Chapter Twenty Seven
“Fucking late as usual,” Indie grumbled as I rode in over the broken surface of the car park at the Dog, the bike skidding slightly on some loose gravel.
“Here now. Had to drop Sophie off at the hospital.” I turned slightly, catching the eye of Barry the Blade, already sat astride his Harley, the engine growling impatiently underneath him.
Indie nodded, understanding. Baz scowled but said nothing.
“Stay in formation today, boys. Keep an eye out for anything unusual,” Indie instructed, pulling up the black face mask and then the black, half-face helmet over his head till the only thing anyone could see was the colour of his eyes and the patches he wore.
Indie pulled away first, Fury following just off his flank and Barry tucking in slightly staggered but behind him. The rest of us joined in until eight of us rolled onto the tarmac, engines growling.
The air had cooled considerably now that evening crept in, dusk chasing along the road and up the coast. A burnt orange glow hung over Gateshead, the tower blocks in Deckham catching the last of the light while the Newcastle skyline burned gold beyond them.
We cut north, the roads opening up as the traffic thinned, engines settling into a steady, rolling rhythm that pressed through my chest and out into the late afternoon.
The smell shifted as we left the city behind.
Petrol and hot tarmac gave way to something cleaner.
Sharper. Salt creeping in off the coast, mixing with the cold bite of April air that cut through leathers and settled deep in our lungs.
We rode tight. Close enough to feel each other’s presence without looking. A line of power and noise, moving as one. No words. No signals. Just instinct.
I watched my mirrors, looking for something out of place.
There were motorbikes all over the roads.
The season opening up for riders. A couple of groups here and there.
Lots of single riders. No one looked at us much other than to tip their heads and pay their respects as we passed them or they passed us on the opposite side of the road.
But something sat off. Not enough to call. Not enough to break formation. Just… there. A bike that stayed back a little too long before peeling away. Another that joined the road ahead of us and didn’t look once as we passed. Small things. Nothing. Everything.
The coast crept closer, the air sharpening further, the taste of salt heavier now as we cut through the last stretch of open road. Newbiggin rose ahead of us, low and weathered, the sea stretching out behind it like it had been there long before anything else and would still be there long after.
We rolled in steady, engines dropping to a slower thrum as the streets narrowed and the wind picked up, whipping off the water and straight through the town. It didn’t feel empty. Places like this never did.
Newbiggin. Home of the Valhalla’s Vandals MC. They said Newbiggin when anyone asked. But the weight of them sat inland, where the old pit roads cut through Ashington and nothing got seen unless they wanted it to.
I eased off the throttle, scanning the edges of the streets, the gaps between buildings, the places someone could sit and wait. Because if I’d felt it then someone else had too. And I was becoming as paranoid as fucking Tomahawk.
The Vandals’ place sat on the edge of Newbiggin, where the town gave up trying to look like something it wasn’t and slipped back into rust and wind.
An old fabrication unit, squat and solid, its walls stained with years of oil and salt air.
The yard was open, but not welcoming. Bikes lined up like they’d grown out of the ground itself.
Nothing flashy. Just presence, facing the entrance like they were ready for battle at the slightest sign,
I knew that would be Tomahawk’s orders. Ready to ride. Always.
In the shadows, bodies moved. Darkness and shades of grey. No one discernible. But they watched us as we rode into the compound, and I was sure they counted our numbers to be sure we brought who we said we’d bring.
The MCs in the North were on high alert. And they were either with us or against us. But no one trusted each other fully. A struggle for power did that to a club. It made them choose sides. It made them scrutinise their neighbours. It made them doubt everyone.
Indie didn’t take us straight to the door. He veered off slightly, bringing us to a stop along the edge of the yard, engines still rumbling as we lined up tight but separate from the Vandals’ bikes. Close enough to show we weren’t hiding. Far enough to show we knew where we stood on their ground.
We followed without thinking. One by one, peeling off into line.
Tight. Controlled. Separate. Engines still running.
The Rocket rolled low and steady beneath me as my eyes moved over the space.
Counting. Doors. Windows. Shadows that didn’t shift.
Bikes angled outward like they were ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Only when Indie cut his engine did the rest of us follow, the sound dropping out in stages until the yard settled into something quieter. Not silent. Just waiting.
I swung my leg off, boots hitting the concrete, the cold biting straight through. Didn’t move forward. Didn’t step back. Just stood where I was. Waiting for Indie to lead us inside.
Tomahawk met us just inside the door of the clubhouse.
The Reverand, his Sergent at Arms, a step behind him.
Indie stepped forward first, their hands locking in a firm clasp before pulling in close, a solid thud of a hand against his back.
Quick. Measured. Done. And we followed his lead.
One by one until the clubhouse door closed behind us.
It was dark inside. No windows, no natural light.
The lights hanging overhead looked like they’d been stolen from a warehouse.
Metal domes hanging up high. Too high. Offering little to see by.
There was a string of lights hanging on the far wall.
Big bulbs strung up on a thick wire. But these weren’t turned on, the only illumination coming from big bulbs high in the ceiling.
I didn’t doubt that was Tomahawk’s orders. Anyone rushing in wouldn’t have time to adjust, but those inside could see quite clearly. It was tactical, if not entirely paranoid.
Still, the place didn’t try to be anything it wasn’t.
Rough edges, the smell of oil and damp sitting heavy in the air, held there by the moisture in sea-salt air.
A bar ran along one wall, built more for use than comfort, and the rest of the room spread out in mismatched chairs and worn sofas that had seen better days and didn’t care who knew it.
Eyes tracked us the second we stepped in.
Not hostile. But quieter than usual. Our closest allies hesitating for a second.
“Help yourselves to drinks, boys,” Tomahawk pointed at the wooden structure which looked like it had been built as long ago as the Vikings themselves.
Reclaimed from the sea, we’d been told years ago, but I would have argued they should have let the fucking sea have it.
It was salt-bleached and scarred, uneven in places where it was missing a chunk, or a knot had been knocked out.
Behind it the Vandals’ huge patch stretched out on the wall, the paint as fresh as when it had been first created.
The only thing in here that looked like it was well taken care of.
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.