Chapter 14: I, the Bounty Hunter, Collect My Pay

A group of inspectors followed Director Douglas out through the heavy doors of the East London Metropolitan Police Headquarters. The early morning mist hadn't yet lifted, and the cool air nipped at their collars. At the entrance, a cluster of detectives stood murmuring. Upon seeing the director approach, a bespectacled middle-aged officer stepped forward.

"Director, sir."

"What is it now?" Douglas asked, his voice gruff and rasped, still steeped in the lingering smoke of his morning pipe.

The younger officer who had rushed in earlier now stood aside, relieved. He hadn't been able to explain much through his stammering, so Douglas had come to see for himself.

The middle-aged police lieutenant saluted stiffly and said, "Sir, a civilian reported a group of suspicious sacks at our doorstep. There appears to be blood seeping through them. We feared it might involve a serious crime, so we held off on opening them until you arrived."

Douglas squinted toward the sidewalk where several dark burlap sacks were piled beside a trash bin. A pool of diluted red was slowly soaking into the cobblestones.

"What, you lot can't even open a bag without asking for permission now?" Douglas snapped. "If I have to sign off on everything, then why do I need you at all?"

The lieutenant flinched but did not argue. He merely bowed his head and led the way.

The street was still mostly deserted. The buildings flanking the precinct included a small psychiatric clinic, a private hospital, and across the road, the modest office of the Penny Gazette, one of East London's less reputable tabloids.

As they approached the sacks, Douglas took one look and grimaced. The metallic scent of blood was unmistakable.

"Open them," he ordered curtly. "Carefully. The rest of you form a perimeter. And Kuhn," he barked to one of the inspectors, a heavyset man with a thick mustache, "get a team to sweep the surrounding streets. Quietly. No need to stir up the whole block."

"Yes, sir." Kuhn tipped his hat and went to gather men.

Reluctantly, the middle-aged lieutenant knelt down to handle the sacks. They were bulky, awkward, and wet with what everyone assumed was blood. With some assistance from nearby detectives, they laid out the bags and began undoing the cords.

The first sack was the heaviest.

Douglas, despite his seniority, crouched down and helped pull the body out. It was a man, late forties by the looks of him, with four visible bullet wounds, the most severe ripping through his lower back—right through the spleen. That alone would have been enough to end him.

His hands were bound behind him, and a white cloth was tied tightly over his eyes. It took a moment to realize that it wasn't just any cloth.

"There's writing," said one of the detectives, kneeling beside the corpse.

In crude, smeared blood, the cloth read:

[Orlan Smith — 80 shillings]

"Orlan Smith…" another inspector muttered. "A known mid-level enforcer for the Coray Brothers."

Douglas gave a grunt and puffed on his pipe. "So a gang man. Makes sense someone would put a price on his head."

He waved at the other sacks. "Keep going. Let's see who else came gift-wrapped."

One by one, the other bodies were extracted—each similarly bound, each with a name and bounty scrawled in blood across their blindfolds.

[Zafarullah Box — 95 shillings][Chesson Whiteman — 70 shillings][Gilbert Johnson — 66 shillings][Robindus Caio Donner — 105 shillings]

A strange silence fell over the group. Not horror—most had seen worse—but something about the presentation was… theatrical. Ritualistic, almost. Like an offering.

Douglas remained quiet for a while, assessing. The corpses were still fresh—killed within the last few hours. Judging by the wounds and lack of defensive marks, they'd been executed, not fought.

And they weren't random thugs. Every one of them had a bounty on their heads, posted by the police themselves. Legally speaking, someone had just done their job for them—unlicensed, yes, but effective.

Douglas was no stranger to East London's filth. Since taking office, the stack of cold cases on his desk had only grown. Now someone had delivered five of the city's most wanted criminals right to their doorstep. Tied up. Tagged. Bagged.

"Sir," the bespectacled lieutenant called, holding out a crumpled piece of paper he'd retrieved from Orlan Smith's jacket.

Douglas took it and read aloud:

"Dear Honorable Officers,

Good morning. Apologies for disrupting your breakfast routine, but I do hope you'll spare a moment.

As you'll see, I've completed a handful of your posted bounties. The merchandise is labeled for your convenience.

Please forward the appropriate compensation to the following address:

East London, Hammers Street, Blackfrill District...

Oh, and don't forget the tip.

Sincerely,A law-abiding, hard-working citizen.

— J"

"J…" Douglas muttered, folding the note thoughtfully. His left eye twitched—a subtle tic beside the scar that ran from brow to cheek. A former wound. A souvenir from his Navy days.

This wasn't the first time that letterhead had crossed his desk.

Whoever this "J" was, they were no ordinary bounty hunter. And they weren't trying to hide—not really. A pseudonym, sure, but they'd left a return address.

A bold one.

Douglas handed the note to a nearby inspector. "File this under special review. And draft up a payment order for the posted bounties—plus a discretionary bonus."

"A tip, sir?" the inspector blinked.

"He earned it." Douglas exhaled a cloud of pipe smoke. "Besides… I have a feeling we'll be hearing from this J again."

He turned back toward the precinct.

"Start the paperwork."