Page 36 of Fury
Indie almost winced at the words, the threat lingering between us as we watched each other.
“He won’t, don’t worry. Besides, might have a job for him to keep him busy for a while.”
Indie raised his eyebrows.
“Nothing you or the club need to worry about. What did he want, anyway?”
“Came to inform Emmie they’d found the body of her ex.” Indie shrugged. “Said I’d deal with telling her.”
I nodded, acknowledging everything he wasn’t telling me.
“So, it’s done then?”
“Yeah. It’s done.”
“What about the Viking? He still here in the north east?”
Indie nodded. “I need to get the club to grant him permission to attend the funeral. Job for tonight, I guess.”
“And you think they will?”
“I think they will if I tell them to. But I don’t want to pull rank, and I don’t want any trouble at my father’s funeral.”
It was an understandable wish. But with a shitload of bike clubs about to embark on Northern Kings’ soil, I had more chance of standing in rocking horse shit.
Chapter Sixteen
Rain hammered the windows all night, driven sideways from the wind. We’d had days of cold. Ice and more ice. Cloudless skies and freezing, sunny days. And now, as the temperature warmed up slightly, we had assaulting wet. The balcony was soaked, a puddle forming at one end where the water couldn’t escape. Last night the sky had been cloudless, but in the early hours the wind had pushed the clouds across, soaking us with an icy rain. My hand trembled, the cigarette quivering, smoke billowing from its tip into the chilly air, and I shivered with it, my wool overcoat over my thin pyjamas not enough to keep out the cold.
I’d barely slept in days. The words in the emails muddling and reforming in the darkness of my mind every time I’d closed my eyes. It wasn’t coincidence. The holes in the accounts, the threatening emails. They were connected, of that, I was sure. But I wasn’t sure of who. Nothing in the accounts was stacking up. Nothing in the handwritten paperwork of the Walker office giving me the slightest insight into who or what was responsible. And every time I thought about it, my mind wandered back to Fury and the long-standing account of bike club members the company had been responsible for looking after.
He’d invited me to that funeral to make me sympathise with him, understand him. But I’d attend today to understand the club, and whether they and he could be behind the emails.
My body tensed, a thump in my stomach, one that threatened to increase in rhythm every time he was in my mind. Suspicious or otherwise, every thought brought the same response. The low dull ache between my legs, the tightening in my stomach, the feel of his lips on mine. I’d felt both intensity and softness from him all in one night, adding further confusion to my muddled brain, to the conspiracy theories and suspicions. But despite all my misgivings, I couldn’t help feeling safe around him, even if he and his club could be the reason for the emails and the reason for the missing money.
*****
And despite those misgivings, and despite my better judgement, there I stood, squashed under the canopy of the church, squeezing in a little gap against a sea of people dressed in black and leather. The rain had stopped, but the paths were soaked, puddles everywhere. Around me people I didn’t know chattered, the air thick with cigarette smoke and a jumble of perfumes and aftershaves.
I glanced around at the grounds, at the people gathered in groups, at shiny metal glinting in the dull morning. To my right huddled a group, a few leather backs turned toward me, but those who faced me wore a badge on the left lapel of their leather waistcoats: a bolt of lightning across a bridge. There were others like them. Some wore badges on their chests with their backs bare, but the majority wore huge, embroidered patterns on their backs. A Sigel of a house, that’s what it looked like, some fancy emblem adorning their leather vests.
I would have thought on the meaning of it all, had the low thrum of voices stilled, a sudden rumble. It grew louder with each second, a purr, then a grumble, then a growl, and now the noise was huge, vibrating on the ground and in the air.
The motorcycle drawn hearse led the procession. I recognised it from the invoice details. And I knew how much it had cost when I’d agreed to a knock-down sum for the fucker. But I wasn’t prepared for what came behind, even though I knew there were hundreds of mourners attending. A line of bikes followed, two abreast, their engines roaring angrily. I couldn’t make out the faces of the riders, each covered with a dark visor, and clad head to toe in black leather.
The hearse past us, gliding to a stop at the entrance to the church, the other riders following, and now I spotted the emblem stitched on the back, the three hideous laughing skulls wearing their crowns with malice. I must have counted over thirty riders, one in the lead, riding at the front, then each in a pair, perfectly spaced, perfectly matched. They rolled to a stop; the engines slowing but not cutting out, rumbling in the silence like thunderclouds.
But the procession behind them continued. Bike on bike rode down the long drive splitting off as they spilled into the big carpark, and even when every inch of tarmac was taken up with metal, and leather, and deep vibrating machines, they still kept coming. Back emblems varied. Embracing godly entities, a horned chalice, runes surrounding an angry-looking wolf. The badges on the back of leather jackets went on and on, and even when I thought they couldn’t possibly squeeze anymore bikes into the car park, the last six at the back of the procession rumbled in, pulling the bikes towards the brick wall at the edge of the grounds, their badges a fist, and blood spilling out of it.
Then suddenly, with no hint of a sign or sign given, like it had been practiced over and over, every bike stopped, their engines killed, the great mass of vibrating, growling metal completely stopping. Beside me, there wasn’t so much as a heavy breath. Every bike, every rider, every person was now silent, and I was scared to even breathe in case I was the one who made a noise.
The procession immediately following the Harley drawn hearse removed their helmets, sombre masks, eyes forward, every effort of concentration shown on faces that had to show no emotion. The man at the front stood by himself, his face tight, his hands even tighter, clasped in front of him, the hideous skulls stretched across his back. Behind him, those that followed were taller. The younger one was leaner, not by much, with short cropped dark hair and a long thin nose, and beside him Fury kept in step, his towering height and wide shoulders almost dwarfing those that followed.
They came in well-matched twos after that. Faces of beards, long hair, earrings, some going all the way up the ear lobe. And each one followed on, all head to toe in leather, stoic and posed, hands clasped in front of them.
The crowd of bikers that had ridden in with the funeral procession followed, lacking the order the Northern Kings had taken but all in their respective groups. And then those dressed more normally and the women who had been waiting patiently, trailing behind, dutifully. I was almost the last one to enter the church, save for the unmarked biker, who had lingered near the back, removing his helmet only when all the men in leather became lost in the church. I glanced at him, at the tattoos that covered his hands right down to the middle knuckles, and the dark ink that licked up his neck, contrasting against the blonde hair, pulled back into a ponytail. He glanced at me, blue eyes sparkling, a hint of boyishness, the half-smile much like Fury’s, all knowing arrogance.
Haunted notes drifted out of the church, a soft rock song, bringing the Kings’ president on his last ride. I recognised it, a distant memory, from growing up with my father and step-brothers. Step-brothers rebelling against his harsh rule and high expectations. Their attempt at a last stand before he’d indoctrinated them into his ways and the business.