Chapter 13: Blood on the Docks
Spring, 1920 — Birmingham
The docks smelled of salt, tar, and blood.
Ships rotted at anchor.
Cargo piled in fetid stacks along the wharves.
Men in flat caps and soot-stained shirts crowded the alleys, muttering curses in thick accents.
The dockworkers' strike had spread like a plague — Liverpool, Birmingham, London — paralyzing the arteries of England's trade.
And in the suffocating silence of the frozen ports, men like James Shelby sharpened their knives.
Because where others saw a crisis, he saw a kingdom for the taking.
He stood on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse overlooking the canal, coat whipping in the cold wind.
Below him, two gangs of strikers brawled — fists and boots, anger spilling into violence.
No police came.
No one cared anymore.
The government had other worries.
The rich cared only about their gold.
And the Shelbys?
They were learning to feast while others starved.
Tommy was focused on Grace, chasing dreams James no longer believed in.
Arthur drank himself stupid most nights, snarling at his own reflection in cracked mirrors.
John fought bar brawls like he was chasing death.
Polly tightened the books, guarded the cash like a mother hawk.
But it was James who moved silently through the cracks in the city, building something none of them could see.
A real empire.
One made of guns and whiskey, not hope.
"Boss?"
James turned.
Ellis — one of the ex-sergeants James had recruited — stood behind him, cap in hand, face pale with the cold.
"They're ready," Ellis said.
"Docks are locked down, same as you ordered."
James nodded once, slow.
"How many?"
"Three warehouses. Four loading cranes. All the cargo points east of Garrison Lane."
"And the foremen?"
Ellis smiled a wolfish grin.
"They like money more than loyalty."
James clapped him once on the shoulder.
"Good," he said. "Get the first shipment moving tonight."
Ellis hesitated.
"And... the others?"
James arched a brow.
"The ones who wouldn't deal."
Ellis swallowed.
"They're... being handled."
James nodded, eyes distant.
Handled.
Meaning dead.
Meaning clean.
The docks were his now.
Birmingham had simply forgotten to notice.
As the sun bled out over the canal, James lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and watched the ships rot in the mist.
The city thought it was dying.
James knew better.
> It was being reborn.
In blood.
In fire.
In the quiet footsteps of wolves.
Later That Night — Warehouse 17, Garrison Lane
The mist rolled in thick from the river, swallowing the docklands in ghostly white.
James moved silently through the half-light, boots scuffing against the damp stone, coat drawn tight against the cold.
Ellis and two of his men waited by the warehouse gates, lanterns low, faces tight with anticipation.
Inside, rows of crates stood stacked like grave markers.
No labels. No manifests.
Only symbols carved into the wood: a wolf's paw.
The new mark of Shelby ownership.
Whiskey.
Guns.
Medicine stolen from government shipments.
Even jewelry smuggled in from France.
Gold flowed through these crates like blood through a beating heart.
And James Shelby stood at the center of it all.
"Load it up," he ordered quietly.
Ellis barked orders.
A dozen men emerged from the shadows — rough lads, some barely shaving yet — hauling crates onto flatbed trucks parked under the broken awnings.
Every move was efficient. Silent.
They'd trained for this.
James had made sure of it.
No shouting.
No smoking.
No mistakes.
A single sound, a single slip — and the whole empire crumbled before it even rose.
As James supervised the loading, a low whistle broke the air.
One of the lookouts jogged up, breath steaming in the cold.
"Sir," he panted, "trouble."
James's jaw tightened.
"Where?"
"South gate. Couple of men asking questions."
James flicked his cigarette away.
"What kind of men?"
The lookout hesitated.
"Londoners. Fancy shoes. Didn't give names. Asking who runs the cargo now."
James exhaled slow.
Sabini's men.
Already sniffing like rats at the first scent of new power.
He turned to Ellis.
"Get the trucks moving. No delays."
Ellis nodded sharply.
James slid a Webley revolver from the holster under his coat, checked the cylinder — six bullets, all heavy .455 rounds — and snapped it shut with a practiced flick.
"No shooting unless I say," he murmured. "But if they start it—"
He left the sentence unfinished.
Ellis grinned grimly.
They understood.
James walked into the fog alone.
Toward the south gate.
Toward trouble.
The mist closed around him like a second skin.
He spotted them by the fence.
Two men, slick-haired and sharp-suited even in the filth of the docks.
They leaned casual against a stack of rusting barrels, but their hands twitched at their sides — close to coats, close to weapons.
James approached slow, measured.
Let them see him coming.
Let them wonder.
"You boys lost?" James asked, voice flat, unimpressed.
The taller one — a weasel-faced man with a silver tooth — sneered.
"Heard there's a new boss running things down here."
"And?"
The shorter one — rat-eyed, nervous — licked his lips.
"And Mr. Sabini don't like surprises."
James smiled thinly.
"Tell Mr. Sabini," he said softly, "he's welcome to come ask me himself."
Silver Tooth straightened, puffed up.
"You got no idea who you're messing with, mate."
James stepped closer until their noses nearly touched.
The taller man smelled of gin and cheap tobacco.
James's voice dropped to a whisper.
> "Neither do you."
Silver Tooth moved first —
hand flashing under his coat —
but James was faster.
The Webley cracked once in the mist —
a dull boom swallowed by the fog.
