The rain hadn't stopped.
It never seemed to in Birmingham—just another weight on the shoulders of men who lived on the edge, always hunched against the wind.
James stood at the edge of the Garrison Lane rooftops, his eyes scanning the streets below. His target was just across the road: the Clayton brothers, two ruthless men who had been expanding their territory into Shelby-run areas. They had already made their mark, taking smaller businesses under their thumb and threatening anyone who resisted. Now they were looking for a bigger piece of the pie, and that meant stepping on the toes of the Peaky Blinders.
Tommy had ordered a warning, but James had decided to take the situation into his own hands. He was tired of waiting.
He wasn't just a soldier.
He was something else now.
James moved silently, his coat blending into the darkness as he dropped from the rooftop with a fluid grace, landing in a crouch without making a sound. He felt the tension of his muscles, the quickness of his thoughts. He was faster than he'd ever been, his body moving like a finely tuned machine.
As he moved toward the back entrance of the Clayton's hideout, the streets around him remained empty. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. He let his enhanced senses guide him—he could hear the soft shuffle of footsteps within, the faint murmur of voices.
The place was alive with activity.
But they didn't see him.
He slipped through a broken window, his body moving like smoke. Inside, the Clayton brothers and their men were gathered around a table, going over their next steps. There were three of them—two brothers and their top enforcer.
James took a breath, and for the briefest moment, the world slowed. His senses sharpened, his hearing pinpointing the soft clink of metal as the men shifted. He knew their positions. Knew how many steps it would take to cross the room and reach the leader, to incapacitate him before anyone could react.
In the darkness, James felt the primal pull of his abilities.
With a sudden burst of speed, he was at the first man—one of the Claytons—before he could even react. A swift punch to the throat silenced his shout. The man crumpled, gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock as he hit the floor.
The others didn't have time to reach for their weapons.
James was already moving again, his body a blur as he grabbed the second man by the wrist, twisted, and slammed him into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. He pulled the knife from the man's belt before he hit the floor, the glint of steel flashing in the moonlight.
By the time the third man—a larger, tougher enforcer—realized what was happening, James was already behind him. His hand shot forward, seizing the man by the throat and lifting him off the ground with one arm. The man's feet kicked uselessly in the air.
"You're out of your depth," James whispered, his voice a low growl.
The enforcer gurgled in protest, but he couldn't move. James held him with ease—his strength was more than enough to keep him under control.
He turned his gaze to the Clayton brothers. The leader, the older brother with a scar running across his face, drew a gun from beneath the table. The gunshot came before he even aimed, but James was already gone.
He moved in an instant, his reflexes far quicker than any normal man. The bullet whizzed past him, missing by inches. In the same motion, James grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it until the gun fell to the ground, and then slammed him into the table. The man's head cracked against the wood with a sickening thud.
For a moment, everything was still. The three men lay incapacitated—two writhing on the floor and one slumped against the table, eyes glassy with pain.
James stood over them, his breath steady, his mind clear. He didn't need to say a word. The message was already clear.
He walked over to the leader, his foot pressing down on the man's hand where it reached for the fallen gun. "You've made your mistake. Shelby's territory is off-limits."
The man's eyes were wide with fear. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a groan of pain.
James didn't need to listen to him. He didn't need to hear excuses.
He pulled a silver coin from his pocket—the emblem of the Peaky Blinders—and slapped it onto the table.
"Tell your people that the Shelby name is not to be touched."
With that, he turned, walking out of the hideout and into the rain.
Back at the Shelby house, Polly was waiting for him in the dim light of the sitting room. Tommy was already there, standing near the fireplace, his fingers twitching slightly as he watched James approach.
"You've made your mark," Tommy said, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
James wiped the rain from his face and met his brother's gaze. "It's done. They won't be a problem anymore."
Tommy nodded. "Good. But remember: this is Birmingham. You're not just fighting men. You're fighting systems. People with more reach than you'll ever see."
James didn't flinch.
"I've fought wars you can't even imagine, Tommy. I'm not afraid of a little system."
Tommy's eyes hardened, but there was a flicker of approval behind them.
"You may not be afraid. But don't ever forget: in this game, it's not about strength alone. It's about what you're willing to sacrifice."
James looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Then I'll make sure I don't have to sacrifice anything more than I already have."
The silence hung between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was understanding.
James had proven something that night—not just to Tommy, or Polly, or the Clayton brothers—but to himself. He wasn't just a soldier anymore. He was a weapon.
And in this city, weapons like him were both feared and coveted.
Later, as the night deepened and the rain pounded against the windows, James sat alone in the dark corner of the house, sharpening the blade he had taken from the Claytons. His thoughts drifted—back to the trenches, to the days when death had felt more certain, more familiar.
But now, he had a purpose. And that purpose had teeth.
Tomorrow would bring new battles. New blood.
And James Shelby would be waiting.