Chapter 14
Early Summer 1920 — Birmingham Docks
The river stank of salt, smoke, and oil.
The air hung heavy — thick enough to chew — as Birmingham's heart slowly rotted in the summer heat.
It was the perfect season for crime.
The city's veins had been cut open by the strikes.
Ships sat bloated and rusting against the wharves.
Dockworkers shuffled like ghosts, bitter and broke, pockets turned inside out.
And in that emptiness, James Shelby built an empire.
Not with loud wars.
Not with blood spilled in the gutters.
With quiet hands. Quiet knives. Quiet gold.
From a rotting office perched above the shipyards — a forgotten foreman's shack — James ran everything.
Whiskey flowed through secret tunnels beneath the city.
Stolen French silk disappeared into Garrison Lane warehouses.
Guns — real guns, not rusted scraps — slid into hidden compartments bound for Liverpool, London... and beyond.
No one saw it happening.
No one dared stop it.
James sat behind a battered wooden desk, sleeves rolled up, shirt damp with sweat.
Stacks of ledgers sprawled before him — names, weights, payments owed.
Ellis entered, pulling off his cap and tossing a folder onto the desk.
"New contact from the Liverpool side," Ellis said. "Says he can move anything we can land inside a day."
James barely glanced up.
"Vouched?"
Ellis nodded.
"Twice over. Former King's Regiment. Knows his way around."
James thumbed through the papers — coded invoices, shipping manifests, smuggling routes sketched in pencil.
His empire grew like a cancer under the city's skin.
Unseen.
Untouchable.
And soon... unstoppable.
He signed the bottom of the page with a short, sharp scrawl.
"Tell him he gets a cut," James said.
"No second chances if he crosses us."
Ellis grinned, wolf-like.
"Aye, boss."
When Ellis left, James leaned back in the creaking chair and lit a cigarette, the flame of the match dancing in the dark.
Outside, Birmingham sweated and burned.
Inside, he built a kingdom made of smoke, blood, and whispered fear.
And he wasn't finished yet.
Two Weeks Later — The Black Swan Tavern
It was a forgotten pub on the edge of the city — barely a stain on any map.
The kind of place where debts were settled with broken teeth.
Where the police didn't patrol after sunset.
Where men spoke in whispers if they wanted to live to see another morning.
Perfect for meetings that weren't supposed to exist.
James sat alone at a corner table, back to the wall, sipping from a chipped glass of bitter ale.
The door creaked open.
She entered.
Not tall — but she moved like she owned the room.
Long coat swirling behind her, boots heavy with purpose, fire in her blue-grey eyes.
Eva Byrne.
Irish.
Hard.
Beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful.
Scar along her left wrist.
Gunsmoke in her veins.
She slid into the seat across from James without a word.
Laid a small oilskin packet on the table between them.
James didn't touch it yet.
He studied her instead — the set of her jaw, the cold calculation in her eyes.
Not afraid of him.
Good.
Only fools feared wolves openly.
The smart ones kept their distance, smiled carefully, and fed them scraps until they could run.
"You James Shelby?" Eva said, voice low, accent thick.
"Depends who's asking."
She smiled without humor.
"You're a hard man to find."
"You're lucky you did."
Silence settled between them.
The tavern creaked around them — drunkards muttering into their cups, the barkeep polishing cracked glasses with filthy rags.
James took a slow sip of ale, never taking his eyes off her.
"You need guns," he said finally.
It wasn't a question.
Eva nodded once.
"And you need gold."
Another truth laid bare.
James smiled thinly.
"I don't pick sides."
"Neither do we."
Another long silence.
Then Eva slid the packet across the table.
James opened it.
Inside:
A list of weapons.
Quantities.
Drop locations.
Payment terms.
Simple. Brutal. Business.
Just the way he liked it.
James folded the packet back up and tucked it into his coat.
"You'll have your first shipment inside a month."
Eva's gaze sharpened.
"How can I trust you?"
James leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a rasp.
"You can't."
"But you will."
Because if she didn't...
He'd feed her body to the canal rats before the first shot was ever fired.
Eva studied him for a long beat.
Then smiled — small, sharp, approving.
"Good," she said, rising from the chair.
"I'd have hated you soft."
She walked out without another word.
James sat alone for a long time after.
The packet heavy in his pocket.
The weight of another war pressing against his ribs.
He didn't like politics.
He didn't care who ruled Ireland, England, or anywhere else.
But he liked gold.
And he liked blood.
Late Summer 1920 — Birmingham
The heat clung to the city like a fever.
Rain fell some days, but it only steamed up from the stones, turning the streets into muddy ovens.
Men fought over scraps in the gutters.
Women sold themselves cheaper and cheaper.
Children faded like ghosts in alleyways.
