Chapter Two
The shower pounded on the glass behind me, the room filling with steam, droplets forming on my bare skin where they condensed in the chill of the surrounding air. The skinny rectangular window above me only let the darkness spill in, a black void, and night beyond that.
I glanced up. The man in the mirror looking back at me grimaced, wrinkles forming on his forehead, thick brown hair almost obscuring one dark eyebrow as it covered weathered skin. His brows furrowed as he stared, a deep rivet between his eyes.
Running a hand through my hair, the man in front of me copied. He was tired. He closed his eyes.
Images flashed through my mind. The angry roar of the Harleys, the workhorse of bikes.
Heavy, strong, powerful. The road vibrated underneath them as we sat on their flanks, boxing them in.
Following our instructions. Keeping them where the Notorious wanted them.
The Kings. One of the most feared clubs in the North East, and, for the first time in my life, I was pleased we showed no colours.
I pinched my nose, the sound of water splashing angrily behind me.
Wasted. Washing down the plughole while I stood at the sink watching the reflection.
The man who’d watched his friend die today.
The man struggling with the white-hot anger burning inside of him like a poker eternally condemned to the furnace.
He chewed on the side of his mouth, thinking. Planning. Hating.
A truck had been coming the other way. He hadn’t stood a chance.
I watched him disappear under the wheels, and when he came out the back of it, he was in two halves.
That side of the carriageway had screeched to a halt.
And we should have kept going. All of us.
Together. That had been the order. But I dropped off the accelerator, some irrational hope that there was something I could do.
In the end, I was just thankful he was dead, even if his insides were smeared onto the tarmac.
Bile rose in my throat again. Burning and acidic. I dived for the toilet.
The shower pulverized my face, water changing temperature.
Hot to cold. All the warmth washed down the plughole as I stared into grey tile.
The steam in the bathroom grew less and less dense, condensation clinging to the mirror, lines of water sliding down onto the sink top and pedestal.
And now, with the hot water totally used up, I stood under the freezing cold stream cascading down over my back, concentrating on the sting of the cold and not the visions playing over and over in my head.
The cold dampened the anger raging inside my chest, fighting the flames of wrath like a fire hose.
My heart slowed; my breathing followed. And there in the icy cold spray I found solace.
And calm. For the first time in hours. The vice around my chest loosened.
The grip on my heart released. I could breathe.
I could think. And I could feel something else. Pain.
He’d not just been my brother in the club.
He was my best friend. The man who’d scraped me off the proverbial road.
The one who’d wrestled me away from the consuming darkness.
And I watched those fuckers all but throw him under the wheels of that truck.
His body hadn’t stood a chance. Ripped apart and splattered on the tarmac.
Not even his heavily armoured racing bike suit could save him from the wheels of that twenty-six tonne truck.
Bile burned my throat again. The embers of the flame almost sated, reigniting.
Flooding my stomach with a tidal wave of rage.
The roar filled the bathroom. Deep. Resonating.
Angry. Painful. The feelings inside me were alien.
I’d never felt it before. Never tasted the putridness of loss.
He was gone. Mike. My best friend. My wing man. My brother. Gone. Dead. Just like that.
Something hot rolled down my cheek, obscure against the freezing cold beat of the shower.
I swiped at it with my knuckles, biting the inside of my cheek, and then I shut off the flow of icy cold water.
The bathroom plunged into silence. Not one sound.
Apart from the pounding of my heart and the rasps of my chest as I swallowed at the tears, begging them not to fall.
Begging them not to make me vulnerable. I’d never been vulnerable, not since he picked me up.
Not since he introduced me to the Rats. He found me a family. Mike. And now he was gone.
A noise. A mechanical chirp. A phone. Somewhere in my apartment above the bike shop, my mobile rang.
I pulled the towel resting on the heated rail.
The gentle softness and warmth wrapping around my waist, water slowly dripping down into the soft, fluffy cotton.
The bouncing of the ringtone stopped. Then started again.
Deep in the belly of my apartment. I followed the sound, my footsteps drying into the thick carpet with each step.
Skinny. I hit the green button, pushing the device against a soggy ear.
“Chase?”
“Here,” I grunted.
“We’ve bagged ourselves a Northern King!” he spat excitedly.
