Ali. “Do we trust this?” he asked her quietly.

Ali stared across the long divide, then down at the deadly plunge to the bottom of the ravine.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “What else can we do?”

Santiago imagined himself stepping forward, then falling through the bottom of the bridge. In his mind, he screamed like a cartoon character all the way down.

He made a little plummeting sound with his mouth.

Ali laughed. “Your Brooke told me you get silly when you’re tired. I think I see now what she meant.”

Santi snorted. Guilty.

“We’ve seen all sorts of inexplicable things since this journey began,” he decided. “A straw bridge surviving the centuries would hardly be the strangest.”

Ali nodded but looked worried.

“We think it’ll hold,” Santiago called back to them.

Torres narrowed his eyes, then made a flicking motion with his wrist. The two guards who had brought up the rear stepped forward.

“Flores first,” he told them, nodding to the largest man of their team. He wasn’t as tall as Rodriguez but nearly twice as wide, a bulk of muscle swaddled in a comfortable layer of fat. “If it can hold him, it can hold the rest of us,” Torres said, not bothering to lower his voice.

Flores tensed, but only until his boss added, “For Huáscar.” The man did as he was told and approached the bridge slowly.

So not cool, Santiago thought. But then, he didn’t offer to take Flores’s place.

The man let go of his gun, swinging it around so that it lay across his back. Then he gripped the side railings tightly and stepped forward.

Santiago held his breath as the bridge swung again, this time more forcefully. He wondered if he was in a nightmare.

With slow, shuffling steps, Flores moved forward, the bridge swaying from side to side but holding fast. Santiago was impressed by the man’s fortitude, and he even relaxed a little.

The structure gave no indication of fraying. Everything seemed to be progressing well…until Flores hit the halfway mark and made a very unfortunate mistake.

He looked down.

The man’s whole body tensed, muscles locking tight, motionless with panic. Santiago couldn’t blame him—his own heart hammered in his throat, nausea beating at the inside of his gut.

“Keep moving,” Torres said. The man flinched but didn’t budge. “Do you want Atahualpa’s descendant to beat you to the temple?”

Santiago saw his fingers spasm around the straw rope.

“Now, Flores!” Torres yelled, his voice firmer. When the Huáscaro remained immobile, he nodded at Leo.

Leo raised his gun, aiming it over Flores’s head. When the shot rang out, it echoed across the canyon, crackling and bouncing off stone.