Pyotr's words hung in the air like smoke—thick, heavy, and choking.
We don't know what they know.
It was the kind of sentence that killed revolutions. The kind that left men awake until dawn, staring into the dark, waiting for the knock that meant the end.
Kamo started pacing. Each step made the old boards creak beneath his boots. He was a storm bottled into a room too small to contain him. "A box," he growled. "A box! What could we have left behind?" His fist slammed into his palm with a sharp crack. "A ledger? Pamphlets? Or nothing at all!"
"Or the one thread they need to pull us apart," Jake said quietly. His voice didn't rise, but it carried. The teacher in him—methodical, analytical—was cataloging the disaster. Information was power, and now the Okhrana had both.
Kamo stopped pacing and fixed him with a hard stare. "We can't keep running blind. We gather the core. Arsen, Goguia, the rest. We regroup, assess, strike back. No more waiting for the noose."
"Where?" Jake asked, already fearing the answer.
"Fikus's tavern," Kamo said without hesitation. "Basement's deep. Walls thick. The police drink there for free. No one will touch us."
The name hit Jake like a punch to the gut. Fikus. He remembered it from a long-forgotten academic text—the codename of one of the Okhrana's top informants in the Caucasus. The man had sold comrades by the dozen, feeding them to the Tsar's hounds.
Fikus's tavern wasn't a safe house. It was a death trap.
His pulse spiked. This was it—the first real moment where his knowledge could change history. A chance to save lives instead of merely surviving. But he couldn't just blurt out the truth. "I read about him in a history book" wasn't going to work here. They'd think he'd lost his mind—or worse, that he was the traitor.
He needed a reason. A lie that sounded like Stalin. Calculated. Cold. Believable.
Jake took a slow breath and steadied himself. "No," he said finally. His voice was low, firm. "Not Fikus's place."
Kamo's brow furrowed. "No? What's this now, Soso? It's the safest spot in Tbilisi."
"It's not secure," Jake said, letting the words fall like stone. "Two days ago, I saw him at the market, near the cathedral. He was speaking to a man—looked like a policeman in plain clothes. They passed something. A note, maybe. Money. I didn't think much of it then, but now…"
He let the silence stretch. "With Mikho gone, with the Okhrana one step ahead at every turn—no. It's compromised."
Kamo's eyes narrowed. He studied Jake's face, searching for cracks. Jake met his gaze, steady, unflinching, his expression as cold as the iron sky outside.
Finally, Kamo grunted. "The bastard. After all the party's done for him…" He shook his head. "Fine. You were right to watch him." His anger found a new target. "Then where? We can't meet on the street."
Jake's mind was already turning. He glanced toward Kato, who stood by the stove, her face pale in the lamplight. "Your cousin—the baker who lives behind the Church of Saint David. His cellar. Is it deep?"
Kato blinked in confusion. "Mikhail? Yes, very. He stores flour there. But he is a man of faith, Soso. He wants nothing to do with—this."
"He also wants nothing to do with the Okhrana," Jake said quickly. "And they'll never look for revolutionaries in the home of a devout baker. It's the last place they'd think to check."
It was bold, risky—and perfect. A misdirection born from human instinct, not ideology. A Jake Vance plan.
Kamo hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Unorthodox," he muttered. "But… clever. Audacious. It could work." His voice hardened. "Then it's settled. The baker's cellar at dawn. But we warn Arsen first—he's too exposed."
He turned to the group. "Pyotr, you stay here. Giorgi!"
A quiet, dark-haired youth straightened in the corner, eyes bright.
"You know where Arsen lives?"
"Yes, Comrade Kamo."
"Good. You'll go there. Tell him Fikus is finished, that the meeting's changed. The baker's cellar, behind Saint David's. He comes alone. No mistakes, no delays."
"Yes, comrade!" Giorgi's voice cracked with youthful pride.
Jake felt a swell of cautious triumph. He'd done it. He'd changed the story. Saved lives. He gave the boy a firm nod. "Go," he said, his tone calm, authoritative.
Giorgi nodded back, his resolve solid as steel, and slipped into the night.
Jake exhaled. Relief flooded him. For the first time since he'd woken in this nightmare, he felt capable. Useful.
Then Pyotr's voice broke the quiet.
"Soso…" He looked pale, shaken. "The box. I remember now. The dockworker—he told me what was in it."
Jake turned, every muscle in his body tightening. "What was it?"
"It wasn't a ledger," Pyotr said, his voice trembling. "It was a coat. Arsen's coat. And in the pocket… a letter from his sister. She wrote about his new apartment. His address."
The world stopped.
Jake's stomach dropped like a stone through ice. His breath caught in his throat. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
Arsen's address. The Okhrana had it.
He hadn't just sent a messenger.
He had sent a boy straight into a trap.
The relief curdled in his chest, replaced by something sharp and sickening. The triumph of a few moments ago twisted into horror.
Somewhere in the city, boots were already on the move. And a boy with fire in his heart was walking right toward them.