The rail-yard workers' meeting concluded in a crescendo of revolutionary zeal, the men dispersing into the night with promises of strikes and solidarity on their lips. Jake walked with Kamo, nodding to comrades, accepting pats on the back for his "wise words," all the while feeling a profound and chilling detachment. He was a phantom moving among the living, his mind already at the true, grim business of the night.
They didn't speak until they were clear of the district, moving through the dark, empty streets toward their designated rendezvous point—the cold, echoing space of a disused tannery. The witnesses were already there, huddled together in the darkness, their faces pale and grim in the sliver of moonlight slanting through a grimy window. The air was thick with a mixture of shock, fury, and the adrenaline of what they had just seen.
As Jake and Kamo entered, the three men stood. It was Kamo who spoke, his voice, usually a booming roar, now a low, shaking rasp of pure, distilled rage.
"It was them, Soso," he said, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "It was just as you said, but worse. It was Orlov's man. Danilov. I saw him. We all saw him, clear as day."
One of the other witnesses, a quiet, older man named Luka, stepped forward, his voice trembling but firm. "They were professionals. They didn't hesitate. They went in, and we heard Fikus scream. Just once. Then the shot." He swallowed hard. "They put a bullet in his head and left him there like butchered meat."
The other two men nodded their solemn, silent confirmation. They had been the party's memory, and the memory was of a cold-blooded execution carried out by one of their own.
Jake listened to the report, his face an impassive mask. He showed no surprise, no horror, no satisfaction. He simply absorbed the information as if it were a weather report, the expected and logical outcome of a chain of events he had set in motion. This unnerving calm had a powerful effect on the men. They had come here expecting their leader to be as shocked and enraged as they were. Instead, they found a man who seemed to have anticipated every detail, a man who was not surprised by the depths of the enemy's depravity. It was terrifying, and it was deeply impressive. It solidified his authority in a way no fiery speech ever could. In their eyes, he wasn't just a leader who reacted to betrayal; he was a master strategist who foresaw it and used it.
"Good," was all Jake said when they had finished.
The single, cold word hung in the air, sending a chill through the room.
"Good?" Kamo exploded, his rage finally breaking its leash. "Soso, it is a catastrophe! They are murdering their own informants to cover their tracks! Danilov, a man who eats at our table, is their executioner! We have to act! We have them! We have four witnesses! We will storm the next Central Committee meeting! We will stand before them all and denounce Orlov and his whole pack of snakes! We will destroy him!"
The other men murmured in agreement, their fists clenching. They were ready for a public reckoning, for the catharsis of accusation and judgment.
Jake held up a hand, a simple gesture that immediately silenced the rising tide of anger. "No," he said, his voice quiet but absolute. "You are still thinking like a soldier, Kamo. Like a brawler. That is what Orlov would expect. That is a fight he thinks he can win."
He began to pace slowly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. "Think. We make a public denunciation. What happens? It becomes a political spectacle. Orlov, the master politician, will deny everything. He will claim Danilov was acting alone, perhaps settling a personal grudge. He will say we are lying, that the four of you are my puppets, that this is a power grab. He will turn it into a confusing, messy brawl of accusations and counter-accusations. The party will be paralyzed, torn apart by infighting, which is a victory for the Okhrana. We cannot give him that stage."
He stopped pacing and turned to face them, his eyes dark and hard. "A political trial is for politicians. Traitors and assassins deserve a revolutionary's justice."
The meaning was unmistakable and terrifying. He was not going to put Orlov on trial. He was not going to defeat him in a committee room. He was going to eliminate him.
"We will not have a messy public purge," Jake continued, his voice as cold as the grave. "We will have a quiet, surgical cleansing. We now have our proof. More importantly, we now know who to trust." His gaze fell upon the four men before him. "The five of us. This circle. We are the only ones who know the complete truth. We are bound by it."
He was forging them into something new. Not just a faction, but a secret cell within the party, his cell, bound by a shared, bloody secret.
"Comrade Danilov, the assassin, is our first target," he said, the words falling like stones into the quiet room. "He is the loose thread. We will take him tonight. Quietly. He will be interrogated, and he will confess who gave him the order. His confession will be our final, internal justification." He paused. "And then we will deal with Orlov. This will not be loud. It will not be glorious. It will be silent. It will be clean. And it will be final."
He had just, for the first time, ordered a political assassination. He was no longer just manipulating events. He was taking direct, lethal action, creating his own secret police and death squad out of the wreckage of Orlov's conspiracy. He was no longer trying to prevent the darkness. He was wielding it.
He looked at the four men, his expression unyielding. Kamo. Luka. The others. Their fates were now inextricably, irrevocably linked to his. They had witnessed a murder he had orchestrated, and now he was asking them to participate in the next one.
"Are there any objections to this course of action?" he asked, his voice leaving no room for dissent.
The question was a formality. He knew their answer before they did. He had shown them the face of the enemy within their own ranks, and he had offered them the only solution that felt absolute. He had given them a target for their rage and a leader who was not afraid to pull the trigger.
The episode ended on the faces of the four men, their expressions shifting from shock to a grim, terrible understanding. They were no longer just revolutionaries, fighting for a cause. They were now instruments of Soso's personal, deadly purge. And none of them said a word.
To be the first to know about future sequels and new projects, google my official author blog: Waystar Novels.