The sound of the engine cut through the forest like a blade. It wasn't just noise—it was the growl of something mechanical and merciless, the modern world intruding into the wild. The roar echoed off the trees, a hunter's call made of steel and oil. To Pavel and the Chechens, it was an unknown terror, a monster chasing them through the dark. But Koba recognized it immediately.
Armored cars. Russo-Balts. Early models—slow, clumsy, but deadly on a road.
The realization struck hard. This was no ordinary pursuit. Stolypin had turned the full force of the new century against them: cavalry, telegraphs, and now engines. They were four men trapped in the old world, hunted by the machinery of the new. Running on foot was suicide.
"We need speed," Koba said quietly, his voice tight and controlled. "We need horses."
The words hung in the damp air like a fragile prayer. There were no towns nearby, no stables, no way to find mounts in this endless wilderness. But there was no other option. Without horses, they would be run down like animals.
They didn't sleep. Every snap of a branch made them tense. Every gust of wind felt like the breath of an engine approaching. When the horizon began to pale with dawn, Pavel slipped into the gray mist to scout ahead.
He returned an hour later, his face lined with both relief and fear. "A farm," he said, breathless. "Three kilometers north. Smoke from a chimney. A man, his wife, a boy. Two draft horses—strong ones."
It was the first flicker of hope they'd had since the train. But hope had a price.
Murat broke the silence. "Then it's simple," he said coldly. "We take the horses. If they resist, we kill them." He checked his rifle, the click loud in the stillness.
Pavel's face darkened. "They're farmers. Innocent. It isn't right." His voice carried something almost foreign in this world—conscience. "They've done nothing. We can't—"
Koba didn't answer right away. The conflict tore at the thin thread of humanity still inside him. Jake Vance wanted to argue, to find another way. To offer money, to lie, to tie them up and leave them alive. But the logic was merciless, and the clock was ticking.
When he finally spoke, it was not Jake's voice. It was Koba's—calm, final, unfeeling.
"We can't buy them," he said. "We have nothing to offer but stolen notes. Even if we did, they'd report us. A farmer who sees four armed soldiers and two horses missing? He'd run to the nearest garrison. He'd describe our faces. He'd give them a direction."
He looked at Pavel. His eyes were empty. "We can't leave witnesses. Not the man. Not the woman. Not the boy."
The words fell like stones. Pavel's jaw tightened, his disbelief turning slowly to horror. Murat and Ivan, though, simply nodded. They understood. This was the logic of survival, the cold arithmetic of the hunted.
Koba didn't hide from it. He didn't delegate it. A leader, he had decided, must bear his own sins.
"Come," he said. "We're wasting daylight."
They moved through the trees until the farm came into view—a small cabin, a thin trail of smoke rising from its chimney. The air smelled faintly of bread and ash. A child's laughter floated from behind the house, a sound too pure for the world that was about to swallow it.
Koba slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped into the clearing alone. The farmer came out to meet him, wiping his hands on his trousers. He was young, with the simple, cautious politeness of a man who had never had reason to distrust strangers.
"Good morning, Sergeant," he said. "Can I help you?"
"Our horses went lame," Koba said. "We need water. Maybe some bread."
The farmer smiled. "Of course. Any soldier of the Tsar is welcome. Come, my wife has bread fresh from the oven—"
He turned—and saw the others step from the trees, rifles in hand. The smile fell away. Understanding dawned too late. He turned to shout.
The story didn't show what happened next. The forest swallowed the sound.
When the silence returned, it was heavy and complete.
An hour later, four men rode from the clearing. Two horses. Two riders each. No one looked back.
The little farmhouse stood untouched, smoke still curling from the chimney. Inside, the fire burned on, crackling softly. From beneath the door, a thin red line crept into the snow, bright against the white.
Koba rode on, his face a mask of iron. The choice had been made. The last trace of Jake Vance—the man who hesitated, who cared—was gone.
Only Koba remained.