I breathed. My insides bubbling.
“We’ll make them pay, mate. I promise you that. You coming down?”
“Aye. To the clubhouse?”
“Nah, mate. Warehouse.”
“Right. Won’t be long.”
I shut the call off, padding back into the bedroom and raking through my wardrobe. Jeans and a hoodie. No colours. The warehouse was supposed to be a discreet location. Somewhere not associated with the Rats. Somewhere we hauled product from and didn’t need the police sniffing around.
The garage door at the back of the property rattled open.
The bright white lights from inside spilled out onto the dully lit back lane.
I started the black Yamaha. It wasn’t my fastest bike.
But it was matte black and naked. Nothing distinguishing on it.
Nothing to catch in headlights. Nothing to mark me as one of the Teesside Road Rats.
The garage door rattled behind me, and I flicked the switch on the handlebars, the number plate at the back of the bike dropping back into position.
For now, I rode with it down. Compliant.
Legal. But, when I got through the middle of Middlesbrough and out onto the industrial roads toward Redcar, I’d pop it back up.
And then there was nothing to catch me on cameras. I didn’t exist.
The roads were quiet. Middlesbrough night traffic disappearing quickly, their only focus getting in and out the town centre as quickly as possible.
Police crawled the same roads, their attention on the drunks, and the men and women selling their bodies and the hit to go with them.
As soon as I was out of the centre I pulled up the number plate and hit the throttle, empty roads welcoming the call of the Yamaha.
The warehouse was tucked away in the middle of the industrial estate.
Henderson Logistics detailed the sides. Mine.
It was one of my companies. Set up to hide the real business that went on inside.
The forecourt was empty. White security lights illuminating the yard.
Pulling off my gloves and fumbling inside my black leathers, I felt for the key fob, stiff, icy fingertips tracing over the buttons.
I hit the bottom one, the big steel gate slowly sliding to the side.
I only let it go a quarter of the way, just so I didn’t have to wait an age for it to close again behind me.
I didn’t recognise the white van inside. But that didn’t concern me. The faces surrounding it were as familiar to me as I’d ever seen. The pointed nose and sunken eyes of Skinny, our vice president, and the scarred, bearded face of the Rats’ president, Dougal.
“Haven’t we got a treat for you boys,” our President’s Scottish rumble addressed the rest of us stood around the van with our arms crossed over our chests, waiting for the first glimpse of the King that would pay, painfully, for Mikey’s death.
Skinny smiled, triumphant. Whatever King this was, it mattered.
Because the faces of the brothers who’d rounded the fucker up were gleaming.
I didn’t care personally. No matter who it was, Indie, Demon, the Kray twins, they all bled the same colour.
And fuck was I going to make sure they shed every last drop.
The van doors were yanked open, and the vehicle rocked from side to side. There was a growl. Not deep and guttural like I’d expected it, and as the men waiting gleefully to present their prize to their brothers jumped in the back, it swayed harder.
“Get the fuck off me. Take your stinking, fucking hands off me. I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Fuck,” someone groaned loudly. “She got me in the bollocks. Fucking bitch.”
There was a snap of skin, like a slap, the angry captive voice in the back stopping for a moment, taking a breath and then rampaging again.
“Fucking ugly cunt!” the voice was clearer. Less dense. Less masculine. “Cut me free. See what happens, cunt! Go on!”
A woman. It was a woman’s voice from the back of the van.
It was a woman they dragged into view. Kicking and flailing.
Her hands were bound at the wrists, her legs bound at her ankles, a blindfold pulled hard across her eyes, and fresh blood dribbled from her lip.
Long dark hair tied in a plait swayed as she kicked and wriggled, snapping her teeth at anyone whose hand got remotely within biting range.
The Rats had snared a wild cat. A spitting, angry, violent wildcat.
And for a moment that rage-fueled, vengeful knot in my stomach unraveled, distracted by the woman in the black and red leather racing suit in front of me.
Distracted by thick pink lips and high cheekbones.
Distracted by the swell of her chest in the tight leather, at how it nipped in at her waist and covered long, lean legs.
And then I remembered she was a King. Or at least King’s property. And they owed us a debt. One they would repay in blood and flesh.