The first sound was a splintering crack from the floor below, the unmistakable percussion of a heavy boot kicking in a door. Jake froze, the decoded message still clutched in his hand, its terrible words seared into his brain. They are coming for you.
Kamo was already moving, his reaction not one of thought, but of pure, conditioned instinct. He was across the room in two strides, drawing his massive Nagant revolver, its heavy, reassuring click echoing in the sudden, tense silence. "The roof," he hissed, his eyes already scanning the room's exits, the angles, the points of attack.
But it was too late. The thundering of boots on the staircase was not the sound of a small, cautious team. It was the sound of an army, an overwhelming, crushing force. Before Kamo could even shove a chair under the doorknob, the flimsy wooden door to their apartment exploded inward, torn from its hinges by the force of a battering ram.
The world dissolved into a cacophony of smoke, shouting, and violence. Okhrana agents, clad in heavy black coats, poured into the small room like a flood of dark water. They were not the city police Jake had seen in Tbilisi. These were Stolypin's elite: hard-faced, professional men, armed with modern rifles and pistols, their movements swift, coordinated, and utterly ruthless.
For a dizzying, terrifying second, Jake was paralyzed. The world of strategic planning, of moving human pieces on a continental chessboard, vanished. The game had become terrifyingly, physically real, and it was happening at a speed his mind could not process.
Kamo, however, was in his element. This was his world. He did not hesitate. He did not flinch. He became a force of nature, a bear cornered in its den. He shoved Jake behind him, using his massive body as a human shield, and opened fire. The Nagant boomed in the confined space, the sound a deafening, concussive roar. The first agent through the door staggered back, a red flower blooming on his chest, his rifle clattering to the floor.
The room became a kill box. Gunsmoke filled the air, thick and acrid, stinging the eyes. Wood splintered as bullets tore through the flimsy furniture. The agents, momentarily checked by the sheer ferocity of Kamo's assault, took cover, returning fire. The air was alive with the whip-crack of passing bullets.
Jake's mind finally broke free from its paralysis, jolted into action by a surge of pure, primal adrenaline. He drew the small Browning pistol he carried tucked in his belt, the one he had practiced with in quiet fields but had never fired in anger. The metal was cold and heavy in his trembling hand. He was a thinker, a strategist. But here, in this moment, thoughts were useless. Only actions mattered.
He saw an agent lean out from behind the doorframe, bringing his rifle to bear on Kamo. Time seemed to slow. Jake raised his pistol, his heart hammering against his ribs. He tried to remember his training, the calm, methodical practice. Front sight, rear sight, target. Squeeze, don't pull.
His hands were slick with sweat. The agent's face was a pale blur in the smoky chaos. He aimed. He fired.
The sound of his own gun was shockingly loud, the recoil jarring his arm. The shot went wide, comically, pathetically so. It missed the agent by a full meter, embedding itself with a dull thud in the plaster wall behind him.
The agent, startled, turned his head. His eyes, for a fraction of a second, locked with Jake's. There was no malice in them, only a flicker of surprise. Then, his training took over. He swiveled his rifle and fired.
A searing, shocking bolt of pure, white-hot pain tore through Jake's left arm. It felt as if a hot poker had been shoved through his bicep. The force of the impact spun him around. He cried out, a thin, reedy sound of shock and agony. His pistol slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. He stumbled back against the wall, his mind reeling, the world turning into a blurry, grey tunnel. He was useless. An amateur. A liability. His brilliant mind, the only weapon he had ever truly possessed, was utterly worthless in the face of a simple piece of hot lead.
Kamo saw him get hit. A guttural roar of pure, protective fury erupted from his chest. His loyalty to Soso was absolute, a fundamental law of his universe. The threat to his commander transformed him from a soldier into an avenging angel.
"Go!" he bellowed, shoving Jake bodily towards the back window that led to the fire escape. "Go now!"
To buy the precious seconds they needed, Kamo created a wall of chaos. With a surge of inhuman strength, he heaved the heavy wooden table, sending it crashing into the advancing agents, knocking two of them off their feet. He kicked the burning iron stove, sending a shower of hot coals and embers across the floorboards. Then, his revolver empty, he did the unthinkable. He charged. He threw himself directly at the remaining agents, a roaring, two-hundred-pound battering ram of flesh and bone, swinging his empty pistol like a club.
Jake, clutching his bleeding arm, the warm, sticky wetness a terrifying new sensation, didn't waste the sacrifice. He scrambled through the back room, kicked open the window, and tumbled out onto the rickety, rusted fire escape. The cold night air was a shock to his system. The sounds of the city—distant trams, shouting, the sudden, shrill blast of a police whistle—were shockingly clear after the deafening chaos of the room.
A moment later, Kamo came crashing through the window behind him, his face grim, a long, bloody gash across his forehead. He had bought them perhaps ten seconds. It would have to be enough.
"Up!" Kamo grunted, already moving, pulling Jake with him. "To the roof!"
They scrambled up the iron ladder, the metal groaning in protest under their weight. Below them, the street was erupting. Men were pouring out of unmarked carriages, sealing the block. A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the noise.
Colonel Sazonov, standing on the pavement below, looked up and saw the two figures silhouetted against the dim glow of the city sky. He raised his arm, pointing.
"They're on the roof!" he shouted, his voice carrying clearly in the night air. "Fourth and fifth companies, seal the block! I want every connecting building covered! Snipers on the opposite rooftops! They are not to escape this perimeter!" He paused, then added the Prime Minister's final, crucial order. "And I want them alive! The Prime Minister was very clear: he wants the ghost, alive."
Jake and Kamo pulled themselves over the ledge and onto the flat, gravel-covered roof. They were exposed, outlined against the sky, a sprawling, alien landscape of chimneys, ventilation pipes, and slick, rain-dampened slate tiles stretching out before them. Jake stared at the horizon, at the distant, mocking lights of the Winter Palace, the pain in his arm a dull, throbbing drumbeat.
The full, catastrophic weight of his arrogance, of his failure, crashed down upon him. He was wounded, in shock, and a liability. Kamo was a wanted man in a city he barely knew. They were the two most wanted men in the Russian Empire, trapped in the enemy's capital, their network shattered, their support gone, with the state's best hunters closing in. The chessboard was gone. This was a simple, brutal cage, and they were the rats.