Page 16 of King's Reckoning
"The journal mentions specific sequences," Rowan said, studying the cryptic notes. Her mother's handwriting grew more urgent in these sections, the pressure of her pen engraving the paper. "Mom encoded everything, but she made sure we'd both be needed to decode it. Your past, my training. She knew we'd have to work together."
She knelt by the grave, ignoring the way the damp earth soaked into her jeans. The box's surface was etched with familiar MC symbols but arranged in patterns she'd never seen before. Except…
"There." King pointed, his finger tracing a complex design. "That's an old club marking. We used it back when the territories were first divided, before most of these men were patched. But it's combined with something else—something older."
Rowan traced the pattern with her finger, feeling subtle variations in the metal. "Mom's work. She modified the original symbols, added layers of meaning." She flipped through the journal, pages rustling. "Here. The first key requires both old and new. The past and the present working together. Like she knew…"
"Knew we'd be here," King finished softly. "Elena always could see ten steps ahead."
Their hands joined on the box, finding the hidden pressure points Elena's notes described. Themetal was cold under Rowan's fingers, but King's touch was warm. Father and daughter, united by necessity but connected by something deeper. Working in tandem, they pressed the symbols in sequence. Something clicked deep inside the mechanism—tumblers falling into place after decades of waiting.
"Got it," Barbara said, already working to lift the lid. Her expert hands moved carefully, preserving any trace evidence around the seal. "But this is odd. There's another box inside. Smaller, made of different material. And look at these packing materials..."
She carefully extracted an ornate wooden box, its surface covered in intricate carvings. Rowan recognized some of the patterns from Elena's research—pre-colonial symbols mixed with what looked like early European script. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each line cut with precision that modern tools would struggle to match.
"This is it," she breathed, recognizing symbols that coincided with her mother's notes. "The first piece of The Archive."
"Don't open it," King warned, his voice sharp with sudden urgency. "Not here. We need to—"
Gunfire erupted from the darkness, cutting him off. Rowan dove for cover as bullets kicked up dirt around them, her training taking over. Barbara scrambled out of the grave clutching the box, whilebrothers returned fire from their positions. The night erupted into chaos.
"Devils?" Rowan asked Reed as he appeared beside her, weapon already drawn. His body provided additional cover as more shots rang out.
"No," he said grimly, scanning the darkness between flashes of gunfire. "Different tactics. More professional. Military precision in their movements."
"Blackwood's men," King growled from his position behind a nearby headstone, returning fire with controlled bursts. "They must have been watching the graveyard, waiting for us to do the hard work."
More attackers were emerging from the shadows, using trees and headstones for cover as they advanced. Rowan counted at least fifteen, all moving with military precision. Their gear was top-of-the-line, their coordination speaking of extensive training.
"Get the box out of here," Reed ordered, squeezing off another shot. "We'll hold them off."
"Not without backup." Rowan was already moving, finding clear lines of fire. Her mother had trained her for this too—how to defend, how to protect what mattered. She dropped two attackers with precise shots, forcing others to pull back. Elena's voice echoed in her memory."Sometimes the best defense is a stronger offense."
"Stubborn woman," Reed muttered, but she caught the admiration in his voice as he shifted tobetter cover her position. Their bodies moved in sync, as if they'd been fighting together for years instead of days.
The firefight intensified as both sides realized what was at stake. Rowan lost track of time, focused only on the rhythm of breath and trigger pull, on keeping the attackers away from the box Barbara was hurriedly packing into a reinforced case. Brass casings littered the ground, smoking slightly in the cool night air.
A familiar rumble cut through the gunfire—motorcycles approaching fast. But friend or foe?
"That'll be Ace," Reed said, reloading with practiced efficiency. "Called in some friends from the coffee shop days. Good men who owe him favors."
Sure enough, more brothers roared into the graveyard, catching the attackers in a crossfire. Rowan recognized some of them as former prospects who'd patched into other chapters, all loyal to the man who'd helped them turn their livesaround. The night filled with the thunder of bikes and guns.
"Time to go," King called. He had the case containing the box, while Darkness was already leading Barbara to safety. "Rowan, Reed, you're with me."
They fell back in practiced formation, covering each other's retreat. Rowan ended up on Reed's bike, pressed against his back as they sped away from the graveyard. The solid warmth of him was distracting, but she forced herself to focus on scanning for pursuit.
None came. Whatever force Blackwood had sent wasn't prepared for a full-scale confrontation with multiple chapters of the MC. But Rowan knew this was just the beginning. The Archive's secrets were too valuable to give up easily.
They regrouped at an old hunting cabin Darkness kept as a backup location. The small building was well-maintained but sparse—just the basics needed for lying low. Barbara immediately set up to examine their find, while brothers secured the perimeter.
"You handled yourself well back there," Reed said quietly as Rowan helped him check weapons. His hands moved with practiced efficiency over the guns. "Not many prospects would have stood their ground like that."
"Not many prospects had my mother for a teacher," she replied, trying to ignore how close he was standing. His scent—leather and gun smoke and something uniquely him—made it hard to concentrate.
"No," he agreed, "but it's not just the training. You've got something else…something that makes you..."
"Makes me what?"
