The rail-yard meeting ended in thunder—songs, vows, fists raised to the freezing night. Jake walked among them, shaking hands, returning claps on the back, letting the fire of their devotion reflect in his eyes. To them, he was Soso: steady, decisive, the man who had cut through confusion with strategy instead of slogans.
Inside, he felt hollow. Detached. A ghost wearing a revolutionary's skin.
When the city noise faded, he and Kamo slipped away, boots striking cobblestone in a steady rhythm. Neither spoke. They moved toward the edge of town, toward the tannery—a long-dead building gutted by time, reeking faintly of rot and old leather.
Inside, four men waited. The witnesses. The "memory of the party." They rose when Jake entered, their pale faces half-lit by a shard of moon through a cracked window.
Kamo spoke first, fury trembling in every word. "It was them, Soso. Just as you said—but worse. It was Orlov's man. Danilov. I saw him. All of us did."
Luka, oldest of the group, stepped forward. "They didn't hesitate," he said quietly. "One shot. Then they left him on the floor. Like butchers."
The others nodded, unable to meet Jake's eyes for long.
Jake listened without moving. When he finally spoke, his voice was too calm. "Good."
The word cracked through the room like a whip. Every man stiffened.
"Good?" Kamo exploded. "This is a disaster! They're murdering our own! Danilov today, who tomorrow? We have proof—four witnesses! We go to the Committee, expose Orlov and his pack—"
Jake raised his hand. The gesture was small, but the room went silent.
"No," he said. "You're thinking like a soldier again, Kamo. Swinging your fists and hoping the world will move."
He paced slowly, each step echoing through the hollow space.
"If we accuse Orlov before the Committee, what happens? Chaos. He denies it. Calls Danilov a rogue. Says you forged this story, that you're my loyal dogs trying to steal him a seat." Jake stopped, his gaze sweeping coldly over them. "And the party will believe him. Because they always believe the man with more friends."
He let that sink in.
"A public trial is a stage," Jake said. "And Orlov lives for stages."
Understanding crept across their faces. Dread followed.
Jake spoke softly now, but the softness made it worse. "A political trial is for politicians. Traitors deserve a revolutionary's justice."
Silence thickened until even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
"We won't shout this purge from rooftops," he said. "We'll cleanse. Quiet. Precise. We have proof. And we know who we can trust." His eyes traveled across each man—binding them with something deeper than loyalty. Shared guilt.
"Danilov is first," Jake said. "He's the loose thread. We take him tonight. He confesses who gave the order. His confession justifies what comes next." His tone hardened into something unmistakably final. "Then we deal with Orlov. Silent. Clean. Finished."
No one objected. They couldn't. Jake had turned their outrage into obedience.
He wasn't just leading them. He was remaking them.
The silence inside the tannery grew dense and alive. Kamo, Luka, Davit, Levan—four revolutionaries moments ago, conspirators now—watched Jake with a mixture of fear and reverence. Something had shifted. Soso wasn't reacting to events anymore; he was reshaping them.
Jake drew the outline of Avlabari district on a dusty table with his fingertip. "Danilov feels safe," he said, tone clinical. "He just completed a mission. He thinks he's untouchable. His arrogance brings him to us."
Kamo frowned. "He'll smell a trap."
"Not if it comes from a woman," Jake said. His eyes moved to Luka. "Your niece, Anna. She distributes pamphlets by the station. Danilov watches her. Too often."
Luka stiffened. "She's a child. I won't risk her."
Jake softened his voice, but not his resolve. "She'll never know. She'll deliver one message: 'A friend of Fikus wants to meet. He has information to sell.' Nothing more. She'll be home before sunset."
Luka hesitated, jaw tight, but nodded.
Jake tapped the map again. "The meeting is at the old Sulphur Baths. Abandoned after last year's fire. Maze of halls. No light. Perfect."
Assignments came next, each placed with surgical precision.
"Kamo, Luka—inside the main chamber. Davit—roof of the bakery across the street. Levan—back exit by the river." He paused. "No one goes in or out unseen."
Kamo scowled. "And you, Soso?"
Jake's answer froze the room. "I'll be inside. Alone."
"That's madness," Kamo growled.
Jake met his eyes. "He expects fear. He'll relax if he thinks he's facing one frightened man. When he steps close, the trap closes."
No one argued again.
The next evening, the plan unfolded with quiet, deadly precision.
Anna delivered the message—fear in her voice making it all the more convincing. Danilov took the bait instantly. "A friend of Fikus?" he'd repeated, smiling. "I'll handle it."
At dusk, he entered the ruined baths. The building squatted at the edge of the city like a corpse. Frost coated the broken tiles. Jake waited in the dim antechamber, posture trembling just enough to sell the act.
"You're the friend of Fikus?" Danilov asked, stepping closer.
Jake nodded. "He told me things," he whispered. "Things worth money. Or my life."
"Show me."
"Inside," Jake said, turning toward the shadowed hall. "Where we won't be seen."
Danilov followed him into the dark main chamber. When Jake turned back, his posture shifted—too calm, too controlled.
Suspicion flickered in Danilov's eyes.
He didn't have time to act.
Kamo erupted from the left like a bull. Luka burst from the right, silent as a knife. In a single, fluid motion, Kamo's arm crushed Danilov's windpipe while Luka stripped the revolver from his grip. Danilov's body jerked, kicked, then sagged into unconsciousness.
No gunshot. No scream. Just the scrape of boots on tile.
They gagged him, bound him, and slipped him through the back into Levan's waiting cart. Within minutes, the street outside was empty again.
The wine cellar beneath a deserted merchant's villa was their destination—a stone oubliette, cold and silent.
When they hauled Danilov down the stairs, he was awake again, thrashing wildly. His muffled cries echoed off the walls.
Kamo shoved him into a chair. Jake closed the heavy door and slid the iron bolt home. The metallic finality rang through the chamber.
Danilov's terrified eyes fixed on Jake.
Jake stepped toward him, hands clasped behind his back, voice soft as velvet.
"Now, Comrade Danilov," he said. "Let's talk about your orders."
There was no cruelty in the words.
No heat.
No haste.
Only certainty.
The certainty of a man who had crossed the line—and wasn't coming back.