The Bolshevik safe house felt like a boiler ready to burst. No one spoke. The air was thick with fear and frustration. News of Shaumian's transfer to the Metekhi Citadel had crushed what little calm they had left.
They waited. And waiting was the worst thing a revolutionary could do. They were soldiers without orders, staring at walls, listening for footsteps. All eyes turned to Kamo, but even he was restless—his gaze fixed on the closed door where Soso sat with Kato.
Jake sat across from her, nursing a cup of tea that had long gone cold. The silence between them wasn't peaceful. It was suffocating. He tried to act like the man she remembered, but the mask didn't fit anymore. Every word he didn't say, every glance he avoided, made the distance between them stretch wider.
Inside him, two men were fighting—the cold strategist and the man with guilt still clinging to his bones. He couldn't afford to be both.
The knock came like a gunshot.
The door opened, and Sandro stepped in, his face drawn but his eyes burning. He held out a crumpled note.
"A message," he said. "From our man inside Golovin Avenue."
Jake was up instantly. The tea cup clattered forgotten on the table. He took the note and his cipher key, hands moving with mechanical precision. Kato watched him—half in awe, half in fear. The shift in him was clear now. This wasn't her husband. This was someone else entirely.
He decoded the message quickly. Then he read it aloud as Kamo entered behind his lieutenant.
"He's in," Jake said. "Three hours held. Interrogated by Volkov. Story holding. Directorate in panic. Shaumian's indictment suspended. Morozov's telegraphed St. Petersburg for orders."
The room went still.
Kamo blinked, then let out a breath that turned into a hoarse laugh. "Soso," he muttered, almost reverently. "You magnificent bastard. You did it."
Jake's lips curled into a thin smile. It wasn't joy—it was control. Cold, sharp, exhilarating control. The rush hit him harder than any victory in his old life. He had done the impossible.
He saw it all in his head—Stolypin in his grand office, staring down at a telegram that shattered his perfect case. The image was intoxicating. They're playing checkers, he thought. I'm playing something else entirely.
Kato saw that smile and felt a chill. It wasn't the smile of the man she'd loved. It was the smile of someone dangerous. Someone who enjoyed winning too much.
The victory didn't last.
Another message came at dusk. Different channel, different contact—a typesetter at the Tiflissky Listok. The paper was marked urgent.
Jake decoded it, and the color drained from his face.
"What is it?" Kamo asked.
Jake's voice was low and tight. "St. Petersburg responded. Stolypin isn't burying the story. He's weaponizing it." He read the words aloud.
"'In a triumph for law and order, Bolshevik terrorist Luka Mikeladze—once believed murdered by his own comrades—has escaped and sought the protection of the state. Tomorrow, he will expose the criminal methods of the Bolsheviks in a public press conference.'"
No one spoke. The air in the room curdled.
Then Kamo erupted. He slammed his fist into the wall, rattling a portrait of Marx. "He's turned your trick against us! Your ghost is now his proof! We've saved Shaumian only to damn the entire party!"
Jake's thoughts spun, trying to catch up. He had expected Stolypin to cover the scandal—to act like a bureaucrat. But Stolypin had seen an opportunity, not a mess. He had turned the lie into a weapon.
He's not cleaning it up, Jake realized. He's using it to burn us alive.
The brilliance of it stung. Stolypin wasn't just winning the propaganda war—he was reshaping it. The "resurrected" Luka Mikeladze wasn't a mistake anymore. He was now the perfect symbol of Bolshevik treachery.
And Jake had handed him the story on a silver platter.
Before the shock could settle, a young runner burst in, gasping for breath.
"Raids!" the boy shouted. "Everywhere! The Okhrana's tearing through the city—safe houses, meeting spots, all of them! They're using the hunt for Mikeladze's kidnappers as cover!"
Jake's stomach dropped. It all clicked at once. Stolypin's counterstrike wasn't just propaganda—it was total war.
Step one: turn the story.
Step two: justify the raids.
Step three: wipe the revolution off the map.
He looked at Kamo. "The main safe house?"
Kamo's voice was grim. "They know it. Always have. They let us stay because it was convenient. But now? It's compromised. We move. Tonight."
Jake's mind shifted gears. The strategist was gone; the survivor took over.
"Evacuation protocols," he said, his tone cutting through the noise. "Burn everything. No groups larger than two. Scatter to tertiary sites. You and I cover the rear."
He turned toward the back room where Kato waited, her fear still unspoken.
"I'll get her," he said.