Silver Tooth jerked back, a gory hole blooming in the center of his forehead.
The rat-eyed man froze.
Pissed himself.
Then turned and bolted into the mist without a backward glance.
James didn't chase.
Let him run.
Let him carry the story back to Sabini.
A new king ruled Birmingham now.
And he didn't play games.
James wiped the blood off the Webley's barrel with a handkerchief, tucked it away, and turned back toward the trucks.
The crates were already rolling out into the misty streets.
Tonight, Birmingham belonged to the Shelbys.
Tomorrow?
Liverpool.
Maybe London after that.
And if anyone thought to stop him —
they'd learn what it meant to be hunted by a wolf.
The Next Morning — Shelby Company Limited
The air in the office was thick with cigarette smoke and anger.
Tommy sat behind his heavy oak desk, tapping ash into a glass ashtray overflowing from the night before.
John paced like a caged dog.
Arthur leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a fresh cut splitting his knuckles.
James stood silent near the window, hands folded behind his back, watching the city crawl past.
"They're pushing back," John growled, turning sharply. "Sabini's boys. Word's out — they're offering gold for anyone who'll tip 'em off about our shipments."
Tommy didn't flinch.
"We expected that."
Arthur slammed his hand against the wall.
"Expected, aye — but now it's real. You should've seen the Docks this morning, Tom! Rats sniffin' around every fookin' corner."
Polly sat in the far corner, silent, knitting with quick, vicious motions.
James finally spoke.
"They're feeling for weakness."
Four pairs of eyes turned to him.
"They won't move openly," James continued. "Not yet. They'll try to chip away first. Sabotage. Bribes. Scare tactics."
Tommy exhaled smoke slowly through his nose.
"And what do you suggest, brother?"
James smiled — a cold, wolfish thing.
"We stop waiting. We hit them first."
The room went still.
John grinned, savage and eager.
Arthur cracked his knuckles.
Even Polly paused her needles.
Tommy studied James for a long moment.
He saw it — the calm, calculated violence simmering behind his brother's eyes.
The difference between the man who dreamed of power —
and the man willing to tear out throats to seize it.
"Alright," Tommy said finally, voice low and steady.
"You've got the Docks, James.
Run them how you see fit.
Just make sure the gold keeps flowing."
James inclined his head once.
That was all he needed.
Permission.
The leash loosened.
The wolf unleashed.
As the meeting dissolved into logistics and drink, James lingered by the window, staring out over Birmingham.
The mist was burning off now under the pale morning sun.
But he knew better.
Fog didn't disappear.
It just hid deeper.
Waiting.
He could almost feel Sabini's rats moving underground — whispering, plotting, bleeding his streets dry one cut at a time.
Not if he moved first.
Not if he bled them first.
That Evening — South Yard Docks
James dressed in black.
Black coat.
Black gloves.
Webley holstered under one arm.
He didn't bring a crew.
No trucks.
No lanterns.
Just a single heavy satchel slung across his back.
Inside:
Four sticks of dynamite.
A pocket watch wired to a simple ignition cap.
Sabini's new shipment from London was arriving tonight — jewelry, silk, opium.
He planned to stake a claim over Birmingham's underworld.
James planned to burn it to ash.
The Docks were quieter than usual.
Half the workers had already taken bribes from London.
James didn't care.
He moved through the alleys like a ghost — familiar with every bolt, every crack, every blind corner.
He found the shipment easy.
A guarded warehouse tucked between two crumbling shipyards.
Four men stood outside, armed with shotguns, laughing about London whores and easy money.
James watched from the shadows.
Counted their steps.
Measured their boredom.
At exactly midnight, he moved.
A thrown brick shattered a window two alleys over —
the guards jerked, cursed, and rushed toward the noise.
Leaving the door wide open.
Idiots.
James slipped inside like smoke.
The warehouse stank of damp salt and perfume.
Crates stacked like gravestones.
The satchel went down in the center of the shipment.
A twist of wire.
A flick of the watch hands.
Ten minutes.
Enough time.
He turned to leave —
And froze.
A boy stood in the doorway.
Twelve, maybe thirteen.
Dirty cap, wide terrified eyes.
James cursed inwardly.
One of the local street rats — maybe trying to steal, maybe just unlucky.
The boy opened his mouth to scream.
James crossed the floor in two strides and clamped a hand over the boy's mouth.
"Shhhh," James whispered against the boy's ear. "You say a word, you die."
The boy nodded frantically, tears streaking his soot-stained cheeks.
James knelt down, locking eyes with him.
"You want to live?"
The boy nodded again.
James pulled a gold coin from his pocket and pressed it into the boy's shaking hand.
"Run," he said softly. "Run and never come back."
The boy bolted without a backward glance.
James stepped back into the mist.
Behind him, the seconds ticked down.
Five minutes.
Four.
Three.
He was halfway down the alley when the warehouse exploded.
A deep, stomach-churning roar shook the earth.
Flames ripped into the night sky, painting the mist red and gold.
Windows shattered three streets over.
Men screamed.
Dogs howled.
And Birmingham trembled.
James didn't flinch.
He didn't smile.
He just pulled his coat tighter against the cold and walked into the night.
The message was clear.
Birmingham belonged to the wolves now.
Anyone who forgot would burn.