Raiders of the Lost Heart
Jo Segura
For Mommo and Daddo, I hope it’s not too spicy for you.
Chapter
One
Yes. A thousand and one percent, yes.
Corrie Mejía’s thighs tensed under the antique wooden desk in her office as she gripped the arms of the matching chair. The old Mexican pine creaked under the tension as she forced her body to remain calm and commanded her face to appear as if she were still considering the offer presented by the balding, middle-aged man sitting across from her.
This was the moment she’d been waiting for since the day she’d decided to become an archaeologist. Now that it was finally happening, it took all her strength not to launch out of her seat and accept the job without knowing any details—not that it would be the first time. But who cared about details after hearing those glorious words, words she’d longed to hear for decades:
Because you, Dr. Socorro Mejía, are the world’s most brilliant archaeologist and the leading expert on the subject, we want you—and only you, because no one else could possibly measure up—for an all-expenses-paid and no-expense-spared expedition to Mexico to search for the remains of the Aztec warrior Chimalli and the tecpatl sacrificial knife he stole from Moctezuma II when he fled Tenochtitlán right before the downfall of the Aztec Empire.
Well, okay. He didn’t say it quite like that. It was more like I’ve been sent here by an anonymous investor to offer you a position on a Chimalli expedition.
But the implication was still there—no one knew more about Chimalli than Corrie. And she was fucking brilliant.
The dusty old clock she’d inherited from her grandmother ticked in the corner of her tiny office at Berkeley. Her office was only half the size of those of the other faculty members. Once you make tenure, you’ll get a bigger one, she’d been told. Funny how that had never happened. It wouldn’t have even crossed her mind if this stranger wasn’t practically right on top of her in the cramped space, able to observe every flinch. Every forced effort at maintaining composure.
The ticking grew louder with each passing second. And with each hammering beat, Corrie’s abuela’s words echoed through her ears.
If it’s too good to be true, there’s a catch.
Corrie had learned the truth behind those words the hard way. Now, at thirty-five years old, she’d trained herself to temper her gut reactions. Suss out the motives. Put in some evaluation before the adventure. Or, you know, maybe at least get a detail or two in advance of saying yes.
Because why—especially after rallying hard for the last eight years to find someone to finance this exact dig—would this güey she’d never seen or heard of in her entire life be coming to her now, offering her the job of all jobs. Her dream dig on an all-expenses-paid platter.
There had to be a catch. There was always a catch.
A knock on her door cut through the tension in the room, allowing her to release her hold on the chair.
“Come in,” she called out, giving the stranger a quick glance before swiveling her chair toward the door.
Her mentee, Dr. Miriam Jacobs, entered, clasping an assortment of books and papers under her arm.
“Hi, Dr. Mejía,” she said, noticing that Corrie had company, “I’m here for our one o’clock to discuss next semester’s course outline.”
Corrie glanced at the clock, and sure enough, their meeting should have started more than ten minutes ago. Right. Those were the details she should have been focusing on, given that the fall semester would be starting in a few short weeks. It wasn’t like her to be late or to blow people off. She wasn’t an “absentminded professor” or one of those my time is more important than your time types like some of her colleagues. In fact, Corrie prided herself on being down to earth. Someone her students admired rather than feared. A professor who was as entertaining over a pint of beer as she was in the classroom. A mentor for other young female archaeologists like Miriam to help navigate the patriarchal holdovers of the formerly male-dominated field.
But this unfamiliar person had showed up fifteen minutes ago and immediately started with, “I have a proposition that you’ll find very enticing,” before she could tell him she had an upcoming appointment. How was she supposed to refuse without at least hearing him out?
“Oh, I’m sorry, Miri. The time got away from me. Just give me—”
“Dr. Mejía won’t be handling any courses this fall.”
The stranger’s words about knocked the wind out of her. Enticing or not, Corrie Mejía did not take kindly to men speaking for her.
“Excuse me?” Corrie said, slowly cocking her head in the man’s direction.
“Dr. Mejía is leaving for Mexico in a few days,” the man clarified, speaking to Miriam as if Corrie weren’t in the room, “and she’ll be there at least through the semester.” He took off his glasses and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, proceeding to polish the lenses as if it were no big deal.
As if leaving for an unplanned trip to Mexico in a few days were no big deal.
“I’m not sure if you realize this, but I haven’t agreed yet,” Corrie snapped back.
“No, but you will.”
“Oh, I will, will I? Says who?” She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.
“Says the person who sent me here.” The man returned his glasses to his face. “I wouldn’t be here if there was even an inkling of a chance that you’d say no.”
Corrie’s mouth slackened, but nothing came out. Person? What person? Various names swirled through her head, but none made any sense. It couldn’t be any of the people she’d previously approached for funding, because why the need to remain anonymous? And she didn’t really know anyone else who had the financial means to pull off something like this, and certainly not someone who knew her well enough to be so sure that there wasn’t even an inkling of a chance that she’d say no. Few people knew Corrie at all—at least, not the real Corrie.
“Corrie?” Miriam asked, her voice strained with worry and confusion, pulling Corrie’s attention to the matter at hand.
“Um, uh, yes,” she said, standing and walking toward the door. “How about I e-mail you this afternoon and we can reschedule?”
Corrie held the door open for Miri, who took two tentative steps back while nodding and taking one last glance at the stranger before she closed the door. With her back to the man, she took a deep breath, then turned and leaned flush against the wood-paneled slab.
“Who sent you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Mejía, but that’s confidential.”
“All right . . . Then where would I be going?”
“Also confidential.”
Her eyebrow quirked up. “Okay . . . How am I supposed to direct this dig if I don’t know who I’m working for or where I’m going?”
“You’ll be assisting, not directing. The specifics will be left to the lead archaeologist.”
A tiny laugh escaped her lips as she tossed back her head and looked at the ceiling. He couldn’t be serious. No way was Corrie agreeing to play second fiddle on a Chimalli dig. Not even if succeeding on this dig could finally launch her into archaeology’s gated inner circle where she might be taken more seriously.