The sound of the whistles was the spark that lit the fuse.
The calm, methodical destruction of the print shop shattered into chaos. The plan—every careful step of it—was gone. What remained was instinct. Run.
"Go! Now!" Jake's voice cracked like a whip through the smoke and panic.
Kamo didn't answer. He brought the mallet down on the printing press again and again—not with precision, but fury. Iron screamed as it broke. Sparks flew. It was no longer strategy; it was rage. Rage at the trap. Rage at the Okhrana. Rage, maybe, at Jake.
Viktor and Misha dropped all pretense of order. They swept pamphlets, ledgers, anything they could grab into a burlap sack.
"The crate!" Jake shouted. "Pavel! Dmitri! Move!"
The two men heaved it up, grunting with effort. The crate was a dead weight—awkward, heavy, and far too loud in their hands. They stumbled toward the back door, every step slower than the last.
The fire Kamo had started was alive now. Flames crawled up the walls, turning smoke thick and choking. The air stank of ink, sweat, and panic.
"The printers!" Kamo bellowed, cutting their bonds with a flick of his knife. "Out! Go!"
The three young men ran, coughing and stumbling into the night, their faces black with soot. Their rehearsed cover story was already gone—lost to fear.
Jake fired two shots into the ceiling. The gunfire echoed through the burning shop—a signal, a diversion, a final act in the show. Then they ran.
They burst into the alley. The cold air hit like a slap. Whistles shrieked close now—too close. Boots pounded the cobblestones in every direction.
"Faster!" Jake barked.
But the crate was killing them. Pavel and Dmitri were strong, but they weren't built to carry a coffin full of dynamite through a city block. Their breath came in ragged bursts.
"This way!" Pavel gasped, veering down a narrow side alley.
They turned the corner—only to stop dead. A wall of police waited at the other end. Rifles. Uniforms. The glint of metal buttons.
"Back!" Jake hissed.
But from behind came the echo of running boots, shouted orders. They were surrounded. Trapped.
Pavel's one good eye darted to Jake, wild with panic. "Planner—there's no way out."
Jake's stomach turned to lead. Every plan, every move, every contingency—gone. They were boxed in with a crate of dynamite and the Tsar's soldiers on both sides.
Then Dmitri moved.
The quiet man who had found the crate looked from Jake to the police, his expression suddenly calm. He let go of his end of the box. It hit the ground hard.
"Get it out of here," he said softly.
Before anyone could stop him, he pulled his pistol.
He didn't say goodbye. He just ran. Straight at the police.
The first shot he fired went wild. The second didn't. The patrol answered with a volley. The alley erupted in gunfire. Dmitri fell, his body twisting, the sound of rifles echoing off the brick.
But he'd done it. He'd bought them ten precious seconds.
"Lift it!" Kamo roared, grief and fury in his voice.
He and Pavel grabbed the crate again, adrenaline giving them strength. Jake grabbed the side and helped, his hands slipping on the rough wood.
"Move!"
They squeezed through a narrow gap between two buildings—a slit of darkness barely wide enough to fit through. The crate scraped against the walls. Then they were through, bursting out onto another street, swallowed by shadows.
The shouts and gunfire faded behind them.
They had escaped. But it didn't feel like victory.
Back in the cellar, the silence was unbearable. The crate sat in the center of the room like a coffin.
Pavel slumped against the wall, his huge shoulders trembling. His one good eye stared blankly into space. Dmitri was dead—a man who had followed orders without question, who had died for a cause he barely understood.
Jake said nothing. Inside, something heavy settled in him—not guilt, exactly, but something colder. The weight of command. The knowledge that his decisions now decided who lived and who died.
Dmitri was the first. He wouldn't be the last.
And the cracks in their fragile unity were already spreading.
Kamo came to him later, his face carved from stone, eyes burning with something more dangerous than anger—conviction.
"Dynamite, Soso," he said quietly. "A bomb. For a parade. For women and children. This isn't revolution. This is butchery. The work of the Okhrana."
He stepped closer. The air between them felt charged, electric.
"And you knew," Kamo said. It wasn't a question. "You suspected from the start."
Jake met his gaze. "I suspected. I didn't know."
Kamo's jaw tightened. "But you led us anyway. You used us. You used Pavel's men like pieces on your board. A good man is dead. For what? For this?" He pointed at the crate. "Your private weapon? Your personal war?"
Jake didn't answer.
The trust between them, the bond that had survived prison cells and secret missions, cracked. Kamo would still follow orders. But something fundamental had changed. He wasn't a comrade anymore. He was a witness.
Just before dawn, Misha stumbled back into the cellar. His face was pale, his breath ragged.
"Planner…" he gasped. "The printers—they were arrested. Like you said." He swallowed hard. "But then… others came. Not police. Men in plain coats. Official papers. They took the prisoners. Okhrana."
Jake felt the blood drain from his face.
His last safeguard—the one piece of the plan he thought foolproof—was gone. The Okhrana had taken back their pawns. They would be tortured, broken, and they would talk.
They didn't know his name, but they knew his face. The Georgian with the bad arm and the cold eyes. The planner.
He wasn't invisible anymore. He wasn't a rumor.
The Okhrana knew he existed.
And Malinovsky—smiling, treacherous Malinovsky—was still waiting for his report.
Jake looked at the crate sitting in the center of the room. His prize. His proof. His curse.
He had gained power—but lost a man, fractured his oldest friendship, and put a target on his own back.
The Ghost's gambit had succeeded.
But the cost was already higher than he could count.