The rooftops became a jagged maze of slate and shadow. The first rush of adrenaline faded, replaced by pain and panic.
Jake stumbled, his left arm a dead weight that burned with every step. The slick tiles shifted under his boots. He was no fighter, no climber—his world had always been made of words, not rooftops. Each leap felt like a calculated suicide.
Kamo moved like he'd been born to it—fast, fluid, fearless. He leapt gaps that made Jake's stomach twist, his boots landing sure on narrow ledges. His hand clamped around Jake's good arm, dragging him along, half hauling him over every obstacle. Kamo's silence spoke volumes: Soso's mind had built empires, but now it was his body that would get them both killed.
Below, the streets erupted with noise. Whistles cut the night air. Shouts echoed through alleys. The Okhrana were everywhere. Dark figures began to appear on nearby rooftops, disciplined and relentless.
"This way!" Kamo barked, pulling him toward a rusted ladder leading into a pitch-black air shaft.
They descended into the stink and gloom, feet scraping rusted iron. When they emerged, they were in a narrow, filthy alley—a hidden artery of the city's underbelly.
Jake leaned against a wall, gasping. "The emergency safe house," he wheezed. "Ligovsky Prospekt. It should be clean."
Kamo shook his head. "If they found the main one, they've found them all. Stolypin doesn't do things halfway. It's over. We're on our own."
The words hit harder than any bullet. Jake understood the full weight of it now: every contact, every cell, gone or compromised. His network wasn't wounded—it was dead.
They slipped into an abandoned warehouse, down into a half-collapsed cellar that smelled of mold and stagnant water. Jake collapsed against the cold brick, his strength finally gone. The pain in his arm was a dull, throbbing pulse that matched his heartbeat.
Kamo struck a match. In the flickering light, he tore a strip from his shirt and examined the wound. The bullet had torn through, ugly but clean. Blood still oozed darkly.
"You're lucky," he muttered, binding it tight. "An inch either way and you'd be dead."
Jake stared at the blood soaking the linen. Shame washed over him—heavy, suffocating. His intellect, his foresight, his cleverness—useless. Out here, in the real, physical world, he was a burden. The man of thought had become dead weight, carried by the man of action.
"We can't stay here," Kamo said. "We'll freeze or they'll find us by dawn."
Jake's voice was small, stripped of authority. "Then what?"
Kamo hesitated. "There are places," he said finally. "Not Party safe houses. Brotherhoods. Artels. Dock gangs, factory crews. They hate the Okhrana. They might shelter us—for a price."
It was desperate, almost suicidal. Criminals, smugglers, angry workers—wolves that might eat them as quickly as they offered protection. But it was their only move left.
They slipped through the city's veins—narrow alleys, empty courtyards, puddles shining under gaslight. Kamo led them north, toward the Vyborg district, where the air smelled of smoke and iron.
At last, they reached a narrow door tucked behind a row of crumbling tenements. The smell of cheap vodka drifted from within. Kamo knocked three times, in a slow, rhythmic pattern.
The door cracked open. A hard, suspicious face appeared. After a quiet exchange in Russian, they were allowed inside.
The traktir was low and smoky, filled with hard men drinking harder liquor. The conversations stopped as they entered. Dozens of eyes—cold, suspicious, and unwelcoming—fixed on the strangers.
Kamo kept his hands visible, his tone even. "We're looking for Pavel."
A massive man stepped forward from the bar—a giant with a beard like steel wire and one blind, milky eye. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Grigori," Kamo lied. "We've had a… disagreement with the Okhrana. We need a place to rest. We can pay."
Pavel barked a short, humorless laugh. "Brothers in the struggle, eh? You look like talkers. We're workers. We've no time for speeches." He took a step closer, looming. "No time for your kind at all."
Jake felt the tension coil in the room. One wrong word, and they'd both die here.
But then Pavel's gaze fell on Jake's torn coat, the blood soaking through the sleeve. His expression shifted. He saw the wound. The exhaustion. The fear.
"Okhrana?" he asked quietly.
Kamo met his gaze and nodded once.
Something dark flickered across Pavel's face—memory, pain, rage. "My brother was a printer," he said. "They took him for helping your people. We never saw him again."
The silence that followed was heavy as stone. Then Pavel spat on the floor.
"Get them in the back," he said gruffly. "And get them a drink." He looked at Kamo, his good eye burning. "Anyone the Okhrana wants this badly," he growled, "is a friend of mine."