Indiana Jones meets Hugh Nibley and they both get smacked upside the head by National Treasure. Sort of.
O’Connor drew his lungs full of morning mountain air and studied the world around him. The glowing sun, not yet risen above the peaks surrounding him, would soon be coming up and burning away the clouds hanging just above the eternal Incan mountains. The air was cool and crisp here, some 8000 feet above the valley floor, and no longer reeked of the smell of decay and putrefaction as it did in the jungle below. Eaglets could be heard somewhere among the pines and conifers—whether above him or below, he did not know. Their song was for him, for him alone: a song of eagerness and discovery. A song his heart had sung many times. All in all it was a fine day to be alive.
And a horrible day to die.
O’Connor kept the rope wound tightly around one arm and behind his back, although he was not sure why. It was comforting, in a habitual sort of way. But highly illogical; no matter how tightly he clung to it there was scant chance the rope would do him much good once Salamanca finished gnawing through it with his blade.
O’Connor glanced up at his assassin, the hideous Peruvian with teeth as twisted and corroded as his personality. He was not an assassin, not really, O’Connor corrected himself. Just an opportunistic and self-serving grave robber. Not a very bright one, but savage and ferocious all the same.