The clapping ceased. The silence that followed felt heavier, thicker than the dust.
The figure stood in the archway of the main entrance, framed by the bright morning sun. It was the woman from the park, the one James remembered not for her threat, but for her utterly sincere offer of "unprecedented tea" and her air of effortless, chilling elegance.
She was dressed impeccably, a tailored jacket of fine, midnight-blue fabric, high-collared, giving her a severe, aristocratic bearing. Her dark hair was slicked back, pulled into a knot so tight it seemed painful, yet somehow suited her flawless features. Her eyes, dark and sharp, were fixed on their position behind the drum.
And around her neck, a splash of vibrant, defiant colour: a striking, crimson silk scarf. It was tied with a practiced knot, the silk shimmering slightly in the light.
"Bravo, Agent Mei," the woman's voice drifted across the hall. It was low, cool, and carried with it the kind of confidence that required no volume. "You always were predictable. Chasing the courier instead of the prize. The means instead of the motive."
Mei remained utterly still, her only response a barely perceptible tightening of her grip on the microchip.
The woman stepped fully into the light, her eyes flicking to James, who was still trying to look casual while hiding behind a musical instrument. A small, patronizing smile touched her lips, utterly devoid of warmth.
"And Agent James. I see you retrieved your trinket." She gestured dismissively toward the battered tea caddy. "Sentimental attachments. The bane of good espionage. They reveal so much about a person's vulnerabilities."
"It's a tea caddy," James corrected, rising slowly to his full, lanky height. He placed the caddy carefully on the drum's polished head. "And it's not a trinket, Madam. It's a heritage item of considerable personal value. As for revealing vulnerabilities, I have found that a keen fondness for Earl Grey often makes one underestimated—a distinct advantage."
"You don't have a choice in the matter of your usefulness, Agent James," the woman stated, her smile hardening. "We need the chip. And we need you."
She raised her hand. It was a subtle, theatrical gesture. The air instantly filled with motion.
Two men, as large and silent as temple columns, detached themselves from the shadows near the doorway. They wore tailored black suits and had the lean, brutal efficiency of professional muscle. They began to advance, slow and inexorable.
"The trap," Mei hissed, shifting the syringe into her sleeve and gripping the microchip with a protective fierceness. She met James's eyes, her own blazing with a desperate command.
"Run, you clumsy idiot! To the West Wing! I'll hold them off!" Her voice was barely a whisper, a fierce injunction against the incoming threat. "Keep the chip moving!"
James didn't hesitate. He knew that look. 'Hold them off' was Mei's shorthand for 'I am about to engage in extreme, necessary violence that you would only complicate.' He scooped up the microchip and, crucially, the tea caddy, and turned to sprint towards the narrow, dust-laden doorway leading to the temple's oldest section.
Behind him, the scene erupted.
The clash was immediate and brutal. The first sound was the thunderous CRACK of Mei's foot impacting the chest of the nearest giant. A massive, low-lacquered terracotta urn shattered as the man was slammed into it. The second giant roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage, and the sound of his fist meeting the air where Mei's head had been a moment before was like a cannon shot.
James ran, the sounds of battle—shattering porcelain, grunts of effort, the sharp, whistling whoosh of martial arts strikes—providing a terrifying, frantic rhythm to his escape.