The slate tiles bit through the soles of Jake's boots, the cold sinking straight into his bones. He lay flat against the rooftop, the rough surface scraping his chest, the wind clawing at his face. Below, the street waited—narrow, dark, and still. A stage. A trap. A grave.
The revolver rested against his cheek, its metal colder than the night. He could taste the fear on his tongue, metallic and sour, like old blood. His stomach churned. He was a teacher, not a killer. He used to get nervous speaking at parent meetings. Now he was lying in a sniper's perch, preparing to watch a child die by his design.
He risked a glance over the parapet. The alley below was pitch black, but he knew where Kamo was—an outline inside the shadow, still as stone. The man didn't shake. Didn't flinch. Violence lived in him the way music lived in a pianist's hands. He was waiting, patient, ready. A hunter born to darkness.
Jake's pulse pounded so loud it seemed to echo through the roof tiles. The minutes dragged, each one stretching into an eternity. He prayed, absurdly, that when the time came, his hands wouldn't betray him.
Then he saw movement at the far end of the street.
Giorgi.
The boy looked impossibly small from this height, walking alone down the cobbled street, his breath ghosting in the frigid air. His stride was brisk, purposeful, but it was the walk of a boy pretending to be a man. He carried himself with pride, unaware that every step he took led him closer to a nightmare.
Jake's throat tightened. This was his fault. He had sent him. He had smiled when the boy volunteered. Now he was watching that same boy walk toward death. He wanted to scream, to stop it, to call it off—but the sound stuck in his chest. This was his punishment. He had chosen this.
The boy drew closer. The street was too quiet. Too empty.
Then they appeared.
Four figures slid out from the shadows, their movements smooth and deliberate. Dockworkers, by their clothes. Predators, by their posture. They fanned out, silent, cutting off the street like a net drawing tight. No shouts. No orders. Just quiet, efficient menace.
Giorgi froze. The confidence drained from his small frame, replaced by terror so pure Jake could feel it even from above.
That was the signal.
Jake's lips parted. All he had to do was whistle. One small sound to summon hell. But his lungs refused. The human part of him—what was left of Jake Vance—held him frozen.
Below, Kamo tilted his head, a silent command. Now.
Jake forced breath into his chest. The whistle came out weak, trembling—barely more than a gasp.
But it was enough.
Gunfire erupted.
The street exploded into chaos. The sound wasn't sharp—it was thunderous, deafening. Each shot cracked against the stone walls and ricocheted back in overlapping waves. Orange muzzle flashes flared from the alley, lighting Kamo's silhouette like something carved from fury.
Two Okhrana agents dropped instantly. The other two spun and fired blind into the dark, their bullets screaming off the walls. The air filled with sparks and echoes.
Jake blinked against the muzzle flashes, forcing his shaking hands to steady the revolver. He found the shape of a target—one of the remaining agents—and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil slammed into his shoulder. The shot went wide, screaming into the street and sparking harmlessly off the cobblestones. He cursed under his breath.
Kamo didn't miss.
He moved out of the alley like a shadow given life. Two clean shots—boom, boom—and the remaining agents fell. It was over in seconds.
Silence crashed down. Smoke hung low in the air. Giorgi was still standing, trembling, eyes wide and unfocused, the revolver fire ringing in his ears.
Then glass shattered.
Jake's head snapped toward the sound. A window burst open on the second floor of the opposite building. A man leaned out—pale face, jaw clenched, pistol already raised. The fifth one. The overwatch.
Jake's stomach turned to ice. He had been right—but too late.
The man took aim, not at Kamo, not at Pyotr, but at the boy frozen in the middle of the street.
Jake tried to shout. His voice caught.
The shot rang out—a single, brutal crack that echoed through the alley and died away into the wind.
And just like that, it was done.