It was still dark when Christine woke, her arm still around Harrison’s waist, her cheek pressed against his chest. She pulled him closer as the cobwebs slowly cleared.
“Miss O’Connor,” she heard him say, only his voice was different somehow.
She wrapped her arm tighter around his waist and snuggled deeper under his arm.
“Miss O’Connor,” he said again in a strange voice.
She opened her eyes and looked up, confused when she saw the face of Chief O’Hara in the dim light. His arm was draped around her shoulders and she had her arm tight around his waist. Christine sat bolt upright, coming to her senses.
O’Hara seemed unfazed by her reaction. “It’s almost time, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “Transportation will be here soon.”
Christine examined her surroundings—she was sitting where she had snuggled next to Harrison. The two SEALs must have switched places during the night for Harrison’s turn on watch. She searched the storm drain, spotting the Lieutenant sitting near the opening where the water gushed into the culvert, staring into the distance. She glanced at her watch but couldn’t determine what time it was in the faint light coming from the street lamp atop the embankment.
She turned to O’Hara. “What time is it?”
“Five A.M.”
O’Hara stood, slinging the backpack over his shoulder with one hand while extending the other to Christine, helping her to her feet. She followed him to the storm drain opening where they sat next to Harrison without a word.
A few minutes later, a car stopped on the road atop the embankment. She could only see the top of a white sedan, its red hazard lights blinking in the darkness. An elderly Chinese man, with creased face and silver hair, appeared next to the guardrail, hands in his pockets.
Christine followed the two SEALs as they emerged from the storm drain and headed up the embankment. She stepped over the guardrail as Harrison and O’Hara stopped beside the man. There was a quick exchange of words and the three men headed toward the car.
“In back with Chief, “Harrison said as he opened the front passenger door. Christine followed Harrison’s instructions and slid into the rear seat behind the driver. The four doors closed with solid thuds, and the elderly man turned to Christine.
“I am Yuan Gui,” he said. He reached down toward Harrison’s feet and pulled up a small canvas bag, retrieving three bottles of water he passed to Christine and the two SEALs. Christine eyed the bottled water in her hand suspiciously. After everything they’d been through, she wondered whether she could trust Yuan. However, Harrison and O’Hara broke the bottle cap seals and quenched their thirst, and Christine did the same as Yuan reached into the canvas bag again, retrieving a pistol.
“I have no extra magazines for your MP7s. However, I have two SIG P226s, with four magazines each. Will they do?”
Harrison and O’Hara exchanged glances, with O’Hara shaking his head. “We’ll go with our MP7s,” Harrison answered.
“Then how about this for the lady?” Yuan reached into the bag again, pulling out a small semiautomatic pistol with a silencer screwed into the end of the barrel. “A Glock 26.”
“No thanks,” Harrison answered, but Christine leaned forward quickly, taking the small subcompact pistol from Yuan’s hand. “That’ll be just fine,” she said.
Harrison turned toward her. “Put the gun back.”
Christine ignored him as she verified the safety was on, then dropped the magazine into her hand—ten rounds—then pulled back the slide valve, verifying the chamber was empty. She reinserted the magazine, then released the slide, chambering a round, then slid the subcompact pistol into the waistband of her pants. She looked up, and Harrison was staring at her with the same stern eyes he’d had when he tried to talk her out of joining them on their mission. She stared back at him with a dispassionate glare.
“Put the gun back,” he said again. “Having you help will do more harm than good.”
Harrison’s overprotectiveness, combined with his dismissal of her ability to help, aside from gaining entry to the Great Hall, was a source of lingering irritation.
“My ex-husband taught me to shoot,” she said. “At twenty-five feet, I can put a bullet through a man’s head or heart, whichever is more appropriate.” She glared coldly at Harrison.
O’Hara grinned, but she could see anger smoldering in Harrison’s eyes. She wasn’t giving the gun back, but she needed to diffuse the situation. “I promise not to use it unless you tell me first,” she offered.
Harrison and Christine stared each other down, until Harrison finally acceded. “Have it your way,” he said, “but let’s get one thing straight. You will do exactly what I say from here on out or you’ll be staying in the car with Yuan. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Christine said dryly.
There was a momentary silence, broken as Yuan reached into the bag again, retrieving one final item—a black windbreaker, which he handed to O’Hara.
“So, where to?” Yuan asked as O’Hara took the jacket.
“The Great Hall of the People,” Harrison answered.
Yuan raised an eyebrow, studying first Harrison, then O’Hara. Convinced Harrison wasn’t joking, he engaged the clutch and shifted into first gear. The manual transmission grinded momentarily as the sedan pulled away from the guardrail into a U-turn, steadying up on the two-lane road leading back into Beijing.