The air in the cellar was thick enough to choke on—vodka, sweat, and the sharp tang of fear. In the flickering yellow light of a single oil lamp, Pavel's crew prepared for war.
It was pitiful to watch.
Viktor, the muscle, ran a knife against a whetstone with jerky, uneven strokes. The sound wasn't the calm rhythm of a man sharpening steel; it was the frantic scrape of someone trying to grind courage into existence.
Across from him, Misha, a wiry rat of a man, fumbled with his cigarettes. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the match three times before he lit it. The ember flared, revealing wide, terrified eyes.
Pavel stood apart, arms crossed over his chest. He tried to look steady, but his clenched jaw betrayed him. He was a brawler, not a commander. Fights in taverns were one thing. Attacking armed men under orders was another. This was war, and he was out of his depth.
A bottle of vodka made its way around the room. Each man drank deep, desperate for courage. They muttered bravado through cracked lips—about how fast they'd strike, how quickly the guards would fold. Empty words to hide the tremor in their voices.
The door creaked open.
Jake stepped inside, Kamo a dark mountain at his back. Conversation died instantly. Every head turned.
Jake paused, taking them all in. The fear, the drink, the trembling hands. Somewhere deep inside, the remnant of Jake Vance—the teacher, the human being—felt pity. But the other voice, the new one, colder and harder, buried it.
That voice—the one that sounded more and more like Stalin—didn't see frightened men. It saw broken tools that needed fixing.
"Put the bottle away," Jake said.
The tone was soft, almost polite. But it hit the room like a whip.
Misha froze. He looked to Pavel.
For a heartbeat, Pavel hesitated. Then he met Jake's eyes and stopped breathing. The wounded stranger in front of him didn't look like a man bluffing. He looked like a man who expected to be obeyed.
Pavel gave a short nod. "You heard him. Put it down."
Misha set the bottle on the floor as if it might explode.
Jake moved to the overturned barrel that served as a table and began setting up the crude markers—salt shaker, spoon, glass shard. "We walk through it again," he said. "From the start."
For the next hour, he became something else. Not a guest. Not a partner. A commander.
"Misha," he barked, "the fire. What's your route after you light it?"
Misha blinked. "I—I run north. Toward the station."
"Which streets?"
"I don't—uh, the main—"
"The main road has the patrol you're trying to avoid." Jake's words were cold and sharp. "You'll run straight into them. Kamo—show him the alleys again."
Kamo pulled Misha aside, his low rumble filling the silence.
Jake turned to Viktor. "The cart. What happens if a police carriage shows up before the wagon?"
"I tell them the axle broke," Viktor said quickly.
"And when four armed men step out to help you?" Jake asked. "What then?"
Viktor's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"You walk away," Jake said flatly. "The diversion's gone, but the mission lives. You don't improvise. You don't die for nothing. You follow the plan."
Viktor nodded, pale.
By the time Jake was finished, their swagger was gone. They weren't drunks in a cellar anymore. They were soldiers with a plan—and one man holding the reins.
And somewhere between the barking orders and the fearful nods, Jake felt something dark rise in his chest.
Not guilt. Not disgust.
Pride.
This is power, the voice inside whispered. Not the empty respect of politicians. Real power. The kind that makes men move because you told them to.
He understood, for the first time, how it must have felt for Stalin—not the paranoia, not the fury, but the cold, intoxicating clarity of control. The knowledge that your mind was the only one that mattered.
Kamo waited until the others drifted away, then pulled him aside. His face was tight, uneasy. "Soso," he said quietly, "this isn't for the party. This isn't revolution. It's just theft."
He was searching for the man he used to follow—the one who believed bloodshed meant progress.
Jake met his gaze, voice low and steady. "The party's gone, Kamo. This city's a grave. We have no contacts, no money, no allies. Survival is the ideology now. We live today so we can fight tomorrow."
Kamo stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. Something in his faith cracked.
Jake turned back to the gangsters. They were silent now, watching him. The fear hadn't vanished—it had changed shape.
Before, they'd feared the police.
Now, they feared him.
"You follow the plan," he said. "Exactly as I gave it. No improvisation. No heroes. Do that, and you'll live long enough to spend your share."
He pushed open the cellar door. A sliver of grey morning light cut through the gloom.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to. They would follow.
Jake stepped into the cold, filthy dawn. The city smelled of ash and rot, but to him it smelled like something else entirely—purpose.
The strategist inside him hummed with terrible energy.
The operation had begun.