The sewer had become a kingdom—grim, organized, and alive.
In the days after the Orlov heist, Jake turned chaos into structure. The reek of damp and rot still clung to the air, but beneath it ran something new: purpose. Pavel's gang, once a pack of half-starved thieves, now moved with discipline. Runners managed food and water. Lookouts rotated shifts to avoid patterns. Pavel, Jake's second-in-command, enforced order with brutal precision. What had been a den of criminals was becoming an operation—efficient, controlled, invisible.
But for Jake, it was a prison.
Every drip of water, every echo of footsteps, was a reminder that Kato was still out there—alone. He ate without tasting, slept without rest. He was waiting. Waiting for the serpent's reply. The letter from Malinovsky that would open his path to freedom.
On the fourth day, the runner appeared, pale and silent, and handed Jake a sealed note. The sewer fell still. Every man watched as Jake broke the wax.
He expected coordinates, codes, a route to Finland. He expected deceit. What he did not expect was praise.
Koba,
Your work regarding Councillor Orlov was a masterpiece—subtle, daring, and precise. The materials you obtained have already proven invaluable. The Councillor has been brought into alignment with the Prime Minister's program with astonishing speed. The Center is profoundly grateful.
Jake read the words twice. Then once more, slower.
This wasn't a mission report. It was a love letter.
Kamo stepped closer, uneasy. "What is it?"
"Flattery," Jake said softly. "And nothing's more dangerous than flattery from a traitor."
He saw the trap instantly. Malinovsky wasn't freeing him. He was binding him tighter—with compliments instead of chains.
I sent him the letters, but I also sent a threat, Jake thought. He knows I'm clever. Now he's calling me indispensable. He won't kill a useful tool. He'll polish it until it breaks.
Then he read on—and his stomach turned to ice.
Given your unique talents, a far greater task now awaits you. Your departure to Finland, approved in principle, must be delayed until this vital mission is complete.
The words were silk wrapped around steel.
There is unrest in the Balkans. Serbian radicals—supported by rogue officers in our own military—are pushing Europe toward war. This must not happen. Our intelligence has located an arms shipment: Mauser rifles stolen from a naval depot in St. Petersburg, bound for Belgrade. Their buyers call themselves Ujedinjenje ili Smrt.
Jake's breath caught. The Black Hand.
He could see the dominoes: Princip. Sarajevo. The Archduke. The war.
Malinovsky was handing him history itself—a burning fuse.
Your mission: intercept the rifles before they leave the city. Do not destroy them. Acquire and reroute them to our allies in Bulgaria. The corrupt officer facilitating the shipment—Captain Dmitri Rykov—must be eliminated. His death must appear criminal, not political. Proof of his treason is enclosed.
Jake lowered the page slowly, the words still echoing.
Malinovsky's web reached beyond the city now. Beyond Russia. Beyond revolution. This was empire-level intrigue—Stolypin's designs on the Balkans, the Great Game unfolding in real time.
And Jake, of all people, was now a piece on the board.
He stared at the letter. If he obeyed, he might stop the war that would kill millions. He could rewrite the century before it began.
But if he obeyed, he also delayed Kato's rescue. Every day lost was another day she risked capture—or worse.
It wasn't good versus evil. It was his heart versus history.
He folded the letter carefully, the decision already hardening inside him.
He would play Malinovsky's game—for now.
"Pavel," he said, his voice quiet but sharp as wire. "I need everything you can find on a Russian army captain named Dmitri Rykov."
The sewer kingdom moved again, its ruler already planning his next war.