The sight of the dynamite hit like a punch. Cold washed over the room, killing the last traces of adrenaline. The air grew heavy, thick with the silent, terrifying potential of what lay in that crate.
This wasn't the quick violence of knives and pistols. This was something different—modern, industrial, impersonal. Death by design.
Pavel's men stared at the crate like it was cursed. They'd lived by fists and blades, but this was beyond them. This was witchcraft—something that could turn a building to dust and men to smoke.
"Dynamite?" Pavel whispered. His one good eye darted to Jake, wide and afraid. "Planner, what is this? This isn't a print shop—it's a powder keg."
Kamo said nothing. His silence was worse than shouting. He stared at the sticks of explosive, then met Jake's eyes. There was understanding there—horrified, dawning understanding. Kamo was no stranger to violence, but this wasn't revolution. This was slaughter. This was the work of provocateurs—the Okhrana's dark hand.
Jake's mind went blank. The plan he had built—his perfect, four-act play—collapsed in an instant. The stage was burning.
He had expected papers, not bombs. His plan had been to expose a political scandal, not uncover a weapon of mass murder. He couldn't leak this to a newspaper; they'd be arrested, the story buried, and the explosives quietly returned to their masters. This wasn't a weapon of words—it was something far worse.
He needed a new plan. Fast.
He turned to the printers huddled on the floor. He grabbed the one who looked like a leader—a young man with ink-stained hands and terrified eyes—and slammed him against the wall.
"The crate," Jake growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Who gave it to you? What's the target?"
The young man trembled. "I—I don't know his name. We called him the Benefactor. He funded the press. Said the time for talk was over. Said the Mensheviks looked weak. That we needed to make a statement."
Jake's grip tightened. "The target."
The man's voice cracked. "The May Day parade. The grandstand at Palace Square. The Governor-General. His staff. He said it would strike at the heart of the autocracy."
Jake froze. His stomach turned to ice. The grandstand—the wives and children of the city's elite. The Okhrana wasn't staging an attack; they were staging a massacre. They'd use these naïve fools to kill civilians and nobles alike, then use the blood as a pretext to crush every revolutionary faction in the empire.
A wave of cold clarity settled over him. The horror didn't paralyze—it focused.
He couldn't give the dynamite to the press. He couldn't return it to Malinovsky. He couldn't leave it here. This wasn't evidence anymore. It was leverage—a weapon he could use against the entire Ministry.
He released the young man, who collapsed to the floor sobbing. The decision came easily now—cold, sharp, absolute.
He would keep the dynamite.
Jake turned to his men. "Change of plans," he said quietly.
Every head snapped toward him.
"Pavel. Take your strongest men. You're carrying the crate. All of it. It's ours now—our treasury."
Pavel's face went pale. "Carry it? Through the streets? Planner, if we're caught—"
"We won't be," Jake cut in. His tone left no room for argument. "Viktor, Misha—stick to the plan. Gather every document, every list, every scrap of paper. Our contact will get the story he expects. Nothing more."
Then he turned to Kamo. The weight of that gaze was heavier than the dynamite.
"Kamo. Break the press. Leave nothing standing. Then start the fire—bigger than planned. I want this place to burn to ash. No trace of what was here."
Kamo's eyes held his for a long, silent moment. There was conflict there, pain. He saw what Jake had become—something colder, harder. A man who made moral lines disappear when they got in the way of survival. Then Kamo nodded. Not agreement—acceptance.
Jake faced the printers again. His voice dropped, cold and flat.
"The last part of the plan has changed," he said. "You'll still 'escape.' We'll chase you out. But your story changes."
He crouched, locking eyes with the terrified leader. "When the police catch you—and they will—you'll tell them you were attacked by criminal rivals. Anarchists, maybe. You'll say nothing about a Benefactor. Nothing about a crate. Nothing about dynamite."
He paused. Let the silence bite. Then his voice hardened.
"Because if you do—if you whisper a single word—I'll make sure the Okhrana's dungeons feel merciful compared to what my friends will do to your families. I know their names. I know where they live. Do you understand?"
The boy could only nod, tears streaking down his face.
Jake stood. He was no longer pretending to be a revolutionary. This was something else—something darker. He was using the same terror as the state he'd once vowed to destroy.
Kamo raised a heavy mallet. The iron press shattered under the first blow, the sound echoing through the room.
Then, from outside, came the piercing sound of whistles. Dozens of them.
The police.
Too soon.
Misha's signal had failed—or been intercepted. The perfect plan had turned into a race for their lives.
"Move!" Jake barked.
Firelight flickered behind them as Kamo struck another blow. Smoke began to rise.
They were about to flee into the night—dragging a crate of dynamite through the streets of St. Petersburg—with the Tsar's police closing in.