As the ground suddenly stopped shaking underfoot, I slowed to a jog and turned around for a look. Then I stopped to stare, hugging my arms to my aching chest. Both the convent and the church of Izamal were no more than piles of rubble—grave markers for Gus, the bacab of Quetzalcóatl, and any rebels and Azzie troops who hadn’t been fortunate enough to get out in time.