And if loving Reap meant that one day this grief might become mine too. I swallowed slowly. I would still choose him. Every version of this life. Every time.
Chapter Forty One
I stood outside the Kings’ clubhouse watching smoke curl into the Gateshead sky. A sea fret was on its way up the Tyne, the horizon veiled in a thin fog. I could smell it, too. Sharp sea-salt air. Just like in Newbiggin, but here it was slightly contaminated. Petrol and sewage.
Rows of bikes lined the cracked concrete like steel gravestones, engines ticking as they cooled. Vandals. Angels and Demons. None of the smaller clubs. They’d scatted in the aftermath, the north east coalition in tatters. Instead, thenorth was left with men who’d spent years circling each other carefully, now standing shoulder to shoulder beneath a grey northern sky, united by bloodshed and funerals.
I stamped the cigarette into the concrete and moved inside theDog on the Tyne. Clasping hands. Nodding. Watching and counting who was here and who wasn’t.
“Tomahawk,” Indie greeted me. “You’re the last.”
I nodded. He meant I was late, and they were waiting. TheDogmoved now in a sea of leather and three-piece patches. Three crowned, laughing skulls, an angel and a demon with their arms round each other fucking like lovers, and those that stepped in behind me wearing the wolf head surrounded by runes. I clapped the Reverend on the shoulder as I passed him.
Boots rang out in the quiet of the Kings’ clubhouse as we marched up the wooden stairs at the back of the pub. Wooden boards covered the windows at the far end. The Kings had buried their dead. They hadn’t yet fixed their clubhouse.
I counted the faces round the table as we sat. Blazing Bill stood temporarily as President until Angels and Demons got their act together. Beside him, Ash Calder tucked in his chair, shuffling uncomfortably. The tallest in the room, save for Reap, he scanned it like I did, his face expressionless, weighing the cuts and officers that made even the Kings’ table look small. At the top of the table, the old Kings were all now gone. Ade, Si, both long ago, Ste, Big Red, Barry the Blade and Magnet. We paid heavy prices. Nothing would change.
“How many were left?” I asked after Indie finished with the pleasantries.
“A handful ran. Back to the States. We took out every single one of the Notorious. And Jazz ended Thrash.”
Angels and Demons muttered, amused on the other side of the table, and I snorted. She’d always been a firecracker. As wild as her brother. I glanced at the man who sat to Indie’s right, who didn’t share the same amusement as the rest of us.
“And Grim?” I asked, the room silencing around me.
“We sent him home. And to his brothers in other charters.”
Nobody asked questions. Nobody wanted details. But I knew the Bloody Hand president had arrived at American charters in black crates and soaked in petrol. Fingers. Teeth. One final message. Stay the fuck out of the North of England.
“And his cut?” I asked.
“We sent it to his home charter. Hand delivered by some friends of ours.”
I watched Blazing Bill scan the table, a silent count of Kings faces in his head. But I knew. Handed over by Irish boys with dead eyes and heavier accents. Favours owed to the Kings. And even across an ocean, the message landed. The North belonged to us, as it always had. The Kings hadn’t broken. If anything, they’d become more dangerous.
“The Coalition?” Blazing Bill asked.
“We rebuild it. Fear first. Then loyalty. Just like we did before.”
The table grunted in agreement.
“Let’s drink to that,” Indie stood, pushing his chair back.
The rest of tonight would end in the bar. Just three MCs. The power in the North. For now, at least.
*****
I stood just in front of the steps, lights twinkling in the dusk on the far side of the river as Newcastle came to life. Inside the clubhouse, somebody barked out a laugh loud enough to cut through the music. Another answered. Low. Rough. Tired.
Alive. That mattered.
The clubhouse door opened behind him, and Indie stepped out carrying two bottles of beer by the necks. His president’s cut hung open, shirtsleeves rolled to tattooed forearms, exhaustion carved deep into his face. I took the bottle he offered.
“Thought you’d fucked off already,” Indie muttered.
“Aye? And miss watching your lot get sentimental?”
Indie huffed a tired laugh.
