Night fell over St. Petersburg like a shroud, smothering sound and hiding sin. The Vyborg district turned into a maze of silent factories and black alleyways. Jake knew these streets now. He moved through them not as prey but as a predator, with Kamo a silent, heavy shadow beside him.
Pavel's loyalty was sealed. His men were following orders. The first bricks of Jake's new, grim kingdom were being laid. Yet behind the calm in his voice and the precision of his plans, a cold thought kept pressing at the back of his mind: survival. Pavel's gang was a tool. The Party was still the goal. He had to reach them again.
The mission was madness. The dead drop at the Smolny Monastery was the most obvious trap imaginable. Stolypin would have predicted this move. The Okhrana could be everywhere, waiting. But Jake had no other way.
They walked in silence. The air between them was thick with unspoken things. Kamo had seen what happened in the cellar—the way Jake had transformed a gang of thugs into something organized, something dangerous.
"You are comfortable with them," Kamo finally said, his deep voice calm but heavy. It wasn't a question.
"They're a tool," Jake said flatly. "A means to an end." The words came out too fast, too sharp, like he was trying to convince himself.
Kamo's reply was quiet, almost sad. "Before, there was the Party. The Congress. The revolution. Now there's this. A kingdom of thieves. I can't see the end of this road anymore."
The words cut deeper than Jake expected. Kamo had always been unshakable—his faith as constant as gravity. To hear doubt in his voice was like hearing stone crack. Jake felt the blow but said nothing. The truth was too ugly to admit.
The end is survival. My survival. At any cost.
They reached the monastery wall, tall and dark against the faint gaslight. The street was empty. The flicker of the single lamp made the shadows dance.
"Stay here," Jake whispered. "If I'm not back in five minutes, or if you hear anything—run. Take the money. Don't look back."
Kamo nodded once, already fading into the darkness like a hunting cat.
Jake's heart started to pound. All day he'd been calm, cold, mechanical. Now, every step closer to the wall made that calm unravel. This wasn't strategy anymore. This was faith. He ran his fingers along the rough stone until they brushed against the loose brick he remembered.
There.
He glanced around. Nothing moved. Carefully, he pulled the brick free. The scraping sound seemed too loud, echoing in the silence. A dark hollow yawned behind it. Every instinct screamed trap. But he reached in anyway.
His fingers brushed paper.
Relief hit him so hard he almost swayed. It was real. The message was there. The Party hadn't forgotten him. Someone had heard. Someone had answered.
He replaced the brick and gave a low whistle. Kamo emerged instantly. Together, they slipped back into the alleys, moving fast until they found shelter behind the wreck of an old cooperage.
Kamo struck a match. The tiny flame trembled, painting their faces in gold and shadow. Jake's hands shook as he unfolded the note.
The cipher was familiar. His mind worked automatically, decoding it line by line.
Koba, it began. Message received. Catastrophe in the capital confirmed. Your survival is a testament to your resourcefulness. The Center is impressed. Do not despair. We have not abandoned you.
Jake's chest tightened. The Center. Lenin's circle. They knew he was alive.
He read on.
A route has been established. Proceed to Varshavsky Station in three days. Ask for a ticket to Gatchina. The ticket master is one of ours. He will direct you to a safe house in Finland. You will be extracted. You are too valuable to lose.
A way out. A lifeline. He almost laughed from sheer relief.
Then his eyes fell on the signature.
Roman Malinovsky.
The name hit like a hammer. His breath caught. Kamo's match wavered, the flame trembling.
Malinovsky. The Okhrana's greatest spy. Lenin's right hand—and Stolypin's informer. The man who had betrayed their networks in Tbilisi. The reason so many comrades were dead or disappeared.
The man offering salvation was the one holding the chains.
The relief drained out of him, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. This wasn't a rescue. It was bait.
He read the last lines again, his stomach twisting.
Your resourcefulness is needed. Before your transport, you must prove your loyalty. The Mensheviks have established a new illegal press on Vasilievsky Island. It spreads lies that weaken the cause. The location is enclosed. Eliminate it—the press, the pamphlets, the printers. Consider it a test of commitment.
The match burned down to Kamo's fingers. He hissed and dropped it. The light vanished, but the words burned in Jake's mind like fire.
It was no test of loyalty to the Party. It was a test for the Okhrana. Malinovsky was using him—sending him to destroy rival socialists under the cover of revolutionary duty.
Jake stood in the dark, the paper crumpled in his hand, feeling the weight of the choice pressing down on him.
If he refused, he was finished. Branded a coward, cut off forever. Alone.
If he obeyed, he would be the Okhrana's tool. Their weapon against his own.
The note wasn't salvation.
It was a devil's bargain.
And his soul was the price.