Criminal Breath | Peaky Blinders x Red Dead Redemption

Chapter 2

"I reckon we should take a little more than our fair share," Micah drawled, his Colt revolver leveled at the Peaky Blinders. "Consider it a finder's fee for bringing you boys into this little party."

Tommy's eyes flicked to the gold, then back to Micah. The rain slicked their faces, masking any hint of fear or doubt. "You've got some nerve, Bell," he said calmly, his hand hovering near his own weapon. "We had a deal."

Micah chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down Arthur's spine. "Deals are made to be broken," he said, taking a step closer. "Or at least, that's what Dutch taught me."

Arthur stepped in front of the gold, his hand hovering over the holster of his own gun. "Dutch made a deal with Tommy," he said firmly. "We stick to our word."

Micah's smile didn't waver. "Maybe Dutch did, but I never agreed to it," he replied, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Now, hand it over or I'll start decorating the street with your brains."

Tommy's gaze flicked to Arthur, and in that split second, a silent understanding passed between them. This wasn't just about the gold anymore; it was about respect and survival. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and Arthur slowly raised his hands.

"Easy now," Dutch's voice boomed over the din, his long coat billowing in the storm. "Micah, what the hell do you think you're playing at?"

Micah's grin widened, his eyes flicking to Dutch. "Just looking out for our interests," he said, not lowering his gun. "A little extra never hurt anybody."

Dutch's expression darkened. "Our interests are in the plan, and the plan is fifty-fifty," he said firmly, his hand on the grip of his own weapon. "Now, let's get the gold and get out of here."

The tension was palpable as Micah held his ground, his eyes locked on Tommy. The Peaky Blinders remained still, their own weapons at the ready. The rain continued to pound down, mixing with the sweat that trickled down their foreheads. It was a standoff that could end in a hail of bullets or a shaky alliance.

"You're right, Dutch," Micah said, his voice as smooth as the whiskey that sloshed in the bottle in his pocket. "Fifty-fifty it is." He took a step back, allowing the Peaky Blinders to breathe a collective sigh of relief. The stand-off had ended without bloodshed, but the air remained charged with the electricity of mistrust.

The gold was loaded onto the waiting wagon, and the two gangs retreated into the night, the storm's fury their only cover. As the rain drenched their clothes and the thunder drowned their footsteps, they couldn't shake the feeling that the real battle was only just beginning. Dutch had seen the look in Micah's eyes, the greed that had almost cost them everything. It was a look he'd seen before, one that spelled trouble.

The journey back to their hideout was tense. The wagon jolted over the uneven terrain, the gold bars clinking together in a mocking symphony of temptation. Tommy's thoughts raced, trying to piece together whether Micah had been acting alone or if Dutch had known about the double-cross all along and just stepped in after realizing the Blinders won't back down. The American West was a land of shifting allegiances, and he wasn't ready to trust anyone fully just yet.

When they arrived, the camp was a flurry of activity. The fire cast a warm, flickering glow on the tense faces of the outlaws, their clothes sticking to their skin from the rain. Dutch called for a meeting, his voice carrying over the din like a thunderclap. The two gangs gathered around, the air thick with the scent of damp leather and gunpowder.

"We did good tonight," Dutch said, his eyes scanning the group. "But let's not forget our priorities. The gold is to be split fifty-fifty, as agreed. No funny business."

Tommy met Dutch's gaze, his own eyes as unyielding as the iron bars of the gold they'd just stolen. "Agreed," he said firmly.

The gold was counted and divided, the clinking of the bars the only sound in the taut silence. Each gang took their share, weighing it with a mix of triumph and wariness. As the Peaky Blinders moved to secure their loot, Micah's gaze remained on the Englishmen, his smirk never fading.

The following days passed in an uneasy calm, the two groups coexisting in the camp, their mutual mistrust simmering beneath the surface. Tommy knew that they couldn't stay together for long without the tension boiling over. He called a private meeting with Arthur Morgan and John Marston, the most reliable of the Van der Linde gang.

"We've got to get our share and be on our way," Tommy murmured, the crackling fire casting shadows on their faces. "This isn't our territory, and the longer we stay, the greater the risk."

Arthur nodded, his eyes reflecting the flames. "I feel it too. Micah's got a wild streak in him, and Dutch can't control him forever. But we've got the gold, and that's what matters."

John Marston, the quiet and observant one, spoke up. "You need to be careful, Tommy. Dutch is a snake, but he's got a code. He won't let Micah betray you outright."

Tommy nodded, his jaw clenched. "Aye, but snakes can still bite when you're not looking. We've got to have an exit plan, just in case."

Arthur leaned in closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I've been thinking the same. I'll talk to Dutch, see if we can arrange a meeting with the buyers sooner rather than later. You get our cash, and you're out of here."

John studied the flickering flames, his expression thoughtful. "And what about Micah?" he asked. "We can't just ignore what he did."

Tommy's gaze sharpened. "No," he said, "you can't. But for now, we all keep our heads down and play nice. Once we've got our money, we're out of here. And if he tries anything before that..." He let the sentence hang in the air, his meaning clear.