Koba listened to Pavel's report without a flicker of emotion. No anger, no frustration—just the quiet stillness of a machine processing input. The news that the railway yard was locked down, guarded like a fortress, would have rattled any other man. But Jake Vance, the one who panicked, was gone. Buried. Koba only recalculated.
He turned to the map, staring through it, mind running fast and cold. The old plan died in silence. A new one took its place.
"If we can't go through the wall," he said, almost to himself, "then we'll make them open a door for us."
He turned back to the room, voice calm and razor-sharp. "A riot is clumsy. The act of cornered animals. We are not animals—we are surgeons."
His gaze moved between Anya and Timur, who had come back at the sound of failure. "We won't use a hammer to pick a lock. We'll use a needle."
He explained the new plan. It was smaller, smarter, cleaner. "The Railway Police are disciplined," he said. "That's their weakness. They follow orders. Predictable. We'll give their commander something else to chase."
He looked at Timur. "One of your men—Fingers. Is he as good as they say?"
Timur grunted. "He could steal the buttons off your coat while you're wearing it."
"Good," Koba said. "He's our needle."
At nine that night, Captain Volkov, the Railway Police commander, would take his nightly walk around the yard. He did it every evening, same time, same path. Fingers would cross his route, stumbling and drunk. In the confusion, he'd lift Volkov's silver pocket watch—a family heirloom.
"Volkov will lose his mind," Koba said. "He'll call every patrol to the offices. His pride will demand it. For ten minutes, the far side of the yard—where the maintenance sheds are—will be almost empty. That's Pavel's window."
Anya tilted her head. "And the pickpocket?"
"He'll be caught," Koba said flatly. "He'll let them catch him. The watch will be found. The captain will have his honor, the police will have their man, and we'll have our tool." He turned to Timur. "Tell him he'll be paid well—and that his family will be looked after."
It was sacrifice by design. A pawn for a queen. Clean, efficient, merciless. Anya felt both admiration and dread as she watched him work. His mind didn't hesitate. It cut.
The pieces moved.
Far away, in the comfort of his office, Prime Minister Stolypin studied his own plans. Reports lay neatly stacked before him. His aide spoke crisply: "Colonel Sazonov confirms deployment. Twenty undercover agents now working in the naval yards, posing as laborers. River patrols tripled. Unmarked boats. The trap is ready."
Stolypin nodded slowly. He allowed himself a rare smile as he studied the blurred photograph of his target. The ghost. His ghost. A worthy adversary, but still just a man. The Prime Minister had the state on his side—millions of bodies, endless force. A glacier against a blade. And the glacier always won.
Far south, Kiev was burning gold in the light of sunset. The domes glowed. The streets shimmered. Kato saw none of it.
Her steps were heavy as she neared the university. The package in her bag felt like a lead weight. Grigory's words echoed in her mind: We'll find out how loud a little bird can sing when we start breaking her wings.
Fear urged obedience. Just deliver the package. Survive.
But another voice fought back. Quieter, sharper—the one that had outwitted smugglers in Borjomi and slipped past the Okhrana. The voice Soso had believed in. The voice that refused to break.
She scanned the street, desperate for another way. And then she saw it: a stall. A public letter-writer, hunched over his papers, waiting for customers. A wild, reckless idea struck her.
She approached. "I need a letter written," she said, voice trembling but firm. She dropped a few coins on his table.
"To whom, dear lady?" the old man asked.
Kato's gaze fixed on the looming university down the street. "To the Chief of the Kiev City Police."
The man's eyebrows shot up. She went on. "The heading: From a Concerned Citizen. The message: Anarchist students in the chemistry building are planning a bombing. You should investigate the cellar immediately."
The pen scratched across the paper. When it was done, she signed nothing, paid, and walked away. Her heart pounded, but for the first time in weeks, she felt alive. She had chosen her side. If Grigory's people found out, they'd kill her slow. If the police traced it back to her, she'd hang. But she had struck back—with words, not bombs. It was enough.
Night fell over the Nikolaevsky Yard. The air was thick with smoke and steam. From a broken window in an abandoned warehouse, Koba watched through stolen binoculars.
There—Captain Volkov on his usual route. There—the drunken figure stumbling toward him. A brief collision. A few muttered apologies. Then Volkov froze, hand at his vest, realizing his watch was gone. His roar carried across the yard. Whistles shrieked. Patrols swarmed the offices.
"Now," Koba said quietly.
On the far side, Pavel and Luka moved in. The shadows hid them as they reached Shed 4B. The padlock clicked open. The bolt cutter was exactly where it should be.
The theft took seconds. Then they turned to go—until a figure stepped into their path. A guard. Older, tired, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Pavel moved before he thought. His hand clamped over the man's mouth. A brief struggle, a thud. The guard went limp.
Then a sound—a sickening crack. Luka stumbled, clutching his leg. The guard's boot had landed true. Bone snapped.
Luka bit down a scream, his face pale with pain. The bolt cutter clattered to the ground.
They had the tool. But victory had drawn blood.