The walk back to the teahouse was silent and brutal.
Pavel half-dragged, half-carried Luka through the narrow alleys, the young man's breath hissing through clenched teeth. Every step was a fresh stab of pain. He didn't scream, but soft, broken sounds escaped him anyway. The heavy bolt cutters—their prize—swung in Pavel's hand like an anchor, a reminder of what the victory had cost.
They slipped through the teahouse's back door. The air inside was warm and thick with spice, the noise low and steady—until the door opened. Then silence.
Timur's men turned. Luka was pale as chalk, his leg bent at an angle that made stomachs twist. Pavel's face was stone.
Koba appeared. His eyes went first to the tool.
He took the bolt cutters, weighing them, testing the mechanism with slow precision. The steel gleamed under the lamplight. The tool worked. That was all that mattered.
Only then did he look down at Luka.
The boy slumped against the wall, face slick with sweat. Koba's stare was cold, almost curious. Jake Vance—the man who would've rushed to comfort him—was gone. What remained saw only a problem. An injured man meant weakness. Weakness meant risk. And risk could not be allowed.
"Take him to the cellar," Koba said. His voice was flat, mechanical.
Timur stepped forward, silent. Koba's eyes didn't leave Luka.
"Give him vodka for the pain. Nothing else. No doctor. No one leaves that room until we are gone."
The meaning hit like a slap. Luka wasn't being cared for. He was being contained.
Timur grunted and signaled two of his men. They lifted Luka. The movement tore a cry from his throat, sharp and raw. His head lolled, eyes rolling white. Words spilled out—half-mad, half-coherent.
"So dark… iron everywhere… guards talking in the yard…"
Pavel raised a hand. "Wait."
He crouched beside the delirious boy. "What did you hear, Luka?"
The young man's voice came in broken pieces. "Police… complaining… cold rations… cousins in the port… the lucky ones… easy money…"
He gasped, then whispered one last line that froze the room.
"Okhrana men. Special duty. At the naval port. Watching the river. For ghosts."
The words hung there. To most, meaningless. To Pavel, a spark. To Koba, a thunderclap.
Pavel rose, his one good eye burning. "Planner," he said, low. "You need to hear this."
He repeated it exactly. Okhrana men. Special duty. Naval port. Watching the river. For ghosts.
Koba's expression didn't change. But inside, the alarms were deafening.
Every word fit too perfectly. Special duty meant a setup. Okhrana men meant Stolypin's hand. Naval port meant the heist site. Watching the river meant his escape route.
And ghosts—that meant him.
He turned to the map.
The beautiful web of arrows and routes. The hours of planning. The masterpiece. Now it looked grotesque. A painting of his own execution.
The five-minute patrol gap. The unguarded waterfront. The silent approach by river. All lies. None of it had been discovered—it had been designed for him to find.
Stolypin hadn't just hunted him. He had predicted him.
The trap had been waiting since the first move.
Koba stared at the map until the ink lines blurred. Anya stood beside him, her face pale in the lamplight. Together they saw the truth: what they had built wasn't a plan. It was a coffin.
The silence pressed down until it became unbearable. Somewhere in the teahouse, a clock ticked.
Forty-eight hours left.
And his masterpiece lay in ruins.