The wolf’s head over the bar looked alive as the rest of the club gathered around it, its eyes blood red, runes I didn’t understand surrounding it. Indie patted me on the shoulder and beckoned me to follow, and I fell into line, Tomahawk and his sarge leading the way into a backroom.
It wasn’t as big as ours. Seats around a table, the Wolf sigil in the middle surrounded by the same runes that flanked it over the bar. Only here it was bigger and angrier, like it might step out of the table itself.
“How was the ride up?” Tomahawk began, half pleasantries, half intelligence gathering.
“Nothing of note. No sign of anyone following us,” Indie responded, plonking himself into the seat that Tomahawk indicated. I followed, sitting down to the right of my president.
“You wanted this in private, Indie. What’s going on?”
“Our leak is more than just a leak, Tomahawk. We’re being sold out. To the cops and then, through them, to the Hand.”
Indie paused for a moment, letting that land, and I watched the reactions. Tomahawk’s expression didn’t shift, not properly, but something sharpened in his eyes for a split second before it was gone. The Reverend might as well have been carved out of the same wood as the table.
“Your VP…” the Vandals’ president started, but Indie cut him off before the words were allowed loose.
“Unlikely. Jake’s a lot of things. But he came through at the Frostbite. Got there in time to warn us. The Hand and the Notorious might have wiped us out in one fell swoop that day. But they didn’t. I’m convinced it’s someone else.”
“And what about your doctor?” The Reverand’s eyes fixed on me. “Word has it she’s DCI Mercer’s daughter.”
Indie’s hand rested on my knee under the table. The lightest of commands, and I breathed slowly, pushing the rage back into its cage inside of me.
“Again, unlikely. The leak started before she was on the scene.”
“Still a fucking risk though, boys. Having the daughter of a copper sniffing around.”
“Ex-copper and, yeah, we’re still assessing that risk.”
“Good intelligence though, Rev. How’d you know?” I asked this time.
“We have our own people. Those who owe us favours. Just like you,” he grunted. “How long has the Viking been back on your books?”
“Ever since we did a favour for the Irish Mafia,” Indie answered flatly. Not a single waver in his voice.
How hard that message came across, I wasn’t sure. Again, the Reverend didn’t react. Not a flicker in his eyes, not a twitch or tiny breath. It was like he was immune. To anything. Tomahawk’s fingers moved on the table. Just a flinch. Just enough that I could see a reaction.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t ask for a meeting to compare dick sizes, Indie,” Tomahawk straightened, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No. I didn’t.” Indie paused, glancing at both of them across the table. “You know the only way we’re going to win this is to take the Hand out.”
“We?” I could hear a hint of amusement in his voice. “The Hand are coming for the Kings. Not the Vandals. This is your war.”
“It’s the coalition’s war,” I corrected, feeling the bubble of anger starting in my chest at the lack of fucking respect from the Vandals’ president’s mouth.
“Reap’s right.” Indie’s voice lowered, a warning just in his tone. “The Hand would have patched us all over last time round. They won’t stop at us this time either. You and I both know that. Which is why you’ve been a paranoid fuck long before all this kicked off.”
For a while Tomahawk just stared, an internal battle going on in his brain. Beside him, the Reverend sat quietly, his eyes and the fucking face carved into his wooden fucking crucifix staring at me.
“So, Indie. What’s the plan?”
“We take them out. Each and every one of them that sets foot on British soil.”
“Interesting. How?”
“Your sniper and ours. The two best killers in the North of England.”
The Reverend moved now, the tiniest of pulls at the side of his mouth, dark amusement threatening to break his stoic exterior.
“Sounds a bit too easy,” the Reverend’s hand stroked the end of the crucifix. “What’s the catch?”
