The morning of Black Star Day broke with gunmetal skies and a cold wind slicing through Small Heath.
James Shelby sat in silence, shirtless, as Polly wrapped his ribs tight with a strip of blood-specked bandage. His torso was black and blue from the beating. His breathing still came hard. Campbell had nearly broken him—but not quite.
Polly's hands worked fast, but her eyes never left his face.
"You sure you can do this?" she asked.
James didn't answer. He just pulled his coat back on, fastened the belt, and slid his gloves over his bruised knuckles.
Tommy entered without knocking.
He didn't look surprised to see James standing.
"Didn't think you'd stay down."
James tilted his head. "Didn't plan to."
Tommy handed him a small case—inside was a compact Webley pistol, modified for silence and speed.
"Stay close, but out of sight. If Kimber makes a move before I do, you handle it."
James nodded once.
Tommy's voice lowered.
"And if Campbell shows his face..."
James's eyes narrowed.
"I'll handle him, too."
The Worcester Racecourse was a theater of tension.
The crowd gathered in their Sunday best. The bookmakers' stands buzzed with activity, but beneath the surface, the city's pulse beat fast and erratic. Guns were hidden in strollers. Razors tucked into boots. Peaky Blinders mixed with Lee boys. A war disguised as a wager.
Tommy stood tall, Ada by his side, her baby in her arms. Polly hovered nearby. Arthur, twitching with adrenaline, clutched a revolver beneath his long coat.
But James?
He was already gone.
Melted into the scaffolding above the stands.
Watching.
Waiting.
His heartbeat slowed.
His mind sharpened.
From up here, he could see everything.
The glint of Kimber's gold rings.
The subtle shift of men in long coats slipping through the crowd.
The one who wasn't cheering. The one who looked at Ada with murder in his eyes.
James moved before anyone else noticed.
Kimber approached with a sneer, flanked by a handful of armed men.
Tommy stood his ground. Calm. Sharp. Dangerous.
"You bring soldiers, Billy?" Tommy asked, voice like a razor's edge.
Kimber laughed. "You think I need 'em? I came to crush you, Tommy."
"I don't think so. I think you came here to see how it ends."
One of Kimber's men raised his weapon.
Ada screamed.
Arthur reached for his.
But a shadow dropped behind the would-be shooter before he could pull the trigger.
James struck with brutal efficiency.
A bone-crushing elbow to the spine.
A hand over the mouth.
A silent pull of the blade across the throat.
The man dropped without a sound, swallowed by the crowd's roar as a race thundered past the track.
No one saw it.
No one but Kimber.
And that moment of distraction was all Tommy needed.
The pistol rose.
The shot cracked.
Billy Kimber hit the ground, blood blooming like a red flower across his chest.
The chaos that followed was quick and clean.
Kimber's men scattered.
Tommy stood over the body, revolver still smoking.
Arthur let out a wild yell, raising his fists to the sky.
Polly grabbed Ada, shielding Karl from the fallout.
And James?
Gone again.
No trace. No name. No thanks.
Later that night, back at the Garrison, the family celebrated.
Freddie Thorne showed up, slipping past the police lines to kiss Ada and hold his son. The room filled with music, laughter, and whiskey.
But Polly kept glancing toward the window.
"Where is he?" she asked Tommy.
Tommy sipped his drink, expression unreadable.
"Out there," he said. "Watching. Making sure no one else comes for us."
A few streets away, James stood on a rooftop beneath the stars, watching the smoke rise from the chimneys of Small Heath.
His body still ached.
His ribs burned.
But his mind was clear.
Campbell would come again.
Stronger.
More prepared.
And when he did...
James would be waiting.
The morning of Black Star Day broke with gunmetal skies and a cold wind slicing through Small Heath.
James Shelby sat in silence, shirtless, as Polly wrapped his ribs tight with a strip of blood-specked bandage. His torso was black and blue from the beating. His breathing still came hard. Campbell had nearly broken him—but not quite.