The fire-cart thundered through the checkpoint—
a chariot of lies rolling straight into the inferno.
The naval command office rose ahead, a slab of gray granite untouched by chaos. An island of order in a burning sea.
Koba jumped off the platform before the cart even stopped.
"The water mains!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the roar. "We need access to the main pump room—Pier Four's about to blow!"
The uniform, the soot, the urgency—everything sold the lie. The clerks and junior officers outside the entrance barely hesitated. They waved him in, desperate for anyone who looked like help.
An elderly adjutant led them down a corridor, babbling thanks and instructions. The halls were chaos—messengers shouting, boots pounding marble floors, papers flying. To the panicked staff, Koba and Pavel were invisible: heroes, not threats.
They reached the cellar stairs—the supposed route to the pumps.
The moment the adjutant's footsteps faded, they doubled back up a side stair and emerged in a quiet hallway.
A brass plate on a heavy oak door read:
Office of the Port Commander — Rear Admiral Fyodor Litvin.
They had arrived.
Across the port, the end had come for Company Alpha.
Ruslan, the berserker captain, stood atop a barricade of broken crates, revolvers blazing. His beard dripped blood. His grin was feral. Around him, his men lay still—his brothers, his myth. The Semyonovsky Guard pressed in from all sides, their rifles rising like the tide.
Ruslan's last bullets flew. Then came the volley.
He fell backward into the wreckage, a martyr to a fortune that had never existed.
The diversion was over.
The price was paid.
Pavel hit the Admiral's door with the iron crowbar. One brutal shove. Wood splintered, hinges screamed, and the lock gave way.
The office was a shrine to naval glory—maps, ship models, the smell of leather and ink. But their eyes found the safe: a black iron beast crouched behind the desk.
"Time," Koba hissed.
Pavel set the crowbar and leaned into it. The safe groaned, metal shrieking against metal. Sweat beaded on his neck as steel bent under brute strength.
Back in the teahouse, Anya received the runner's report.
"Warehouse Three has fallen," the boy gasped. "Ruslan's men are all dead."
Anya didn't blink. "How long has the General been inside?"
"Seven minutes."
"Not enough."
She grabbed another runner—thin, quick, eyes sharp. "Find Company Beta. Captain Idris. New target." Her finger slammed against the map. "The grain silo. Burn it."
The boy froze. "The grain silo… that's—"
"Civilian. Yes," she said coldly. "The General needs more time. Go."
He ran.
And with that, the city's last bridge between strategy and morality burned.
Anya didn't just follow Koba anymore. She had become him.
In the Admiral's office, the safe gave way with a scream of tearing metal.
Koba lunged forward, rifling through the mess—letters, deeds, a bottle of brandy. Then he found it: a leather folder stamped with the seal of the Imperial Navy.
Inside were the shipping manifests and transfer orders. The prize. The key.
He stuffed the folder inside his coat—
—and the ruined door flew open.
Rear Admiral Fyodor Litvin stood in the doorway, red-faced and furious. His eyes took in the splintered door, the broken safe, the two firemen standing in his desecrated office.
For a moment, confusion. Then realization.
"Guards!" he bellowed, hand flying to his holster. "Guards! Intruders!"
Pavel moved.
Ten feet vanished in a blur. His hand crushed the Admiral's gun wrist before the man could draw. His other arm locked around the thick neck, pulling tight, a constricting steel cable of muscle and rage.
The Admiral made a choking, gurgling sound. His boots drummed against the Persian rug. His face turned from red to violet.
Pavel's one good eye flicked toward Koba.
The question didn't need words.
Jake screamed inside. No. Not again.
Koba met his gaze and gave a single, almost invisible nod.
Pavel tightened his hold. There was a single, wet crack.
The Admiral went limp.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The safe hung open. The papers were in Koba's coat. And at their feet lay the body of a Rear Admiral of the Imperial Navy.
They had their key to freedom.
And they had crossed the final line.
The thieves were gone.
Only murderers remained.