The wine cellar was a chamber of cold dread. Moisture clung to the stone walls, each breath hanging in the stagnant air. A single lantern flickered on a barrel, throwing restless shadows that crawled across the floor like living things. Every creak, every drip of water from the ceiling sounded deafening in the stillness.
Danilov sat bound to a heavy oak chair. The ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, his breathing shallow and ragged. Across from him, Kamo loomed—huge, silent, his face a sculpted mask of violence. In one hand, he turned a pair of rusted iron pliers, the metal groaning softly in his grip.
He was ready to begin.
"No," Jake said. His tone was calm, absolute.
Kamo turned, disbelief flashing across his face. "Soso, this isn't Fikus. This one's a butcher. He won't break with talk."
"Pain makes a man scream," Jake said, eyes never leaving Danilov. "Fear makes him speak. There's a difference."
He gestured. "Luka, Davit—wait upstairs. Kamo, stay. But you don't move. You don't speak. You're here to be seen."
Kamo's jaw tightened. He stepped back into the shadows, the pliers glinting faintly in his hand.
Jake dragged a stool across the floor and sat before Danilov. The chair's legs scraped the stone like a warning. For a long time, he said nothing. Only the sound of water dripping from somewhere unseen broke the silence.
Danilov tried to sneer, but it came out as a tremor. "You're dead men," he rasped. "Orlov will gut you all. Hang your entrails from the lamps on Rustaveli Street."
Jake didn't reply. He waited, watching the man's defiance rot under the weight of silence. Seconds stretched until they felt like hours. The dripping water became unbearable.
Finally, Jake spoke—softly, conversationally, as if they were discussing weather. "You met with Orlov three nights ago. The Red Anchor tavern. Back room. He gave you the order there."
Danilov's eyes flicked, the smallest betrayal.
"Two hundred rubles," Jake went on, voice level. "Enough to pay your gambling debts at Madame Elena's. He told you the target was a traitor in custody. A righteous kill. A purge for the good of the party."
The color drained from Danilov's face. The confidence, the swagger—all gone. He looked at Jake as if he were staring at something impossible.
"How… how could you know that?"
"We know everything," Jake said. He leaned forward, his tone still calm, almost kind. "We know about the girl who delivered the message. About the sergeant you feed your winnings to for protection. We know every lie you tell yourself when you look in the mirror."
Danilov's breath came fast. "I don't know what you're—"
Jake sighed. "Kamo."
The scrape of metal filled the air as Kamo stepped forward, the pliers opening with a slow, deliberate creak.
"Wait!" Danilov cried, panic cracking his voice. "Wait! I'll talk!"
Jake lifted a hand. Kamo stopped, frozen.
"Yes," Danilov said, trembling now, his words tumbling over themselves. "Yes, it's true. All of it. Orlov gave the order. He said Fikus was a risk. Yagoda provided the address. It was their plan, not mine! I was just following orders!"
Jake didn't blink. "Why now?" he asked quietly. "Fikus was contained. He posed no immediate threat. Why the urgency?"
Danilov hesitated, searching for a lie. "I—I don't—"
The pliers snapped once, loud in the silence.
"I do!" Danilov blurted, shaking. "It's about a shipment. Tomorrow night. Orlov wanted all loose ends cut before it arrives."
Jake leaned in, the flicker of lanternlight catching in his eyes. "What shipment?"
"Arms," Danilov gasped. "Mausers, dynamite, ammunition—enough to arm a regiment. It's coming by train from Moscow, hidden in flour barrels. They're bringing everyone to receive it. The whole armed wing. Then Yagoda will tip off the Okhrana. They'll hit the warehouse, seize the guns—and us with them."
The room fell into suffocating silence.
Kamo's fingers slackened. The pliers clattered to the floor. "Soso," he whispered, voice hoarse. "They'll kill everyone. We can't warn them in time."
Jake stared at Danilov, the gears already turning behind his eyes. His plan to dismantle Orlov quietly had just collapsed. There was no more time for subtlety, no room for patience. Orlov's trap was already set.
But in that same instant, Jake saw something else.
A new path.
A way to turn disaster into opportunity.
He stood, the faintest spark of dark resolve kindling behind his calm. "Then we won't warn them," he said. "We'll use it."
Kamo looked at him, uncomprehending.
Jake's voice dropped to a whisper, each word sharp as a blade. "If the trap is already set, then we decide who walks into it—and who doesn't."
The lantern's flame guttered, throwing the cellar into trembling shadow. And for the first time, Kamo truly saw it in him—the thing that would one day be feared by empires.
The cold genius of a man who could turn betrayal into strategy.