And James Shelby grew richer by the hour.
Inside the warehouse above Garrison Lane, the air smelled of sweat, gun oil, and damp wood.
James sat at his heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, as he worked through the latest manifests.
Smuggling had turned from survival into domination.
Whiskey to Liverpool.
Guns to Belfast.
Stolen jewelry slipped into London through bribed customs men.
Each shipment another brick in his empire.
Each coin another weight on the scale.
A knock at the door.
Ellis slipped inside, a brown paper-wrapped package in hand.
"Delivery, boss," he said, setting it down carefully.
"From the London boys. Special order."
James stubbed out his cigarette and stood slowly.
His pulse quickened — not with excitement, but with grim satisfaction.
He pulled the paper aside.
Inside:
Two Colt M1911 pistols.
Modified.
Blackened steel finish — no reflections.
Barrels extended and threaded.
Slimline suppressors fitted neatly inside a second wrapping — heavy, cold, perfect.
James picked one up.
It sat in his hand like a living thing — heavier than memory, lighter than regret.
He pulled back the slide, checked the chamber.
Smooth.
Silent.
Deadly.
He screwed on one of the suppressors — three twists, tight and clean.
Lifted the pistol, aimed across the room at a crate.
Squeezed the trigger.
> Phut.
The bullet slammed through the wood, splinters flying.
Almost no sound.
The rats wouldn't even hear it coming.
James allowed himself a thin smile.
These weren't weapons for the battlefield.
They were weapons for the shadows.
For the work that needed silence more than fury.
He holstered the pistols carefully inside a new dual rig —
a tight leather shoulder harness built to sit snug under his coats.
No bulges.
No rattles.
Just death waiting at his fingertips.
Ellis whistled low under his breath.
"Jesus, boss. That's some fancy bloody kit."
James didn't answer.
Just slid the second pistol into place, adjusted the straps, and pulled his coat back on.
Weight balanced across his ribs.
Like a second skin.
Like armor made of teeth.
"You want me to set up practice?" Ellis asked, eager.
James shook his head.
"No need."
He had trained for war in France.
He had trained for blood in Birmingham.
This was just the next evolution.
The tools changed.
The killer stayed the same.
Meanwhile — Across the City
Unseen by James, unseen by the Shelbys,
Sabini's men moved.
Whispers in the dark.
Coins in pockets.
Betrayals bought cheap.
The docks were no longer quiet.
Men who had sworn loyalty weeks ago now took secret meetings in back alleys.
Passing maps.
Passing names.
Spying for London.
Spying for gold.
Spying for blood.
And one of those names?
James Shelby.
But the rats didn't know.
James already expected it.
He was already laying his own traps.
> The first rule of wolves: the prey always thinks they're safe... right before the teeth sink in.
Mid-September — The Garrison Pub
The night was thick with smoke and heat.
Tommy sat with Grace tucked close beside him, their laughter low and easy.
John and Arthur brawled in the corner with a pair of dockworkers over spilled whiskey.
Polly smoked in silence, her eyes never really leaving James.
James leaned back in the shadows of his usual booth, a glass of dark rum in his hand, twin Colts hidden beneath his coat.
Watching.
Always watching.
Grace whispered something in Tommy's ear, making him smile —
the real, rare smile he only wore when he forgot he was a Shelby.
James' eyes narrowed slightly.
Not jealousy.
Instinct.
Something about Grace was wrong.
Off-key, like a bad note in an otherwise perfect symphony.
He sipped his rum and said nothing.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.
Late September 1920 — Shelby Company Limited
The air in the back hall was thick with smoke and silence.
James leaned against the rough brick wall, one hand resting casually against his belt, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.
Through the cracked door to Tommy's office, voices drifted — low, tight with tension.
He wasn't trying to eavesdrop.
But he heard everything anyway.
Inside, Grace stood stiff-backed in front of Tommy's desk, wringing her hands, eyes shining with something like fear.
Tommy watched her — still, unreadable — a blade she couldn't quite see yet.
"I have to tell you something," Grace said.
Her voice trembled, just a little.
James didn't move.
Didn't even breathe.
Tommy said nothing.
Just waited.
He was always good at waiting — making people bleed with their own words.
Grace swallowed hard.
"When we met," she said, "it wasn't by chance. It wasn't fate."
Tommy's jaw clenched.
She pressed on, rushing now, before her courage failed.
"I was sent here. Sent by Inspector Campbell. To spy on you. On your family."
The words hung there.
Rotting in the stale air.
James closed his eyes for half a second, letting the truth settle into his bones.
There it was.
The cancer exposed.
Inside the office, silence slammed down.
No shouting.
No crashing of bottles.
No threats.
Just silence.
That was worse.
Tommy leaned forward slowly, elbows on the desk, hands steepled under his chin.
