Reap (Northern Kings MC #6)

Chapter One

Rain hammered the roof, the noise echoing around the cavernous space, vibrating through the old beams shaped into Gothic arches. Formidable. Telling. Adding to an atmosphere so thick it felt like it would suffocate us all.

At the pulpit Father Leverett spoke, his voice as tense as the air around us, his eyes darting to Fury every few words like he was looking for assurance that our vice president wouldn’t rip his head off in front of his God.

His God. Not mine. And probably not Big Red’s.

We were the only family Big Red had. Everyone else was either already dead or had betrayed him years before.

Whether he’d believed in God, he’d never let on.

But he’d sat here with us, bowing his head to silently pray for our dead. And that list was ramping up again.

People around me shifted uncomfortably. Cold arses on hard seats.

But that wasn’t the only reason they wriggled.

The atmosphere strangled them. The tension almost too much to bear.

I glanced around. Angels and Demons MC, Tyne Thunder MCC, Durham Heathens.

They all sat there, quietly glancing at each other, doing the same head count as I was.

Behind me, I knew he was sitting with his club.

Tomahawk, president of the Valhalla’s Vandals MC.

Tall, dark, and probably paranoid as fuck.

He’d been the one who’d seen this coming months ago.

The one patrolling the Northumberland roads, pulling over unmarked riders, collecting intelligence.

He’d left the army. But the army had never left him.

At Ste’s funeral this place was packed. Today I could see space.

And that wasn’t just because of the weather.

I made a mental note of the bike clubs who had stayed away.

The ones that hadn’t come to pay their respects.

The ones that weren’t The Notorious or the Teesside Road Rats.

They’d never been expected. But we were prepared.

If they came. Because, if they did, there was no respect involved. For either of us.

But there’d be no blood shed in here. Not under the eyes of the effigies hanging over our heads, fixed to crosses, watching us like we were all sinners, or this was some fucking awful horror film.

I glanced up to my right. To where he hung from the crucifix. His eyelids half closed, thorns digging into his forehead, streaks of blood spilling from where they stuck in his skin and from the hands and feet nailed into the cross. Fuck if I didn’t need another joint just to get through this.

Beside me, Demon fidgeted. Still injured.

Still in pain. Still useless to us, but here anyway.

We were diminishing, right before my eyes.

Yes, Indie had been bringing in prospects like the fuckers were going out of fashion.

Northern Kings cuts and those with just their bottom rockers filled the front five pews.

And pepper-potted between them were their ol’ ladies.

We were a club of prospects and women. And soon, the Bloody Hand would be knocking at our fucking door.

Sunderland had fallen. The Notorious already laying promises of loyalty at the feet of the Hand.

But none of our intel could work out what was going on with the Rats.

They had scattered when we had torn through their clubhouse, leaving the ugly fucking building almost razed to the ground.

Their enforcer had fucked off with Jazz, and the rest of them had gone underground.

At our door things were quiet. Calm before the storm. But we were all just waiting for it to hit. Building an army and scaring the shit out of anyone we thought would turn their backs on us and the coalition.

I clutched my side, pressing my hand against where the wound ached deep and sour, the initial sting had subsided now, but with every beat of my pulse, blood still leaked across my ribs.

It was still bleeding into the gauze. I could feel it, the spread of warmth and then instant cooling as cold spring air infiltrated my clothes.

Father Leverett’s voice stopped and the music started again.

The first note crawled out of the speakers low and rough, dragged up from the ground outside.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there. Heavy.

It settled in my chest and stayed. Johnny Cash’s voice followed, cracked and tired, the sound of a man who’d lived long enough to know exactly what it all cost. ‘I hurt myself today’.

The room went still like we had been sucked into a vacuum.

The Kings rose. Altogether, like a move we’d practised.

Some of us had. The newer ones not so much.

But we moved together anyway, like it was ingrained in our brains, and we were thinking as one.

My hand tightened over my ribs as the ache flared, syncing with the slow thud of my pulse.

Every beat reminded me I was still upright.

Still breathing. Still paying. The gauze shifted as my ribs moved in and out, damp and useless, warmth spreading before the cold bit back in.

Right now, though, I welcomed it. Let it remind me I was still alive.

That I was not the one being buried today.

‘What have I become?’ Cash’s words resonated in the wood of the pew behind my leg.

Around me, others also rose to their feet, heads bowed, jaws locked.

No tears. No comfort. Just respect, laid down heavy as concrete.

Big Red didn’t need prayers or promises.

This sound, this silence, this shared weight was his send-off.

The song didn’t ask for forgiveness. It didn’t offer peace.

It just told the truth. ‘My empire of dirt.’

I lifted my eyes then. Just enough, catching Fury’s as he scanned the church, hard and unblinking.

To our left, presidents from visiting clubs stood rigid, watching us the same way we were watching them.

Measuring. Counting. No one looked away.

Big Red had built the Kings, along with the old guard.

Every inch of ground, every ounce of fear and loyalty.

His death didn’t erase it. It marked it.

Claimed it. Anyone thinking otherwise was standing in the wrong fucking room.

When the last note finally faded, it felt wrong to move. Like stepping away too soon would mean leaving him behind. So, I stood there, bleeding, breathing, remembering. The rain hammered the roof, and the road waited outside, patient as ever.

