Criminal Breath | Peaky Blinders x Red Dead Redemption

Chapter 21

Dutch nodded solemnly. "Agreed," he said, his voice barely audible above the distant crackle of the fire. "But we can't just wander the streets asking questions. We'll be hunted men."

John's gaze drifted to the shadows. "We've got a few connections in the city," he said, his voice low. "We might be able to find someone who can help us track him down."

Tommy nodded, his mind racing with the potential of their next move. "We'll start with the docks," he said, his eyes never leaving the water. "The Irish have always had a stronghold there. They might have seen something."

Dutch looked thoughtful for a moment before agreeing. "It's as good a place to start as any," he said. "But we're not going in together. We split up. My gang will take the north side, you take the south. Less of us, less attention."

Tommy nodded, his mind racing. "Fine. But we need to stay in contact. No heroics, no going rogue. We stick to the plan and we get our answers."

They made their way out of the tunnel and into the damp, smoky night. The city above was a war zone, with flaming buildings lighting up the sky like a twisted aurora borealis. They split up, Dutch and his gang heading north, their boots echoing down the narrow streets, while Tommy and John took the south, the river to their right, the fire's reflection dancing on its surface. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and gunpowder.

Dutch couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal that had been festering inside him since the moment he saw the warehouse in flames. His thoughts were a tumult of anger, frustration, and suspicion. He didn't trust the Shelbys anymore, not after Tommy's betrayal. His gang was a ragged bunch of outlaws, their loyalty as reliable as a chameleon's color. But he knew one thing for sure: he would get that gold back, no matter the cost.

Ignoring Tommy's cautious approach, Dutch decided on a bold move. He gathered his men and set his sights on the nearest police station. The law had always been the enemy, and he was convinced they had their hands on the gold. "We're going in hot," he announced, his voice a mix of fury and determination. "We get the gold, we get out, and we leave no man standing."

The streets of Liverpool were a maelstrom of chaos and fear as they approached the station. Dutch's gang, fueled by desperation, charged ahead, their guns blazing. The cobblestone streets echoed with the cacophony of hooves and gunfire. The night air was pierced with the screams of the innocent and the dying, as the once orderly neighborhood descended into pandemonium. Dutch's mind was a whirlwind of rage and strategy, his eyes scanning every window and shadow for any sign of the stolen gold or the men who had taken it from them.

The police station was a fortress of red brick and wrought iron, illuminated by the flickering gas lamps that cast eerie shadows across the sooty facade. The cops inside were ready for them, their guns drawn and their eyes cold with the knowledge that they were about to face a formidable enemy. The exchange of fire was swift and brutal, bullets ricocheting off the cobblestones and embedding themselves into the thick wooden doors. Dutch's gang moved as one, a well-oiled machine of destruction, dodging bullets and laying down a barrage of lead that seemed to never end.

The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, the acrid taste of it coating the back of Micah's throat as he ducked behind a barricade. He could see Dutch at the front, his hat tilted back, his eyes wild with fury as he directed his men with sharp gestures and bellowed commands. Micah felt a strange mix of admiration and dread, watching the madness unfold before him. The bullets whizzed by, a lethal symphony that painted the night in a macabre dance of light and shadow.

One by one, the cops fell, their lives extinguished with brutal efficiency. The walls of the station were splattered with blood, the floor slick with it. The air was filled with the cries of the dying and the defiant roars of the gang members. Dutch's face was a mask of rage, his eyes burning with a madness that seemed to infect everyone around him. Micah had never seen him like this, so consumed by a vendetta that he had become unrecognizable.

The last of the lawmen was dragged out into the street, begging for mercy. Dutch strode over, his boots splashing through the crimson pool that had formed around the man's knees. He looked down, his expression cold and emotionless. "Where's the gold?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

The policeman coughed, blood spattering the ground. "I-I don't know," he gasped. "We never had it."

Dutch's eyes narrowed, his hand tightening around his gun. "You expect me to believe that?"

The policeman's eyes widened with fear. "I swear, we were just the decoy! The gold was never here!"

Dutch's hand trembled, his grip tightening on the Colt revolver. "A decoy for whom?" he snarled.

The policeman coughed up more blood. "The Italians," he choked out. "They... they paid us to keep you busy."

Dutch's eyes narrowed. "And where's Archie?"

The policeman's chest heaved with painful breaths. "Took him," he managed to say. "The Italians took him."

Dutch's rage boiled over. "Thank you for your help!" he roared, raising his gun.

The policeman's eyes went wide, and he sputtered a stream of curses and pleas, but Dutch had heard enough. With a final, furious laugh, he pulled the trigger. The policeman's eyes rolled back in his head as his body jerked and went limp, a crimson flower blossoming on his chest. The echo of the shot reverberated through the narrow streets, silencing the chaos momentarily.

Dutch turned to Micah, his eyes glittering in the firelight. "We need to find Tommy," he said, his voice tight with anger. "We need to fill him in on this and attack the Italians together."

Micah nodded, his expression grim. "But we can't trust anyone else," he said. "Not after this."

Dutch's eyes searched the chaos, his mind racing. "We'll find a way to get to Tommy," he said, his voice low. "We need to move fast if we want to get the Italians."

Micah nodded, his own thoughts a tumult of anger and suspicion. "We've got to get the drop on them," he said, his eyes glinting in the flickering firelight. "We can't let them get too far ahead."

They sprinted through the streets, the chaos of their own making fading behind them. The night was a canvas of shadows and flame, a backdrop to their relentless pursuit of the truth. The Italian mansion loomed ahead, a bastion of opulence amidst the squalor of the city. The sound of laughter and music drifted through the night, taunting them with the knowledge that their enemy was close.

Dutch's gang skidded to a halt at the sight of the Peaky Blinders emerging from an alley. Tommy and John were at the forefront, their eyes weary but determined. The two groups faced each other, the air thick with tension and the smell of gunpowder. Tommy's gaze searched Dutch's face, looking for any sign of treachery.

"We've got a problem," Dutch called out, his voice carrying over the distant din of the burning city. "The gold isn't here. The coppers were just a distraction."

Tommy's eyes narrowed, the flaming silhouettes of the city's buildings flickering in his eyes. "What are you on about? Did you attack the station? We agreed not to do that."

Dutch stepped forward, his voice tight. "One of the coppers talked before he died. He said the Italians paid them to keep us busy. They've got the gold."

Tommy's fists clenched at his sides. "And Archie?"

"They've got him too," Dutch replied, his jaw tight. "They took him."

Tommy's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. "What did you say?"

"The Italians," Dutch repeated, his voice strained with tension. "They've got our man, and our gold. We need to hit them hard and fast, before they have a chance to move it again."