The Geiger counter wasn't clicking anymore. It was screaming.
In the vault beneath the Imperial Merchants Bank, Professor Ipatieff slammed a lead lid shut. He wiped sweat from his forehead. His handkerchief came away spotted with blood.
"It is useless," Ipatieff wheezed. He leaned against the heavy table, trembling.
Kato stood by the vault door, her arms crossed. She looked immaculate in her nurse's uniform, but her eyes were tight with exhaustion.
"Explain," she ordered.
"It is too heavy," Ipatieff spat. "The cooling system alone weighs three tons. If you move it, the core destabilizes. If you drop it, it does not explode. It just... melts."
He pointed a shaking finger at the floor.
"It will burn through the steel. Through the concrete. Into the earth. It will poison the water table of Petrograd for a thousand years. But it will not blow up the Winter Palace."
Kato felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach.
"It's a bluff," she whispered. "We are holding a gun that points backward."
"It is a suicide vest," Ipatieff corrected. "And I am already dying from wearing it."
Kato turned away. She had gambled everything on this weapon. She had terrified Menzhinsky, bought the loyalty of the Cheka, and held Lenin at bay with a rock that was too heavy to throw.
She looked at Pavel. The giant was standing by the stairs, cleaning his shotgun. He looked tired. The radiation was getting to him too.
"We need to move," Kato said. "If we can't use it, we hide it. We evacuate to Finland tonight."
"No one leaves."
The voice came from the top of the stairs. It wasn't Menzhinsky.
Kato looked up.
Standing on the landing, silhouetted by the harsh electric lights of the lobby, was a man in a long leather coat. He wore the red star of the Commissariat on his cap. Behind him stood a row of soldiers.
They weren't Cheka. They were Latvian Riflemen. Lenin's personal guard.
"Comrade Svanidze," the officer said. "The Central Committee thanks you for securing the asset. Your service is concluded."
Kato didn't hesitate. "Pavel!"
The giant moved faster than a man his size should. He kicked the heavy steel table over, creating a barricade.
"Fire!" the officer screamed.
The stairwell erupted.
The noise was deafening in the confined space. Bullets sparked off the steel walls, whining like angry hornets.
Pavel racked his shotgun. Boom.
A Rifleman at the top of the stairs tumbled down, his chest a ruin.
"The lights!" Kato screamed.
Ipatieff, cowering under a workbench, yanked the main breaker. The vault plunged into darkness.
"Demon's Fire!" Kato ordered.
Pavel lit a bottle. The rag flared, illuminating his scarred face. He hurled it up the stairs.
Glass shattered. Flame washed over the landing. Men screamed, their uniforms catching fire. The smell of burning wool and meat filled the air instantly.
"Back entrance," Kato hissed, grabbing Ipatieff by the collar. "Move, old man."
They ran toward the rear maintenance tunnel. It was a narrow chute designed for ventilation. It was their only way out.
Kato pushed Ipatieff into the hole. "Go. Crawl."
She turned back. Pavel was still at the barricade, reloading. His shoulder was wet with blood.
"Pavel, come!"
The giant looked at her. He smiled, a rare, broken expression.
"Too big," he grunted, pointing at the narrow tunnel. "I hold them."
"Pavel—"
"Go, Sister."
A grenade bounced down the stairs.
Pavel didn't flinch. He threw himself over the barricade, charging up the steps into the fire and the bullets, roaring like a bear.
The explosion shook the foundation of the bank. Dust rained down from the ceiling.
Kato didn't scream. She didn't cry. She turned and crawled into the dark.
The ventilation shaft spilled out into an alleyway behind the bank. It was snowing. The cold air bit at Kato's exposed skin.
She dragged Ipatieff out. The professor was sobbing, clutching his briefcase of notes.
"We made it," he wept. "We made it."
"Quiet," Kato snapped. She pulled her pistol.
The alley was empty. But the street at the end was blocked by a black car.
A man stepped out of the vehicle. He adjusted his pince-nez glasses. He looked like an accountant, or a schoolteacher.
It was Leon Trotsky.
He wasn't alone. Four soldiers leveled their rifles at Kato.
"A valiant effort," Trotsky said. His voice was crisp, arrogant. "But we assumed the bank has exits."
Kato raised her gun. "I'll kill him," she said, pointing the barrel at Ipatieff. "I'll kill the scientist. You get nothing."
Trotsky didn't blink. He looked at Ipatieff, then back at Kato.
