Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,30

Her Sig Sauer’s in her hand, and her eyes are as flat as a snake’s.

When they’ve gone, Oxana and I grab our rucksacks and race through unlit corridors to the rear of the building. Outside, visible through heavy glass-paneled doors, is a snow-covered car park and garbage collection area. Oxana gives it a single wary glance and pulls me back the way we came.

“They’ll have it covered,” she says. “We’ve got to go back up to the apartment. We need the service staircase.”

“Who are ‘they’?” I ask Oxana, and she just looks at me. We both know who they are.

The Twelve have found us.

By the time we get upstairs Kris is dead. Dasha carried her body to their bedroom, and when she emerges, her face like stone, she’s all business. She hits the phone, issuing orders and summoning her soldiers from their various apartments in the building. Oxana, meanwhile, crouches at one of the front-facing windows, scanning the street with a pair of binoculars. I busy myself checking and re-checking my Glock, and keeping out of the others’ way. I’m light-headed with shock. I keep thinking about Kris’s coat. The coat that I’ve worn at least every other day for the last fortnight. The coat that I gave her.

“We have three men in a black Mercedes,” Oxana says after a couple of minutes. “I’m pretty sure they’re… Yes, they’re all armed. Getting out of the car. Approaching the building now.”

As she finishes speaking, there’s an urgent triple buzz at the front door of the apartment. It’s three of the boyeviki, carrying automatic weapons and spare magazines. Dasha hurries them in, a heavy Makarov pistol in her hand, and issues a terse series of orders. Two of the soldiers return through the front door to take up position on the stairs and landing outside, the third starts upending tables and heavy furniture in the apartment’s entrance hall. Oxana, meanwhile, runs around switching off lights and pulling curtains closed. In a firefight darkness favors those who know the terrain.

“It’s me they want,” I tell Dasha, suddenly sure of my words. “They shot Kris because she was wearing my coat. Send me out to them. Please, don’t risk anyone else’s life.”

Dasha frowns distractedly. “Go to my bedroom,” she says. “Shut yourself in.”

“Do it, Eve,” Oxana confirms, and I obey. I feel as if I’m sleepwalking, as if I’m no longer in charge of the business of putting one leg in front of the other.

Kris, her eyes still open, has been laid out on her back on the double bed. The ghastly exit wound can’t be seen. The only visible sign of the shot that killed her is a neat hole in the blue velvet coat, over her heart.

Seeing her there, surrounded by her fairy posters and unicorn statuettes, I begin to weep. I feel so lost, so useless, so guilty. I know that Oxana, Dasha and the bodyguards know what they’re doing, and that I’d only be in the way, but this powerlessness is horrible, particularly since I’m responsible for Kris’s death. And then there’s Dasha. I don’t warm to her, but Oxana and I have brought nothing into her life except mayhem, and the vengeance of the Twelve. And now Dasha is putting her life on the line to defend us.

From the street, far below, I hear a faint splintering, as the attackers kick in the front door of the building. It’s followed by a sporadic popping sound, at first distant, but soon rising in volume as the boyeviki engage the attackers. I should feel fear, but I don’t. Sitting on the bed, loaded weapon in hand, I feel nothing except a flat sadness. From the other end of the apartment there’s a shattering crash as the front door gives way, followed by confused shouting and staccato bursts of gunfire. Someone is screaming, and although I know that it’s not Oxana’s voice I’m weak with terror at the thought of losing her. The screaming dies to an intermittent groaning.

I have to help. Or at least try to.

Touching my pocket to check for spare Glock magazines, I make for the door, and turn the key with trembling fingers. Outside a passage leads to the darkened reception room where we gathered before dinner with the late Pakhan.

As I step into the passage, the tears drying on my cheeks, a ringing silence prevails. There’s the crack of a handgun from the entrance hall, shockingly amplified in the enclosed space, and silence again. I creep through