Chapter 8
The tram was gone.
The night was black.
The cold gnawed at the bones.
James Shelby slipped through the mist like a wraith, boots silent, knife loose in his gloved hand.
Ahead, behind wrought-iron gates and gaslight shadows, Billy Kimber's estate stood fat and arrogant.
Guards loitered by the gates.
Fat men with fat cigars, hands lazy near their pistols.
James crouched behind the crumbling stone wall, studying their patterns.
No urgency.
No discipline.
Easy prey.
James drew a slow breath.
And moved.
The first guard saw a flicker of motion — too late.
The knife slid under his chin, severing the voice box.
He dropped, eyes wide and useless.
The second reached for his pistol —
James was already there.
A quick sidestep, a slash across the wrist, disarming him, and a stab low into the gut — twisting.
The man gurgled and folded.
James wiped the blade clean and moved on, slipping into the side garden.
A third man leaned against the porch rail, whistling.
James drove the blade into his spine at the base of the skull — fast, quiet, clean.
The body sagged over the rail like a puppet with its strings cut.
Inside the house, warmth and noise battered him.
Laughter.
Shouts.
Drunken boasting.
James ghosted through the side corridors, boots whispering on the thick rugs.
He found the lounge exactly where Polly's whispered map said it would be.
Double doors.
Heavy oak.
Behind them — music, clinking glasses, the scent of cigars and perfume.
James adjusted the knife in his grip.
His heartbeat was slow. Measured.
He kicked the doors open hard enough to slam them against the walls.
The room exploded into chaos.
---
Kimber sat at the center of it all.
Two women draped over his lap, half-naked and giggling.
Five of Kimber's men scattered around the room — guns tucked under chairs, jackets loose, drinks spilling.
All of them turned at once, blinking stupidly into the sudden violence.
James moved.
The first man grabbed for a pistol —
James closed the distance in three strides, drove the knife up under the ribs, severing the heart clean.
The second went for a shotgun under the table —
James grabbed the barrel, wrenched it sideways, slammed the stock into the man's temple hard enough to cave in bone.
Third man lunged —
James spun low, slashed the back of the knee, dropped him screaming to the carpet, then finished him with a hard thrust to the spine.
The women screamed — high, panicked shrieks.
James didn't blink.
He stepped in close —
One clean cut across the throat of the first girl — blood sprayed across the velvet armchairs.
Second girl tried to crawl away, sobbing.
James caught her hair, jerked her back, ended it quick with a slice across the carotid.
The room stank of blood and fear now.
Billy Kimber had scrambled back against the hearth, face white, trembling.
His fine suit was soaked with other men's blood.
"Please—" Kimber croaked. "We can make a deal—"
James stalked toward him, a ghost made of blood and vengeance.
"No deals," James said, voice like cold iron. "Open your safe."
Kimber blanched.
James pressed the knife flat against Kimber's cheek, tracing a slow, deliberate line toward the corner of his mouth.
Kimber whimpered.
"Safe," James repeated.
Billy stumbled to his feet, swaying.
Led James across the room to a portrait —
Pulled it aside to reveal a steel door recessed into the wall.
Fingers fumbling, he spun the dial.
The lock clicked.
Inside: stacks of cash.
Gold watches.
Jewels.
Documents bound in red leather.
James grabbed two sacks nearby, stuffed them full without ceremony.
Riches weighed heavy on his arms — and lighter still compared to the satisfaction swelling in his chest.
When he finished, he turned to Kimber.
The man slumped against the wall, broken.
"You brought this," James said, voice low. "When you walked into my pub."
Kimber shook his head weakly, tears streaking the blood on his face.
James didn't hesitate.
He buried the knife clean in Kimber's heart.
One sharp jerk —
Twist —
End.
Kimber gasped once, slumped sideways, and died with his mouth open in shock.
The house was silent now.
Bodies sprawled across the fine Persian rugs.
Blood soaking deep into the wood.
James adjusted his coat, heavy now with money and memory.
He wiped the blade once, slid it back into his belt.
No witnesses.
No survivors.
No second chances.
Outside, the rain had thickened — sharp and stinging.
James slipped through the hedges and over the wall, silent as a ghost.
The tram station flickered faintly ahead, a single lantern swaying in the storm.
Behind him, the estate burned in silence — not fire, not flames — but destruction all the same.
A king had fallen.
And the world hadn't even noticed yet.
James Shelby lit a cigarette with steady hands.
Took a long drag.
The smoke curled into the black sky.
And he smiled.