"The scientist has notes," Trotsky said calmly. "Notes can be read by others. The individual is... replaceable. But the asset must be secured."
He signaled with two fingers.
Kato saw the movement in her periphery too late.
A soldier emerged from the shadows of the doorway behind her. A bayonet thrust.
It wasn't a graceful death. It was brutal and clumsy. The steel blade punched through her back, piercing her lung.
Kato gasped. The air left her body in a wet rattle. Her pistol clattered to the cobblestones.
She fell to her knees. The snow turned red instantly.
Trotsky walked forward. He looked down at her with a mix of pity and distaste.
"You played a good game, citizen," he said. "But you forgot one thing. The Party is not a person. It is a machine. You cannot bribe a machine."
He stepped over her.
"Secure the professor," Trotsky ordered. "And burn the body. We don't want martyrs."
Kato tried to speak. She tried to say Koba.
But her mouth only filled with blood.
She watched Trotsky drag the weeping Ipatieff toward the car. She watched the snow falling from the grey sky. It looked like ash.
Her vision grayed out. The cold wasn't biting anymore. It felt warm.
The last thing she saw was a soldier standing over her, striking a match to light a cigarette.
Then, nothing.
Tsaritsyn. Three days later.
The victory celebration was in full swing.
The captured White cannons were lined up in the town square. Soldiers were dancing, drunk on looted vodka and adrenaline. The air smelled of roasting meat and cheap tobacco.
Jake stood on the balcony of the Tsaritsyn hotel, watching them. He felt like a god.
He had done it. He had humiliated the Whites. He had saved the city. He had forged an army out of rabble.
"Comrade Stalin!" Taranov shouted from inside the room. "A toast! To the Demon of the Volga!"
Jake grinned. He turned to go back inside.
A telegraph operator burst into the room. The boy was pale. He held a strip of paper in his hands like it was a venomous snake.
The music didn't stop. The soldiers kept laughing.
"Comrade Commissar," the boy stammered. "Urgent wire. From Petrograd."
Jake took the paper. He was still smiling. Probably congratulations from Lenin. A promotion. An offer of a truce.
He read the message.
ASSET LIQUIDATED. BANK SECURED BY CENTRAL COMMITTEE. STOP. SISTER ANNA DECEASED DURING RESISTING ARREST. STOP. IPATIEFF IN CUSTODY. STOP. DO NOT RETURN TO NORTH. STOP.
The noise of the party faded. The music sounded like it was coming from underwater.
Jake read it again. Deceased.
He didn't feel grief. He waited for it, but it didn't come.
He didn't feel tears pricking his eyes. He didn't feel the urge to scream.
Instead, he felt something snap.
It was a distinct sensation, like a cable parting under too much tension. It happened deep in his chest.
The Jake Vance who had been a history teacher, the man who wanted to save the Romanovs, the man who worried about morality... that man died in the doorway of a hotel room in Stalingrad.
He crumbled the paper in his fist.
He looked at Taranov.
"Turn off the music," Jake said.
His voice was different. It was deeper. Flatter. It sounded like stones grinding together.
Taranov blinked. "Comrade?"
"Turn off the music!" Jake roared.
The room went silent. The soldiers froze. The record player scratched to a halt.
Jake walked to the table. He picked up a bottle of vodka. He didn't drink it. He poured it onto the floor.
"They killed her," Jake said. He wasn't talking to Taranov. He was talking to the universe. "They took my shield. So now they get the sword."
He looked at the map on the wall. He looked at the markers for Moscow and Petrograd.
He didn't see allies anymore. He didn't see fellow revolutionaries. He saw targets.
Lenin wanted a monster? Trotsky wanted a war?
Jake walked to the mirror hanging by the door. He looked at his reflection. The pockmarked skin. The yellow eyes. The mustache.
He didn't see Jake Vance.
"Taranov," he said quietly.
"Yes, Comrade Stalin?"
"Prepare the train," Jake said. He turned around. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying void. "We are not attacking the Whites tomorrow."
"We aren't?"
"No," Jake said. "We are going to execute the prisoners. All of them. Every officer. Every noble. Every sympathizer."
"But... that is three thousand men," Taranov whispered.
"I don't care," Jake said. "I want the Volga to run red. I want them to hear the screams in the Kremlin."
He walked out onto the balcony. The cold wind hit him, but he didn't feel it. He was colder than the winter.
Goodbye, Jake, he thought.
Hello, Stalin.