The order cut through the air like a blade.
"We will use the boy as bait."
For a heartbeat, the room stopped breathing. Even the flame in the small lamp seemed to hesitate. Pyotr and the other young revolutionary stared at Jake as though he'd spoken an unspeakable heresy. Fear flickered across their faces—fear and something else. Awe. This wasn't the hesitant, uncertain Soso they had followed hours ago. This was someone colder. Someone decisive.
Only Kamo moved. His gaze hardened, and in it burned a grim respect. He gave a single nod—the nod of a soldier recognizing another.
Then, a small sound broke the silence.
A gasp.
Kato stepped forward from the kitchen shadows, hands clasped as if in prayer. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Soso," she whispered, trembling. "No. You can't mean that. He's just a boy."
The words hit Jake like a blow to the ribs. The part of him that was still Jake Vance screamed in agreement. He wanted to take the words back, to tell her she was right.
But he couldn't.
He turned away from her. If he looked too long, the wall of resolve he'd built would crumble.
"How do we do it?" he asked, forcing his voice into something cold and steady.
Kamo straightened, snapping into command mode. "Simple. We reach the street first. There's an alley across from Arsen's flat. We wait there. They move for the boy—we hit them from behind. Quick. Clean."
Simple.
The word twisted in Jake's gut. Nothing about this was simple. But even as he recoiled, his mind—sharp, trained by years of history and pattern—began analyzing. Seeing flaws. Weaknesses. Angles of attack.
"No," he said quietly. "It's not simple enough."
Kamo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The Okhrana aren't idiots," Jake said, pacing to the table. "They'll have someone watching. A rifleman, maybe two, in a window. If we fire from one alley, we're boxed in. They'll have cover. We won't."
He grabbed a burnt stick of charcoal from the stove and a scrap of wrapping paper. Quickly, he drew. Two lines for the street. A square for the building. "We form a crossfire," he said, sketching another box opposite. "This roof here—it has a low wall. I'll take that position." He drew lines across the page. "Kamo, you take Pyotr and stay in the alley. We catch them here." He tapped where the lines intersected. "A funnel. No cover. No escape."
The room had gone still again, but this time it was focused silence. Kamo leaned closer, eyes gleaming with understanding.
Then Kato's voice broke through, sharp with grief. "Soso, listen to yourself." She stepped closer, her voice cracking. "This isn't you. The man I married wrote poems about the mountains, about freedom. He didn't—" She gestured at the charcoal map. "He didn't draw plans for ambushes."
Jake froze. The words tore through him. He remembered that man—the dreamer, the idealist. The one who believed words could change the world. But that man was gone. The world he was in now had burned him out of existence.
The charcoal snapped between his fingers. He didn't look at her. "Pyotr," he said instead, his voice taut. "You stay with Kamo. Do exactly what he tells you."
Pyotr nodded, pale but resolute.
The room came alive with motion. Kamo checked the cylinder of his Nagant, the metallic clicks echoing like a countdown. Pyotr was handed an old revolver, its weight too heavy for his shaking hands. The air smelled of oil and fear.
Jake stood still in the midst of it, listening to the sounds of men preparing for violence. Then, as he moved toward the door, a hand caught his arm.
Kato.
She stood before him, her eyes glassy with tears. "Don't do this, Soso," she said softly, pleading. "If you go out that door tonight, the man who comes back won't be the one I married. Please. Don't let them take what's left of you."
The words hit something deep, something buried. For a moment, Jake wasn't Stalin or Soso or a commander of men. He was a terrified teacher from another century who had stumbled into a nightmare and was losing pieces of himself one decision at a time.
He almost broke.
But then he saw Kamo at the door, watching, waiting. The room hung in the balance. Kato's safety. The cell's survival. His own illusion of control.
He reached up and gently pried her fingers from his sleeve. He couldn't look her in the eye.
"I'll come back," he lied.
And then he turned.
He crossed the room, each step heavier than the last, and opened the door. The cold Tbilisi night poured in, sharp and merciless.
He stepped through it.
The latch clicked shut behind him—a small, final sound that felt like the closing of a coffin.