The change was instant. One heartbeat the safe house was tense but controlled. The next it was moving at full sprint. Sirens rose in the distance—thin at first, then swelling. The net was closing.
Kamo didn't wait for orders. He welcomed the crisis like air after drowning.
"Sandro, archives—burn it all! Mikheil, weapons—carry what we can, smash the rest! Davri, back ways—clear them now!"
Men snapped into motion. Years of training took over. Paper flared in the iron stove. Smoke stung the eyes. Lists, reports, maps—gone in mouthfuls of fire. Each soft thud of ash felt like cutting off a limb to save the body.
Jake didn't look at any of it. He had one task.
He pushed into the small room. Kato stood frozen, hands clasped tight, eyes wide. She'd heard the shouts. She smelled the smoke. She knew.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
No time to soften it. No room for lies. The mask dropped. Husband off. Commander on.
"We're leaving," he said, voice flat. "Now. The house is blown. You're in danger. Coat."
The tone hit her harder than the words. This wasn't the man she'd chased across a continent. This was a stranger made of angles and ice. She fumbled for her coat.
He didn't wait. Two long strides. A firm grip on her arm. Not cruel—just impersonal.
"This way. Stay close. Don't speak."
They moved through smoke and noise. Men shattered rifle stocks on stone. The stove roared like a furnace at a wake. Jake led her through the kitchen, down a narrow hall, to a reinforced back door. He shoved it open.
Cold air. A filthy cobblestone alley. Sirens closer now. Shouts carried on the wind. A dog barked itself hoarse somewhere in the dark.
The grandmaster was gone. The fugitive took his place. His mind mapped shadows, corners, blind turns. Routes clicked past like beads on a string. He pulled Kato with him, never loosening his grip. She stumbled on uneven stones but kept up, breath coming in sharp, scared bursts.
They stopped in the shadow of a dead stable, blocks from the house. A farmer's cart waited, harness on a tired horse. The driver's hat brim hid his face.
This was the ride. It should've left at dawn. It would leave now, under sirens.
"Soso, what is going on?" Kato asked. Her voice cracked. She searched his face for the man she knew. "Please. Tell me."
He couldn't. He wouldn't. I raised a ghost. I won and still lost. I lit a city on fire and put you in its path. None of that would protect her. Truth would stain her. He chose the only shield he trusted—distance.
"Party business," he said, voice like ice. He kept his gaze just past her shoulder. "Tbilisi is no longer safe. The driver is loyal. He'll take you to Borjomi. He has instructions."
The cold landed harder than a blow. Whatever ember of hope she had left guttered. This didn't sound like a promise. It sounded like a dismissal.
"Is this it?" she whispered. "Is this what you've become?"
He had no answer that wasn't a lie or a confession. He opened the cart door and helped her up. Her hand was cold.
"Do not try to contact me," he said. "I'll contact you. When it's over."
He shut the door. The sound echoed down the alley. The driver clicked his tongue. The cart groaned forward and slipped into the dark.
Jake stood alone. The city's chaos rolled over him like a tide.
He'd saved her. The weak point was out of the blast radius. Shaumian would likely walk free. On paper, the night was a win.
It tasted like ash.
Stolypin had stolen the story and turned it into a weapon. The Tbilisi network—months of work—was scattered and running. And Kato had seen what he was now. Not a man carrying a burden. A shell that moved and commanded and cut.
He stared into the empty alley where the cart had vanished.
He had never been stronger. He had bent reality. He had matched the sharpest mind in the empire.
And he had never felt more alone.