Chapter 9
The rain hadn't stopped.
For three days now, it soaked Birmingham in sheets of cold, grimy water, running down the brickwork and pooling in the gutters like blood refusing to sink into the soil.
James Shelby moved through it without feeling a thing.
He walked the alleys of Small Heath, coat collar turned up, hands deep in his pockets, boots silent against the cobblestones.
The city was different now.
Men huddled closer under doorways.
Women crossed themselves when strangers passed.
Children were pulled inside before the streetlights even flickered on.
Not because of the war.
Not because of hunger.
Because of fear.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of the Shelby family.
Fear of what they had unleashed.
Billy Kimber was dead.
His empire was bleeding out in the streets.
And everyone — from the lowliest bookmaker to the wealthiest judge — knew exactly who had left his body cooling in that grand old house.
The Peaky Blinders.
The Shelbys.
And behind them, something even worse.
A wolf.
---
James pushed through the back door of the Garrison without knocking.
Inside, the pub buzzed low — quiet conversations, darting eyes, the kind of tension that only grew after blood had been spilled but not yet dried.
He moved past the regulars without a word, heading straight for the meeting room behind the bar.
The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside:
Tommy stood at the head of the long table, a cigarette burning between his fingers, coat still dripping rainwater.
Arthur leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, knuckles white.
John sat low in a chair, bouncing his knee, jaw tight with nerves.
Polly stood by the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass.
They all turned when James entered.
Nobody spoke.
James closed the door behind him, cutting off the noise of the bar, and dropped the battered satchel onto the table with a dull thud.
Coins clinked inside.
Jewelry rattled.
Blood still stained the leather.
Tommy stared at it for a long moment before moving, slow and deliberate.
He pulled the satchel open and began pulling out its contents:
Bundles of cash.
Gold watches.
Diamond rings.
And finally, a red leather folder stained dark at the corners.
The smell of blood rose in the warm, close room.
No one flinched.
Not anymore.
Tommy opened the folder, flipping through its contents with a sharp, practiced eye.
Inside were the keys to an empire:
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Bribes paid to police captains, judges, politicians.
Loyalty bought and sold like whiskey and bullets.
Tommy closed the folder with a soft snap.
His blue eyes lifted to meet James'.
"You left them all where they fell," he said.
It wasn't a question.
James nodded once.
Polly exhaled smoke through her nose, sharp and angry.
Arthur's jaw ticked.
John swallowed hard but said nothing.
Tommy tapped the folder against the table.
"You realize what you've done," he said.
It wasn't anger in his voice.
It wasn't fear.
It was something colder.
Respect.
James leaned back against the door, folding his arms across his chest.
"They needed to know," he said simply.
Tommy smiled — a thin, joyless thing.
"Oh, they know."
The rain tapped against the window in steady beats, like a clock ticking down to something none of them could stop.
Arthur shoved off the wall and started pacing.
"First Kimber," he muttered, voice tight. "Now what? You think Sabini's just gonna sit on his fat Italian arse and clap for us?"
John finally spoke, his voice strained.
"The Lees won't either. They'll think we're weak if we don't move fast."
Tommy turned toward the map spread across the table.
The city was marked in rough lines — racecourses, betting dens, factories.
Opportunities.
Targets.
He stubbed out his cigarette against the wood with slow, deliberate pressure.
"We don't wait for them," he said. "We strike first."
He pointed with the end of the folder at the map — one particular racecourse circled in thick pencil.
Monmore Green.
One of Kimber's biggest moneymakers.
Without it, his whole network had collapsed.
Tommy's voice sharpened.
"Arthur, John — you take Monmore tomorrow."
Arthur cracked his knuckles.
"With pleasure."
John nodded tightly, the old light sparking behind his wary eyes.
Tommy turned to Polly.
"You take the folder," he said. "Start squeezing the judges and coppers who owe Kimber favors. Make it clear they work for us now — or they join him in hell."
Polly didn't smile.
She simply took the folder with cold fingers, tucking it under one arm like a loaded pistol.
"And James," Tommy said, voice dropping lower.
Everyone's gaze shifted.
James didn't move from his place against the door.
"You," Tommy said, "will handle the ones that think they can say no."
There was no drama in his words.
No bravado.
Just certainty.
James nodded once.
He expected nothing less.