I wobbled on my feet. A fresh flood of pain like a punch in my back, stealing my breath. Indie glanced at me, and I nodded back hoping to deflect his attention.

Men dressed in black suits moved forward, surrounding the coffin.

It was bare apart from a bouquet of white lilies, stark against the dark wood and the cut draped across it.

The leather was torn on one side. Suzy had stitched it back together as much as she could do, but even her skills had failed.

Flecks of red smudged over the white laughing skulls, only noticeable if you got real close.

Mamma Dot had scrubbed it best she could, but the trace of Big Red’s last few minutes was still there.

Heidi stood quietly beside Fury, tension flicking in her jaw, watching the suited men carefully, like she might dock their wages if they took one misstep.

But they were perfect. Every single one moving and working together, choreographed to perfection.

The coffin moved smoothly up onto their shoulders.

Big Red seemed weightless. Then we filed out behind them.

The doors were pushed open and the rain rushed in, cold and sharp.

The world hadn’t paused just because we had.

Somewhere near the back of the church, an amp crackled to life.

A low hum, barely there at first. Then the opening notes of “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd slipped into the space; soft, almost tentative, that slow, familiar guitar line winding its way through the hush.

It wasn’t loud yet. It didn’t need to be. It carried its own gravity. Heads lifted. A few mouths tightened. Everyone knew where that song went, even if we were only standing at the beginning of it now. It felt like permission. Like a door cracking open after everything we’d just held inside.

As the coffin passed through the doorway, rain spattered the dark wood, and the music followed us out. Mournful. Patient. Promising motion after stillness.

The graveside was already slick, the rain making it a death trap. But the men in suits held steady. Every footstep careful, every movement measured, safe.

“Don’t reckon Big Red would want to be buried,” a twin muttered beside me.

“Don’t reckon Big Red thought he was ever going to die,” Magnet answered. “Fucker always thought he was invincible.”

“Aye, just like someone else we all know,” I muttered, throwing Magnet a look.

“I’m luckier,” he shrugged.

Father Leverett teetered across the mud, standing at the head of the grave, the slightest hint of a tremble in his hands.

Fury stared, his eyes fixed on the old priest, watching him like he might steal something off the coffin itself.

But Leverett’s days of thievery were over, at least while we were all watching him.

I didn’t listen to the words as Indie bowed his head and slid the cut off the polished wood. I barely watched as the coffin was lowered into the dirt. The pulsing pain in my ribs had returned, and I could feel the dribble of warmth as the wound started to bleed again.

The rest of the clubs had stood back respectfully as we all approached the grave. I glanced around. The original members were nearly all gone now. Barry the Blade the last man standing. In another twenty years, would there even be a Northern Kings MC?

Father Leverett shut his book, signing the cross over his chest before nodding at Indie. We all moved, sludging over the sodden grass.

“How’d you get a space right next to Ste?” Barry the Blade asked.

“Leverett is in our pocket now, lads. He juggled the plots around to fit Big Red in. At least he’s still with his club, huh?”

Baz thumped Indie on the back enthusiastically and I watched our president slide sideways in the mud.

“You get that sorted?” Indie asked me as the rest of the club walked back towards the bikes that filled the church car park.

I nodded, trying to ignore the pain in my left-hand side, but my foot slid suddenly on the wet ground.

“Fuck,” I hissed, grabbing at my side.

Indie’s eyes tracked my movement, then he tipped his head at the rest of the men, signalling for them to leave us.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“I can see the blood soaking into your jeans, Reap. And soon everyone else will be able to see it too.”

“Just needs another gauze.”

“Needs stitching.”

“Got some glue at home.”

Indie shook his head. “Hey, Security Sam,” he growled across the graveyard.

The prospect hurried over, and for a moment looked like he was going arse-over-tits in the mud but righted himself at the last minute.

“Take Reap to the hospital…”

“I don’t need the hospital.”

“Take him to the hospital and stay with him. If he goes awol without fucking stitches, you’re for it not him.”

Sam nodded, a hint of fear in his eyes.

“I can ride…”

Indie held his hand up.

“Sam will take you. You stay until you get stitched. That’s an order. Understand?”

I nodded, silently, knowing I had no other choice.

“Come on, Reap. We’ll jump on my bike.”

Fucking great. Not only did I have a prospect babysitting me, I was now riding bitch.

I watched the rest of the club climb onto their bikes, listening to the collective roar as the Harleys choked to life, the ground under our feet vibrating as the motorbikes of other clubs joined in.

Then we watched them peel off, heading back to the clubhouse, silence settling around us.

Out on the main road, a car started, headlights beaming through the rain, even though it wasn’t quite dark yet. It didn’t follow the procession, just loitered in the empty street. There were no houses to visit, only the dead, yet it sat waiting for something.

I tucked my bike as far into the church yard as I could, rolling it behind the priest’s car and securing the lock through the wheel of Father Leverett’s car. If they were taking my Rocket, they’d be taking that wheel too. I just hoped the fuckers were God-fearing.

Out on the road, the car lingered a few seconds longer before revving its engine, tyres squealing on wet tarmac as it rushed away.