"You lied," he said quietly.
Grace nodded miserably.
"I did. At first."
"And after?" His voice was calm. Terrifying.
She licked her lips.
"I stayed for you. I stayed because—"
"Don't," Tommy cut her off.
Sharp. Final.
James opened his eyes again.
Watched it unfold like a man watching a house burn.
Tommy rose from his chair.
Grace flinched.
He didn't touch her.
Didn't raise his voice.
He just stared at her like she was already dead.
"You were never one of us," Tommy said.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Just fact.
"You can pack your things. You'll leave Birmingham tonight."
Grace's lip trembled.
Tommy—"
"You're done."
The words slammed harder than any gunshot.
Outside, James dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel.
He turned away, coat brushing the brick wall, boots silent on the stone floor.
He didn't need to see the rest.
There was nothing left to see.
Just another dead thing buried by the Shelbys.
Later That Night — Empty Streets
Grace's silhouette disappeared into the mist at the edge of Garrison Lane, a single suitcase clutched in her shaking hand.
No one followed.
No one stopped her.
James watched from the shadows, arms folded.
He made no move to help.
No move to threaten.
She was already nothing.
Just a scar on the family's history.
Better to leave scars than open wounds.
When she was gone, James turned back toward the Garrison.
Toward blood.
Toward business.
Toward survival.
Because love had no place in the world they were building.
Early October 1920 — Birmingham
The city tasted different now.
After Grace's departure, after the cracks were exposed, the Shelbys pulled the walls tighter.
No more strangers in the pubs.
No more open deals on the docks.
No more trust without blood on the line.
The streets smelled of wet stone and fear.
Just the way James wanted it.
He sat in a corner of the Garrison, coat thrown over the back of the chair, a fresh cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
Across the table sat Ellis, ledger open, a battered map of the Birmingham dockyards spread wide.
Sabini's men were moving again.
Faster this time.
Sloppier.
Fear made men rush.
And rushed men made mistakes.
Ellis tapped the map.
"Two of their runners hit a whiskey shipment last night. Took a crate."
James didn't react.
Ellis continued.
"But they left a trail."
A slow, knowing smile spread across James' face.
"Good," he said.
He stubbed out the cigarette and stood, pulling his coat tight.
"Let them think they're winning."
Ellis arched a brow.
"And when we find them?"
James' voice was flat.
> "We bury them."
Simple.
Clean.
Like pulling rotten teeth before they poisoned the whole mouth.
Mid-October — The Docks at Midnight
Fog blanketed the dockyards, thick and yellow under the flickering gaslights.
James moved like a ghost between the warehouses, boots silent on the stone, coat whispering behind him.
In his hands:
A silenced Colt 1911.
A short coil of thick rope.
No army.
No shouting.
No mercy.
Just him.
And the hunt.
They found the first rat in a shipping office, drunk off stolen whiskey, trousers undone, snoring into a ledger book.
James didn't speak.
Didn't warn.
One clean shot behind the ear.
> Phut.
Blood sprayed across the ledger like spilled ink.
The man slumped forward without a sound.
The second rat ran.
He made it two alleys before James caught him —
dragged him down into the filth and mud.
No bullets for this one.
Only the rope.
Only slow, strangling silence.
Only final, shuddering stillness.
By dawn, both bodies hung from the old shipyard cranes.
A warning in blood and rope.
Sabini's men would find them when the mist burned away.
Two trophies.
Two promises.
This city belonged to the Shelbys.
And betrayal was a death sentence.
Later — Shelby Company Limited
The family gathered again.
Fewer smiles now.
Fewer jokes.
Polly's sharp eyes missed nothing as she counted gold behind the desk.
Arthur nursed a bruised knuckle, muttering about finding more rats to break.
John sat cleaning his revolver, methodical and grim.
Tommy leaned back in his chair, cigarette burning low, gaze heavy and unreadable.
And James stood near the window, arms folded, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
Tommy spoke first.
"Word's out."
James said nothing.
"They're scared."
Still silence.
Polly finally chuckled — low, sharp.
"Good."
It wasn't about scaring Sabini.
It was about reminding Birmingham who held the knife.
It was about showing their own men that loyalty was life — and disloyalty was a noose around your neck.
James finally spoke.
"Next week," he said, voice even, "we start expanding past the Docks."
John looked up sharply.
"Where?"
James smiled thinly.
"Everywhere."
Bookmakers.
Billiard halls.
Jewelry shops.
Pawn offices.
Anywhere money moved, a Shelby would be there to take a cut.
By winter, there wouldn't be a coin spent in Birmingham without passing through their hands first.
The family exchanged looks.
There was no vote.
There was no debate.
When James spoke now, it carried the weight of inevitability.
Just like Tommy once did.