The world had narrowed to the circle of Jake's binoculars.
From his perch in a derelict tenement, he watched the street below with the detached calm of a god overseeing his creation. The cracked windowpane was the only barrier between the conductor and his orchestra. Every sound—the distant clatter of hooves, the faint hum of the waking city—faded beneath the rhythm of his plan unfolding.
A thin plume of gray smoke spiraled upward a few blocks away. Misha, he thought, with a flicker of approval. The first move. Seconds later, the clang of a fire bell echoed, followed by the thunder of a police wagon rushing past. Perfect. The patrol was gone, lured away exactly on cue.
He shifted the binoculars. On a rooftop nearby, a dark figure crouched among the chimneys—Kamo. A patient hunter poised to strike.
Then came the low growl of the armored wagon.
An ugly brute of steel plating and horse sweat, it rolled into view with the lazy confidence of authority. It turned the corner and halted. A cart with a broken wheel blocked the road. Viktor stood beside it, wringing his hands in theatrical distress.
The trap was sprung.
Two guards stepped down. One held a leather satchel. The other scanned the street with a professional's instinct. Jake focused on him—the young one, sharp eyes, hand on his revolver. A variable. A threat.
Pavel's men emerged from the alley. They tried to look casual. They failed. Tension radiated off them like heat.
The young guard noticed. Instantly. He didn't shout; he moved. Half a step back, pistol rising.
Time slowed.
From the opposite roof, a puff of smoke.
The rifle's crack split the air. The guard stopped mid-motion, a neat hole blooming at the base of his collar. He dropped soundlessly, his pistol skittering across the cobblestones.
One shot. One kill.
The street went still until the driver gasped—and then Pavel's men charged.
And then—complication.
A bakery door creaked open. A woman stepped out, loaf of bread in her hands. She saw everything: the masked men, the dead guard, the blood.
She screamed.
The sound knifed through the street, raw and primal.
Viktor panicked. The drills evaporated. He bolted toward her, knife raised.
Jake watched without horror or hesitation—only calculation. A scream meant patrols. Inconvenient, not fatal. A dead woman meant Stolypin's wrath and a citywide dragnet.
He leaned down to the speaking tube.
"Viktor. Leash him."
Another shot.
It hit the cobblestones an inch from Viktor's boot. Dust sprayed his legs. He froze, trembling. Message received.
Pavel seized the moment—one punch, brutal and clean, dropping the driver. His men hauled the iron-banded payroll chest from the wagon. It hit the street with a satisfying thud.
A police whistle shrieked in the distance.
Time was gone.
The crew scattered exactly as rehearsed, vanishing into the maze of alleys. Viktor stumbled after them, white-faced.
The street emptied. Only the broken cart, a fallen loaf, and a trembling woman remained.
Jake lowered his binoculars. His pulse was steady. His mind, quiet.
No thrill. No disgust.
Only the cold satisfaction of a problem solved.
The operation was a success.
The cellar roared with savage triumph.
Pavel slammed the payroll chest onto the floor. The crowbar bit deep, the lock snapped, and bundles of rubles spilled out like treasure. The gang erupted—shouts, laughter, the dull thud of boots stomping in celebration. Vodka passed hand to hand like a trophy.
Pavel swaggered toward Jake, his one good eye blazing with victory. He scooped a fistful of cash into a burlap sack and shoved it into Jake's hands.
"You earned this, planner," he said, clapping him so hard the impact stung. "We'd be corpses without you. Drink!"
The sack was heavy. Too heavy. The coarse fabric scratched his fingers. The smell of sweat, liquor, blood—it clung to the money like a curse. The weight wasn't rubles. It was cost.
Viktor lurched forward, drunken anger bubbling. "You!" he spat. "You almost got us killed! That shot—the woman—"
The cellar went still.
Jake didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Her scream," he said softly, "would have brought a patrol. Scared men. Clumsy men. A nuisance."
He stepped closer. Viktor shrank.
"But your knife in her throat would have brought the Okhrana's murder division. Stolypin's best. They would seal this district and peel the streets open until they found you."
The words hit like hammer blows.
"I didn't almost get you killed," Jake finished. "I saved your life from your own fear."
Silence. Then the men turned away from Viktor—angry, ashamed, afraid.
Jake's authority had been forged in planning. Now it was sealed in blood.
The door creaked. Misha slipped in, pale and sweating. "It's done," he gasped. "The fire, the run… I left the package behind the brick. Just like you said."
For a moment, something warm flickered in Jake's chest. Hope—a fragile spark.
"Good," he said. "You did well."
Misha straightened, pride glowing in his face.
Jake gripped the sack of money. He had proven he could survive among criminals. Now he had to see whether he could still become a revolutionary.
Borjomi smelled of pine and mountain air—crisp, clean, alive. But for Kato, it was a cage.
The resort's elegance meant nothing. Weeks had passed in silence. No letters. No messages. Just waiting, wondering, fearing.
The Soso she had loved had been a poet who spoke of justice like prayer. But the man who sent her away from Tbilisi had been different—cold, calculating, stripped of softness. She had seen that change in his eyes when he killed.
Kamo fears him now, she realized. Even I fear him.
Yet love, stubborn and foolish, refused to die. If any part of the man she knew remained, she had to find him.
She dressed plainly. Respectable. Invisible. She entered the teahouse and took a quiet corner. Every coat looked like an agent's. Every whisper seemed dangerous.
When the waiter passed, she asked, "I'm looking for Mr. David Zaguri. The teacher."
He looked startled, shook his head, walked off.
She felt like a fool. She was about to leave when a shadow fell across her table.
A thin man with hollow cheeks sat down uninvited.
"Ekaterina Svanidze?" he whispered. "You are Dzhugashvili's wife?"
Her breath caught. She nodded.
"I'm Zaguri," he murmured. "You must leave. Now. Borjomi isn't safe. Asking questions here is suicide."
He glanced around the room, eyes shaking.
"The network in Tbilisi is gone. Not damaged. Erased. They arrested everyone. The Okhrana knew everything—names, safe houses, dead drops. All of it."
Her stomach twisted. "How?" she whispered.
"They say there's a ghost," he said. "A traitor high up. Feeding the Okhrana."
Then he stiffened.
His gaze locked on a table near the entrance.
Two men sat there, coats buttoned, faces blank. They weren't drinking. They weren't talking.
They were watching.
Zaguri swallowed. "They followed me," he breathed. "God help us. They know you're here."
Kato turned slowly. The men's eyes met hers—flat, professional, patient.
The warm teahouse became a trap.
She realized she wasn't closer to her husband at all.
She had only led the hunters straight to her.