---
Polly broke the heavy silence.
"And when the Italians come for us?" she asked.
Tommy lit another cigarette, inhaling deep.
"They'll come," he said.
"And we'll be ready."
Arthur laughed quietly, almost bitterly.
"Ready, he says. We've got three dozen men at most, Tom. They've got fookin' armies."
Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose.
"Then we'll fight like wolves."
He glanced at James.
"Won't we?"
James smiled, sharp and thin.
"We already are."
---
Outside, the storm deepened, hammering the city with cold, endless rain.
Inside the Garrison, the Shelbys finished their drinks in silence.
No toasts.
No celebrations.
Just a slow, steady acceptance of what they'd become.
Not soldiers.
Not gangsters.
Kings.
And kings wore crowns made of blood and ash.
The next morning, Birmingham woke different.
Not everyone knew why.
Most didn't dare ask.
But in the corners of pubs, at the smoky edges of factories, whispers spread faster than the rain.
> "Kimber's dead." "House left like a butcher's yard." "The Shelbys are moving. No mercy. No rules."
No names were said openly.
Not yet.
But fear has a scent, and the city reeked of it.
---
James walked the streets with his collar up and his cap low over his eyes.
He didn't rush.
He didn't hide.
He wanted them to see him.
Let the rumors grow fat and ugly.
Let the fear gnaw holes in their bravado.
He passed a bookmaker's stand—normally bustling even in the rain.
Today it was nearly empty.
The few men huddled under the awning shifted uncomfortably when James walked by.
One recognized him.
The man's hand jerked toward his coat — maybe reaching for a weapon, maybe a cross.
It didn't matter.
James caught his gaze.
Held it.
The man looked away first, swallowing thickly, and muttered something to the others.
James kept walking.
It was enough.
Fear did more work than any bullet.
---
Further up Digbeth High Street, he spotted two men lurking near a closed shop — old lieutenants of Kimber's.
Hard men.
Once.
Now they looked like stray dogs, flinching at every step that echoed in the wet streets.
James stepped into the light deliberately.
They stiffened.
He said nothing.
Just touched the brim of his cap once, slow and deliberate.
They turned and fled down the alley like children.
James smiled faintly.
The city had learned a new lesson.
And the price of ignorance was death.
---
At the corner of New Canal Street, he found Lizzie Stark leaning against the brickwork, a cigarette drooping from her mouth.
She looked him over, wary.
"You're the quiet one," she said, voice rough.
James stopped a few feet from her.
Lizzie tipped ash from her cigarette.
"I hear you don't leave much behind when you visit."
He said nothing.
She flicked the cigarette away.
"Good," she said. "We need less talk and more action."
James gave her the barest nod.
And moved on.
---
Small Heath belonged to the Shelbys now.
But James could feel it — like pressure in his bones.
It wasn't enough.
The Italians were watching.
The Lees were sharpening their knives.
Every day they hesitated was a day closer to someone else making a move.
James would make sure they didn't get the chance.
No more waiting.
No more mercy.
Only wolves and prey.
And he knew which side he was on.
Late that evening, the Garrison emptied out.
The regulars slunk home early.
The barmaids cleaned in silence.
Only the Shelbys remained behind — and even Arthur and John were gone now, sent to prepare the men.
It was just Tommy and James in the backroom.
The rain beat harder against the windows.
The map of Birmingham still stretched across the table, stained now with ash from half-burnt cigarettes and the stray smudges of whiskey glasses.
Tommy poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and slid it across the table to James.
James caught it one-handed, but didn't drink yet.
He waited.
Tommy leaned over the map, tapping his knuckles lightly against two spots.
"The Digbeth yards first," he said.
"Then Monmore Green."
His finger moved again —
Then to a cluster of betting shops near Bordesley.
"Sabini's already sent men sniffing around there."
He straightened, lighting another cigarette.
"We can't hold Small Heath if we lose the yards."
James finally spoke.
"Then we don't lose them."
Tommy gave a thin smile — but his eyes stayed hard.
"No," he said. "We burn them."
---
He outlined the plan fast, like stripping a rifle.
Arthur and John would lead two squads of fighters.
One would hit the betting shops.
The other would secure the Digbeth yards.
James —
James would be the scalpel.
The quiet hammer.
The hand that ended the ones who hesitated.
