Killing Eve: Bloodline (12)

The twelfth episode of a new Killing Eve adventure, published exclusively on Substack

            Villanelle steps forward, glass in hand. 'Let go of her' she says mildly. 'She's mine.' She takes the cocktail stick from her glass, casually lifts the cherry to her mouth, and sucks it in.

            No one moves. The silence in the room is absolute. The dark-haired man peers incomprehendingly at Villanelle, decides to ignore her, and tightens his grip on Eve's hair. 'One.'

            Eve winces but doesn't cry out. She slows her breathing and wills herself to remain motionless. She knows, with absolute certainty, what's about to happen.

            'Two.'

            'Let her go,' Villanelle says calmly. 'Or I'll kill you.'

            The dark-haired man turns back to her, and as he opens his mouth to speak, Villanelle draws the cocktail stick from between her lips and jabs it, with matador precision, deep into the pupil of his left eye.

            It happens so fast that the other man, the blond man, doesn't quite see it. He sees his colleague slump to his knees, dragging Eve down with him. He sees him drop his weapon and sees Eve grab it, and he makes the decision to shoot her. But by then it's too late, because Eve has already fired - deafeningly, in that enclosed space - and shot the thumb and first finger from his gun hand. The blond man stares open-mouthed at the bloody remains of his hand, then starts to sidle towards his dropped automatic. He never reaches it, because the four dwarves race across the dancefloor and fall on him like wolves.

            The dark-haired man is still on his knees, bellowing incoherently as he plucks at the silver poodle that seems to be dancing on his eyeball. Villanelle watches him for a moment, notes a strand of Eve's hair still curled round his fingers, and reaches for the long chef's knife lying beside the birthday cake. Placing her fingers precisely, she punches the blade through the thin bone of his temple so that it penetrates for more than half its length. The dark-haired man slumps to his haunches, slack-faced and gibbering, then topples sideways. Beyond him the blond man is lying face down, writhing furiously on the blood-smeared floor. A dwarf has his thighs clamped around his neck, two others are pinioning his arms with a length of electrical flex, and a fourth is lashing his feet together with a belt. It's only then that Eve notices that everyone around her is screaming.

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           I hurry Oxana upstairs, forcing my way through the guests, dragging Valentin behind us. Outside, there's a sharp breeze, and the pavements are spotted with rain. The three of us race towards Park Street, and I wave down a taxi. We squash into the rear seat, with Valentin between us. He buckles up and leans forward, speechless with shock. Oxana inclines her head against the seat and gazes at me, her eyes shining. She reaches for me and strokes my neck, twirling her fingers in my hair. ‘We did well,’ she whispers, and I agree that we did.

            Much later, when we've spoken at length to Nikolai, and he's spoken to Johnny, and an official version of events has been decided upon, Oxana and I fall into bed. It's dawn, and a thin grey light is showing between the curtains. We're exhausted, and at the same time vividly awake. Oxana hovers over me, and explores my face. She smells of hours-old sweat, gunshot residue and and Bleu de Chanel. 'You are mine, aren't you?' she says. Her face is so close it's a blur of smudgy mascara, freckled cheekbone and dark blonde hair. 'Do you need to ask?' I murmur, and she sinks down on top of me. 'Just checking.' I’m always surprised by how heavy she is. Muscle, I suppose. She snuffles and sighs, animal-like, throws out an arm, and starts to snore. She's always been a messy sleeper.

            I have no idea what time we get up. Nikolai and Johnny join us for breakfast. They’ve been up all night, and watch with awed fascination as Oxana demolishes at least ten pancakes with raspberry jam. Both seem confident that there won't be any embarrassing fallout from what we're all assuming was an attempt to kidnap Valentin, and then ransom him. Who the two men were, or who they worked for, they don't yet know, but the finger definitely points towards Russia. Johnny assures us that the press and police side of things will be handled, and an appropriate version of events will appear in the papers and on the news. No one who was present will ever go public with what they saw; the super-rich live by a very strict law of omerta.

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            In her office, Balice leans forward at her desk and presses her fingers to her temples. Two faces fill the screen in front of her. Denis Borzhko and Gyorgiy Peskov, both senior officers in the GRU, the Russian military intelligence service. Borzhko is dead - stabbed through the brain, bizarrely - and Peskov has been beaten to within an inch of his life and is under police guard in St Mary's Hospital, Paddington. What a total, utter shitshow. Could it have something to do with the upcoming Russian elections? Something to do with the Twelve's Sanctify operation, whatever the hell that is?

            Balice touches her keyboard, and a new image appears. It's not the first time she's seen it, but it makes her want to vomit. Bilyana Ilieva and Johnny Fernandes, deep in conversation at the Indian Military and Sporting Club. Uttara's phone picture is blurred and tilted, but the pair are unmistakeable.

            Bili. That sweet-seeming girl. A Twelve honey-trap all along. I am so fucked. I am so royally fucking fucked.