The top floor of the Svea Shipping building was more command post than office. No gilt, no pretense — just maps, smoke, and the sharp scent of chemical developer. The walls hummed with quiet purpose.
Koba stood at the long table, studying the message Kato's courier had brought an hour earlier. Beside him were two men: Professor Ipatieff, eyes alive with feverish genius, and Dr. Arbatov, steady, practical, loyal.
On the table lay the decoded note. Three words.
SANDVIKEN. PUTILOV. ARTILLERY.
To most, nonsense. To them, revelation.
"Chromium steel from Sandviken," Ipatieff breathed, almost trembling. "Of course. It's the missing piece." He looked to Koba, face lit by the kind of joy only discovery could bring. "Before the war, the French were experimenting with picric acid shells — immense detonation pressure. Their barrels tore apart within weeks. But with chromium alloys…" He paused, his voice hushed. "The strength and heat resistance are unprecedented. The Russians must have learned from them. They're building new guns."
Koba's gaze stayed fixed on the map. "Guns that outrange the Germans," he said quietly. "Guns that decide who holds the north."
Arbatov traced a line across the Baltic. "The shipment will come through the Åland Islands, hidden among the ore convoys. Swedish flag, neutral cover."
"If we stop it," Ipatieff said, his voice low with awe, "we cripple their entire heavy artillery program. Not delay — destroy."
Koba nodded once. "Then we stop it."
He pressed a button on his desk. Murat appeared moments later, jaw bruised, shoulders squared.
"Gather the Finns who know the archipelago," Koba ordered. "No mistakes. No survivors. We're sinking a ship."
Across the street, wind scoured the rooftop of a warehouse. Stern lay prone beside a chimney stack, the cold brick biting into his cheek. He'd been there for hours, motionless, his breath rising in faint plumes.
Beside him, Yagoda huddled under his coat, shivering. Below them, the Svea Shipping building pulsed with life — couriers, enforcers, businessmen, a parade of faces that meant nothing.
Stern watched them all through his binoculars, his heartbeat steady, his patience honed razor-thin. He was waiting for one face. One ghost.
Just after ten, a dark Adler sedan rolled up to the curb. The door opened.
A man stepped out — not in uniform, not in ideology, but in quiet power. His suit was immaculate, his fedora shadowing the familiar planes of his face.
The binoculars froze. Light from a gas lamp caught the man's features.
The scar. The heavy-lidded eyes. The mustache. The same presence that had once commanded loyalty — now commanding fear.
Stern's throat tightened.
"It's him," he whispered. "It's Koba."
Yagoda reached for his own lenses, fumbling.
Another figure emerged to greet Koba — massive, scarred, the bruise still fresh on his jaw. Murat. The same man who'd left Stern bleeding in an alley.
They clasped hands and spoke briefly before disappearing inside.
In that flickering instant beneath the streetlight, Stern saw everything — the betrayer and his weapon, the architect and the fist. The Warlock and his demon.
The rage inside him burned clean. Sharp. Controlled.
He slid the binoculars aside and unwrapped the long object from his pack. Metal glinted in the dim light. A scoped Mosin-Nagant rifle — the one constant truth in his life: a tool for ending problems.
He crawled to the edge of the roof, the parapet cool under his palms. Through the scope, the world shrank to a circle of perfect focus. The doorway framed Koba in motion — composed, untouchable.
Lenin's words echoed in his skull. Neutralized. Permanently.
Stern took a long, measured breath.
The crosshairs steadied on Koba's chest.
All his failures, his losses, the faces of the dead — they funneled down to this single instant. One pull of the trigger, and the Warlock would cease to exist.
His finger tightened.
And the world held its breath.