Ex-soldier Birmingham-gangster bets his life on luck and illegalities, adroit wit and burning passion streaking his blood-stained fingertips as a dire quarrel commence between himself and the disturbed Dane who purloined his lover.
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MEN OF NO GOD
SMALL HEATH WAS GREY and cold, not in comparison to the summers it offered, but in comparison to when Italian malice was not roaming its muddy streets. While the Peaky Blinders could not foresee just when these men of no God would attack, they certainly could scheme on just how they would approach this fight. Luckily, most of the men had witnessed war years back, so when shots finally rang through the streets, screams of innocent women and yells of bellicose men who never would be caught alive conceding sounded, and Isaiah Jesus was on the ground with a wounded leg, the protectors of Birmingham jumped right into action.
Arthur Shelby, like any mad dog, thwarted the shooter, instantly in the process of bashing in heads and while he saw red, the chaos prospered behind him. Finn Shelby had moments ago been at his side, as they had been patrolling the street, looking out for threats and he cursed at how blind they had been to neglect a single Italian.
"Fucking dago got me right in me fucking thigh!" cried Isaiah, who had expected no pain similar to the one he felt, verily shocked from his first-ever bullet. While he felt paralyzed, his blood ran hot and he clenched his teeth, already building up a sweat from pure shock.
Finn could not help but wonder just how much it hurt, for his friend's face contorted widely with discomfort, but instead, he made an effort to calm Isaiah. Like Isaiah and any other younger Blinder who never had fought a real war, he had found it difficult to believe that people were crossing oceans with one particular thing in mind; to kill, and to kill him amongst his fellow Blinders. He could count on a single hand the times his life had been in real danger, but nonetheless, he understood the seriousness of the situation and this time when he looked about for help, there was no Tommy to save either.
Not yet, at least, but subsequent to having posted the letter destined for the Grand Duchess, he bolted once shots rang through his ears. The alarm was sounded and reverse to what direction the surrounding pedestrians ran in, he went for the source of the panic.
Squandering no time, he ran in the middle of the street, taking off his cap for he knew very well the Italians ought to be going after those with peaked caps. The troops of which had been scattered about in the scare off the Italians' arrival, gathered in flocks, cocking guns and congregated on Thomas' tail. Passing the church, people forsook the current service. Jeremiah Jesus pushed through the small flock and at the sight of a rushing Shelby, he left the scene of the holy.
"Got another one of those?" respired the street preacher.
Thomas offered his comrade the revolver he had readied and pulled out the rifle he had held still in his coat. The weapon only stored a single cartridge which would have to make do. Nearing the scene of the shooting, they found themselves not far from the old betting shop.
"Go around, secure the perimeter. I'm going straight—"
It was then Jeremiah heeded the painful protests of his son, and his mind went blank.
