The vigil in the sewer was a study in silence.
For Pavel and his men, it was a brutal wait — every minute a knife-edge between hope and dread. For Jake, it was worse. The leather box of letters sat in his hands like a trophy that mocked him. He had the proof of victory, but it felt empty, meaningless beside the thought of Kamo out there, alone, bleeding somewhere in the dark.
The tunnel was still except for the steady drip of unseen water. Time stretched until it lost shape. Then, finally, from the black mouth of the passage, a shadow moved — heavy, limping, familiar.
Kamo.
Alive, but barely. A gash ran across his forehead, blood seeping through his hair. His coat was torn, his movements stiff, but he was walking. Alone.
A wave of relief swept through the men — relief tangled with guilt. Pavel grabbed his shoulder. "By God, Kamo! We thought—"
Kamo brushed him off. His eyes were fixed on Jake.
Jake rose, words catching in his throat. "You're alive." It came out as a statement, not a question — heavy with relief, edged with pain.
Kamo said nothing. He pulled his revolver, broke it open, and began unloading each spent cartridge, cleaning them one by one. His voice, when it came, was low and flat.
"They're chasing ghosts in the factory district now," he said. "Police. Okhrana. Everyone. The heat's off Nevsky Prospekt."
It was a report, but there was more beneath it — a quiet accusation. I did this for you.
Jake couldn't apologize. It would have been an insult. Instead, he held up the box of letters.
"Your sacrifice bought this," he said. "It won't be wasted."
But even as he said it, his mind was already moving, calculating.
Blackmailing Orlov directly would be suicide. A cornered man would panic, confess, or run to the police. Malinovsky and the Okhrana wanted to own Orlov — to make him their pet. Jake didn't want ownership. He wanted leverage.
The power isn't in the letters, he realized. It's in giving them back.
That was the play. Not to blackmail the blackmailed — but to blackmail the blackmailer.
He laid the letters out on the table, choosing one with care: the most damning, the one that mentioned a secret meeting and a gift of state bonds.
"Who here can write clearly?" Jake asked.
A young man stepped forward — Fyodor, a failed clerk turned criminal.
"Copy this," Jake said. "Every mark. Every stroke. Twice. Make it perfect."
While Fyodor worked, Jake wrote his own letter — a trap disguised as loyalty.
He began with flattery: The package was secured as you instructed… He praised Malinovsky's intelligence, described the mission's "unexpected resistance," and mentioned the "costs" involved. Every word told a story: I delivered. I'm useful. You owe me.
Then came the turn.
As proof of my absolute commitment, the original letters are enclosed. However, due to the heightened security situation, I have made secure copies, held by a trusted associate outside the capital. These will, of course, be destroyed upon my safe arrival in Finland.
A lie, but a brilliant one.
He was handing Malinovsky victory and threat in the same envelope. If Jake died or vanished, those "copies" might surface — and drag Malinovsky down with him. Jake had just made himself too dangerous to kill and too useful to abandon.
Pavel watched, wide-eyed. He finally understood. Jake wasn't just a thief or a fugitive. He was building something bigger.
"Planner," he said softly. "We'll follow you anywhere. Just tell us where."
Jake sealed the letter and handed it off. His mind was already moving to the next step.
"This sewer is finished," he said. "We're not rats anymore. We're going legitimate."
He looked straight at Pavel. "Find a property. A warehouse, a factory, something abandoned but legal. We'll buy it through a proxy. No more hiding. We start building."
The words hung in the air. The gangsters, hardened men all, looked at him like soldiers seeing a new kind of general.
From the shadows, Kamo watched in silence. His face was unreadable. He had seen Jake manipulate, lie, and plan with surgical precision. Now he was hearing him dream of empire.
Jake turned to him, holding the sealed letter — poison in paper form. "I need this delivered to the final drop," he said. "It's the last piece. It gets us out."
Kamo looked at the packet, then at Jake. He knew what it meant. Delivering it would make him complicit in something dark, something that blurred the lines between revolution and crime. Refusing would sever what remained of their bond.
He stood there, silent, caught between loyalty and conscience — the choice that would shape both their fates.