"You'll take five men," Tommy said. "Ones you trust."
James tilted his head.
"I don't trust any of them."
Tommy grinned faintly.
"Good. Neither do I."
He stubbed out the cigarette, grinding it hard into the wood.
"You're not like us, James," he said quietly.
"You're something else."
James met his brother's eyes, unflinching.
"I know."
No pride.
No shame.
Just fact.
---
Tommy straightened.
"We move tomorrow night," he said. "Fast and brutal."
He held up the whiskey glass in a silent toast.
James mirrored him, tapping his glass lightly against Tommy's.
The liquor burned hot down his throat —
Sharp.
Bitter.
Alive.
They drank in silence.
Two brothers.
Two monsters.
And outside, Birmingham waited —
Crouched in fear.
The night broke open like a rotten fruit.
Rain hammered the streets.
Lanterns swayed in the wind.
The city crouched under its own fear.
Arthur led his men through the alleys near Digbeth, caps low, razors ready.
John followed with another crew, slipping through back doors and loading docks like smoke.
No shouts.
No battle cries.
Only the soft thud of boots on wet stone, the creak of iron hinges, the distant cry of gulls over the canals.
Birmingham didn't know it yet.
But war had already begun.
---
James moved differently.
He didn't lead a pack.
He moved alone for now —
Silent.
Efficient.
Unseen.
He passed under broken archways and through shuttered markets, the knife hidden in his sleeve a familiar, comforting weight.
His targets were threefold:
The last two bookmakers still loyal to Kimber's memory.
A traitor in their own ranks feeding whispers to Sabini.
And a police sergeant who hadn't yet decided where his loyalty lay.
James didn't believe in giving men second chances.
Only final warnings.
---
At the first shop, James kicked the door open and crossed the threshold like a shadow.
Two men inside looked up — startled, reaching for pistols under the counter.
James didn't give them the time.
Two steps forward —
The knife flashed —
The first man dropped, throat opened clean and fast.
The second stumbled back, mouth open to shout.
James slammed him against the wall, blade sinking in under the ribs, twisting cruel.
The man gurgled, slid down the woodwork, smearing blood like a signature.
James knelt, wiping his blade on the dead man's coat.
He left no notes.
No signs.
Only silence.
---
The traitor was harder.
He spotted James at the last second outside a betting den and ran, boots splashing through puddles, arms pumping wildly.
James chassed him calmly, predator to prey.
Around corners.
Down alleys.
Across slick cobblestones.
The man screamed for help once —
No one answered.
In Small Heath tonight, nobody wanted to be seen.
James caught him at the edge of the canal, slamming him face-first into the stones.
The traitor sobbed, begged, cursed.
James said nothing.
The blade worked quick.
One jerk under the ribs, a twist, a shove.
The body slipped into the black water without a splash.
Gone.
Forgotten.
---
The police sergeant took more persuasion.
James found him at the Red Lion pub — drunk, belligerent, boasting too loud about Kimber's death.
James sat beside him at the bar.
Ordered a whiskey.
When the sergeant turned, sneering, James was already moving.
A flash of metal.
A quiet grunt.
A knife pressed hard against the man's groin under the bar.
James leaned in close.
Voice soft.
"I own you now."
The sergeant nodded, eyes wide with terror.
James bought him another drink, patted his back once like an old friend, and left.
Sometimes blood wasn't needed.
Only fear.
---
By midnight, it was done.
Arthur reported in first, knuckles bloody, teeth flashing in a savage grin.
"Yards are ours."
John stumbled in later, rain-slicked and breathing hard, but smiling.
"Shops too. No resistance worth a fook."
Tommy gathered them in the Garrison's back room.
He lit a cigarette with steady hands, surveyed his brothers, and nodded once.
"We've begun," he said.
Polly poured whiskey for everyone, her face unreadable.
Outside, the storm screamed against the glass.
Inside, the Shelbys raised their glasses high.
No toasts.
No cheers.
Just the quiet understanding that they had crossed a line tonight.
And there was no going back.
James stayed behind after the others left, standing by the window, watching the city drown in rain.
Small Heath was theirs now.
Tomorrow, Birmingham.
After that—
Who knew?
He lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
Not from fear.
From excitement.
From hunger.
The wolf inside him was awake.
And he was never going back to sleep.