The world inside the Admiralty exploded.
A deafening roar of coordinated rifle fire erupted from the telegraph office. Splinters the size of daggers flew from the doorframe, a bee-swarm of lead stitching the air where Jake had been standing a heartbeat before.
He threw himself back into the hallway, the priceless intel from Protopov turning to ash in his mind. His sailors scrambled for cover behind marble pillars, the plan for a swift, surgical strike replaced by the brutal reality of a prepared ambush.
They were pinned down. Caught in a perfectly designed kill box.
"Return fire!" Shliapnikov bellowed, his deep voice cutting through the ringing in Jake's ears. The commissar was already behind a statue, his rifle barking back into the smoke-filled room.
Bullets chipped away at the marble walls, filling the air with stone dust. One of Jake's best men from Kronstadt cried out, slumping to the floor with a dark stain spreading across his chest.
Jake's mind was a blur. Not of panic. Of cold, rapid calculation.
Why are they here?
Protopov's intel was good. He knew it was. The cadets had just arrived tonight. But how did they know to fortify this specific room? Not the main entrance where Stepan was raising hell. Not the senior command offices on the second floor. This room. The communications hub.
The tactical situation made no sense. It was too precise. Too perfect.
Click-clack-clack. Click-clack-clack-clack-clack.
Through a lull in the gunfire, a new sound emerged from the besieged office. The rhythmic, mechanical chatter of a telegraph machine. It was receiving a message, its little metal arm tapping out a frantic beat in the middle of a firefight.
A jolt of ice water shot through Jake's veins.
It's a trap within a trap.
The cadets weren't just defending the room. They had been sent here specifically, expecting an attack on this very target. Someone hadn't just warned them an attack was coming. Someone had given them his exact battle plan.
His spy network. His greatest advantage. It had just been turned into a noose around his neck.
"We can't stay here!" Shliapnikov yelled, reloading his rifle with frantic, practiced movements. "They have us boxed in! We either fall back or we charge!"
Falling back was a death sentence. They'd be cut down in the long, open corridors. There was only one way out. Forward. Through them.
"Give me fire!" Jake yelled, his voice raw. "Everything you've got!"
Shliapnikov and two other sailors leaned out from behind their cover, laying down a furious volley of suppressing fire. The noise was apocalyptic, a continuous roar of explosions in the confined space.
Under the cover of the chaos, Jake pulled the pin on his last resort. A single, crude grenade, one of the first prototypes from the warehouse. A pocket-sized piece of hell.
He didn't aim. He just hurled it through the splintered doorway.
The explosion was a brutal, concussive CRUMP that sucked the air out of the hallway. The firing from inside stopped instantly, replaced by the high, thin screams of wounded men.
"Now!" Jake roared, surging to his feet. "Go!"
He and his men stormed the room, pouring through the smoke and haze. The scene inside was carnage. Overturned desks, shattered equipment, the air thick with the smell of cordite and blood.
Some of the cadets were dead. Others were writhing on the floor, their crisp uniforms torn and blackened.
A young officer, his face pale but his eyes burning with defiant hatred, was still on his feet. He ignored the invaders, desperately trying to smash the remaining telegraph equipment with the butt of his rifle.
Shliapnikov was on him in a flash, the muzzle of his pistol pressed against the officer's temple. "Who warned you?" the commissar snarled. "Who told you we were coming for this room?"
The young officer just spat a wad of blood onto the polished floor, his eyes full of contempt.
But Jake wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the source of the clicking. The telegraph machine that had started all this was still running, its paper feed spitting out a long ribbon of text.
He ripped the paper from the machine. It was a short, repeating message, a string of letters and numbers.
It wasn't Russian military code. He knew that instantly. It was a simple alphanumeric substitution cipher. The kind of thing a field agent would use for a quick, insecure message.
A code he recognized. He had practiced it for hours with Kato in a safe house in Stockholm.
It was German.
The world tilted. The Germans. His sponsors. They hadn't just warned the Provisional Government. They had fed them the specific, tactical details of his assault.
They were playing both sides, using him as a battering ram to create maximum chaos, while simultaneously ensuring he didn't become powerful enough to win on his own terms. He was a pawn on a much larger board.
He wasn't just fighting a civil war. He was now fighting a shadow war against the very people who had armed him. His mind raced. Who? Who would do this? Only one man had the authority and the cold-blooded cynicism. Oberst Nicolai.
BRRRING! BRRRING!
A field telephone on one of the desks began to ring, a shrill, insistent sound that was obscene in the blood-soaked, smoke-filled room.
Shliapnikov turned, his first instinct to smash the loud, intrusive object.
"Wait," Jake commanded, his voice sharp.
He walked over to the desk, stepping over the body of a dead cadet. His heart was a cold hammer in his chest. He picked up the receiver.
He expected to hear a panicked Russian general, a voice from the Provisional Government demanding a situation report.
Instead, a calm, precise, and utterly relaxed voice spoke into his ear. The German was perfect. Unaccented.
"This is Colonel-General von Falkenhayn of the Ninth Army."
The voice paused, as if savoring the moment.
"We have a mutual acquaintance, I believe. Oberst Nicolai sends his regards."
Another pause, this one filled with the cold amusement of a chess master who has just cornered the enemy king.
"Now," the voice continued, smooth as silk. "Shall we discuss the terms of your surrender, Koba?"