The figure steps off of the concrete ledge and Emelia's breath catches as they plummet to what will no doubt be their death, falling so fast they're almost impossible to follow.

Emelia hears when they hit the ground - a heavy thud that resounds across the street. She squints through the foliage, eyes going wide when the jumper appears to still be alive.

In the place of what should be a pile of broken bones and a growing pool of blood, is a man. Slowly, he unfurls from his crouch and moves into the line of the streetlights.

'Who are you calling a cockroach?' His voice is soft and smooth, no hint of pain or strain from the drop, and unease becomes a tight ball in Emelia's gut.

What. The. Fuck.

No one should be able to survive that kind of fall, let alone get up and walk afterwards, and it sends a chill straight down Emelia's spine.

If anyone else is shocked by the man's survival or that he heard Stanislav's words from up there, they don't show it.

'François Dashiell,' Stanislav drawls. 'I was wondering when you'd have the guts to show up.'

'You know what they say about being fashionably late.' The man named François continues moving until he reaches the centre of the road, putting him directly between Stanislav and Jacques. 'And I agree with my friend, quit the small talk and get to the point. Why are we here?'

'Your recent activities have caused some concern.'

'That's interesting because I haven't broken any laws.'

'Oh, but you have,' Stanislav says. 'Being here without expressed permission from the British government is a crime.'

'So is signing non-disclosure agreements with the British government to cover up unjustified slayings,' François replies, voice harsh. 'But you have problems with that.'

Stanislav takes another drag from his cigarette, the action relaxed and unhurried.

'I've absolutely no idea what you're talking about,' he says, and Emelia recognises the blasé tone of denial as one she's heard from her father too many times. 'The only agreement the prime minister and I have is in our shared belief that England has the right to be protected. We take the safety of this country's citizens very seriously and will not standby and watch you shed blood in the streets.'

'No blood has been shed,' Jacques cuts in. 'We haven't harmed anyone.'

'Yet,' Stanislav retorts. 'But it's only a matter of time. No one's safe when your kind is around.'

"Our kind," François says, voice dripping with disdain. 'You have some nerve speaking of us like that, after everything you've done.'

Stanislav flicks ash in François general direction; an insult even Emelia can see. He says, 'As much as I've enjoyed this little meet up, it's time for you to leave.'

Emelia can't properly see François' expression but she imagines it's as unforgiving as his voice. 'And if I'm not ready to?'

'My men and I are well within our rights to use deadly force.'

'That won't be necessary,' Jacques says, pushing away from the front of his car. 'We've had enough of London anyway. Isn't that right, François?'

François doesn't respond, nor does he move. He stares at Stanislav, his posture rigid. Seconds pass and the tension in the air grows. The men behind Stanislav shift minutely, their unease clear.

'François,' Jacques repeats warningly.

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Surprisingly, François appears to concede then. He glares at Stanislav for a moment longer before taking a step back and turning away.

Emelia notices Stanislav reaching for something from the inside of his long coat as François walks towards the car.

Jacques is opening the driver side door, his attention momentarily diverted, and François' back is turned, so neither of them see the object Stanislav pulls out.

That's- a gun. He has an actual gun. Emelia watches with wide eyes as Stanislav raises the weapon and aims it at the back of François' head.

A millisecond later Jacques is jumping into action. 'Fais attention!' he shouts.

François turns and Emelia can't force herself to look away, even when Stanislav pulls the trigger. Sofie flinches violently beside her as the gunshot rings out across the street.

'Backstabbing scum. How dare you,' François says, seething and somehow still very much alive, having moved so fast it was like he had just teleported out of the way of the bullet. But that's impossible. Right? So is surviving a fifty foot drop.

He lunges and grabs Stanislav's wrist. There's a sickening snap and Stanislav lets out a pained shout. The gun clatters to the ground.

Stanislav's men pull out weapons of their own but they all hesitate to fire when François forces the older man to face them and uses his body as a shield.

'What are you waiting for?' Stanislav shouts, struggling against François despite his broken wrist. 'Shoot them!'

'Oh no,' François says. 'I wouldn't waste my bullets if I were you.'

The events that transpire next all happen too fast to comprehend.

In a display of impossible strength, François lifts Stanislav clean off his feet and tosses him forward and then uses the momentary distraction to dart towards the closest man.

He grabs the guy by the hand that's holding the gun, pushes it upward, and then forces his finger down onto the trigger.

Another gunshot. The man drops like a rock, half of his head a mangled mess. His face just completely gone.

Emelia's stomach lurches and her eyes burn, and she still can't look away.

François wipes at the blood splatter on his face and licks his lips. Then he grins like a madman.

'Now blood has been spilled.'

Everything that happens after that is a blur.

François manages to take out another man and Jacques moves out from behind the car, some kind of object in his hand.

He charges the last man standing, somehow managing to dodge the bullets as more gunshots go off.

He swings his arm and the object - a wrench? - connects with the side of the man's head hard. He goes down and before he can attempt to get back up Jacques brings the wrench down again, and again, and again. Until there's too much blood and the guy is clearly dead.

It's the most violence Emelia has ever witnessed in her entire life, and if she wasn't so terrified she would be sick.

'You bloodsucking bastard,' Stanislav spits as François stalks towards him. 'You think you'll get away with this?'

'I already have,' François says before lashing out with a fist. Stanislav falls back but François grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and holds him up.

'I came here for answers,' François continues. 'But all I've found is lies. They haven't saved anyone.'

Stanislav snorts through a most likely broken nose, either from amusement or the lack of ability to breathe properly, it's impossible to tell. 'And let me guess; you will spare me if I tell you the truth.' His voice is filled with derision.

'No,' François says. 'By trying to slay me you have confirmed my suspicion that you're somehow involved. But if you tell me what I want to know, I'll kill you quickly.'

'Ha!' Stanislav gives a humourless cackle. 'What a deal. How could anyone resist!'

'Who gave the order, Stanislav?'

Stanislav hawks up fluid and spits it at François. 'Fuck you and your family, Dashiell,' he snarls. 'I would've danced on your mother's grave if her body hadn't been burned to ash.'

Any self control François may have had is obliterated by those words and a vicious, inhuman sound bursts from his mouth.

He grabs Stanislav's shoulder with one hand and gets a fistful of hair with the other and wrenches his head to the side. Stanislav jerks when François brings his face to his neck and then he screams, and Emelia can't understand what's happening. None of it makes sense. And then François is yanking his face away and blood is spraying like water from a fountain.

Stanislav's body seizes violently, and his cry tapers to a wet gurgle. As seconds pass, and blood continues to pour, his movements diminish until he is still. Dead.

François makes a sound of disgust and lets the body fall. Jacques approaches him a moment later.

'What happened to interrogating him?'

'I lost my temper.'

'I see,' Jacques sighs heavily. He glances down at himself and touches his left shoulder. 'Ah…'

François' head snaps up. 'You're hurt.'

'It's just a graze,' Jacques says. Turns out he hadn't managed to avoid every bullet after all. 'What do we do with the mess?'

'Leave it,' François says. 'It'll send a nice little message to the rest of them.'

They switch to conversing in French and Emelia is too stricken and overwhelmed to even attempt to figure out what else is being said.

Sofie is clutching at her, trembling, and Emelia implores with her eyes for her to remain quiet.

If either of them make even the slightest of sounds, they're as good as dead.

The two men move towards the car and Emelia experiences an inkling of hope that they both might walk away from this unscathed.

And then a terribly loud and familiar sound perforates the air.

Her phone's ringtone.