Page 3 of Property of Blade (Kings of Anarchy MC: Alaska #1)

“Good choice,” Ranger growls, his voice a low rumble, the animalistic tone sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes are wild and feral, and for a moment, I think he might actually go ahead and finish the job anyway. But he doesn’t. Not yet. “Although I was looking forward to killing you.”

I turn my attention back to the trembling man. “Fury, get the cash.”

Fury doesn’t even acknowledge me with a nod. He jumps off the boat, moving so quickly it’s as though he’s part of the shadows. Moments later, he’s back, the envelope of cash in hand. He passes it to me.

I open it, count the bills, then pull out half and hold it out to the man.

Ranger lets go of him, gives him a shove, and sends him stumbling toward me. His eyes flick to the envelope, but he doesn’t take it. He stands there, frozen, as if he’s unsure if this is a trap.

I reach out, grab his hand, and place the envelope on his chest, covering it with his shaking fingers. “Take it. Forget what you saw here tonight. And never come back. We know what you look like. We have your scent. If you return, we’ll know.”

His breath hitches in his throat, and I watch as he swallows hard. His eyes lock with mine, full of fear but also gratitude. He nods once, twice, as if trying to convince himself that this is real and he’s actually getting away with his life.

I don’t look back at him again. Instead, I meet Ranger’s gaze and hold a finger in the air, making a circle with it.

There’s no need for me to say more. He knows exactly what I mean.

Without a word, Ranger grabs the body of the man he killed, his movements swift and brutal.

Fury follows suit, his form a blur of motion as he drags the second body off the boat.

When he hits the dock, he bends, grabs their leader by the collar of his coat, and drags both to the end of the dock.

The man, still frozen with fear, stares at the envelope on his chest as though he can’t quite believe it’s happening.

He opens his mouth, his voice tentative, full of doubt. “What do I tell their f-families?”

I don’t even flinch at his question. “Tell them they died at sea.”

His eyes widen, panic clear in his expression, and he licks his lips nervously. “They’ll know I’m lying.”

“Then make them believe it.” My voice is hard, unyielding. “If you don’t, you’ll end up like your friends.”

I should end it here, should put him out of his misery and tie up the loose end.

He’s a witness, a liability, but something makes me hesitate.

His eyes are wide, terrified, and beneath all the fear, there’s a flicker of something else, something human.

His woman is depending on him. Life up here is hard, brutal, and unforgiving, and I can’t help but wonder if he deserves a chance at redemption.

For a moment, I let the silence stretch between us, the weight of it suffocating.

“Go,” I mutter. “Get out of here and don’t ever come back. If you do, we’ll be waiting.”

The man doesn’t hesitate. Without another word, he grabs the envelope, tucking it under his arm as he scrambles to untie the boat. I watch him. His movements are hurried as he hastily tosses the stern line into the boat and starts the engine. I watch from the dock, my men and goods with me.

Ranger’s lips curl into a grin, but there’s no amusement in it. “You let him live?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, the weight of the decision settling in my chest. “For now.”

We watch the boat pull away into the darkness, the gentle ripples in the water the only sign that anything has happened here tonight.

“Let’s load up, then you two can dispose of the bodies,” I say, glancing over at the three bodies piled on top of each other at the end of the dock.

“Why do we get to do all the hard work?” Fury asks, but there’s a wicked grin tugging at his lips, his voice full of satisfaction from his kill.

I shoot him a look, my jaw tight. “Because I killed my guy with one blow, and the two of you made yours a fucking mess.” Blood pools beneath the bodies, staining the wood. “And I’ve got a meeting to get to this morning.”

“Wait, isn’t that a club meeting?” Ranger asks, cocking his head as he eyes the bodies. I can tell he’s already mentally calculating how much time we have left.

“Yep.” I’m already turning away, walking toward the crates to start the loading process.

“Aren’t we supposed to be there?” Ranger presses, though I can tell he’s more concerned about the bodies than the meeting.

“Yep,” I reply again. “So, let’s get a move on. That way, you’re only a little late.”

Fury laughs, though it’s more out of habit than genuine humor, as he shifts the crates of alcohol with practiced hands. Ranger follows suit, muttering under his breath as he drags the bodies away, preparing to dispose of them properly.

I don’t bother looking back as I haul one crate on each shoulder from the dock to Fury’s old pickup parked in the forest.

O ur clubhouse isn’t like the ones in the lower forty-eight.

It’s not some shiny barroom with flashing neon lights and a parking lot full of bikes.

No, ours is tucked away, secluded like the men who built it.

We own a couple of hundred acres of pure Alaskan wilderness.

In the middle of all that land sits a large, two-story hall with five small sheds scattered nearby, and sentinels guarding the place.

No one stumbles upon us by accident. We made sure of that.

We don’t have club whores hanging around, and we don’t roll out the welcome mat for visitors.

It’s just us, and we like it that way. Quiet.

Private. We’re not running whores or cooking meth as some of the other chapters do.

Alaska is different. Life here doesn’t hand you much, so you have to work for it.

We’ve also learned how to work the angles to increase our income.

Bootlegging generates a nice chunk of change.

Folks out here pay good money for the right kind of drink, especially when it’s made from local spruce or berries.

Then there’s the illegal mining. Gold and gemstones are still in the ground in these parts if you know where to look, and we know where to look.

The occasional underground poker game also adds to the pot, though we keep that hush-hush.

Smuggling is a steady gig. It’s not as if we’re running drugs, except for pot, but people always want things they can’t get.

Canada is just a hop, skip, and a border away, and the right goods can make the trip worthwhile.

Tourist season is another moneymaker. We organize wildlife encounters with up-close-and-personal experiences with bears and other animals.

Counterfeit outdoor gear sells well, too, but not to the locals.

Besides, they would know the difference, and we’re not that kind of club.

The tourists, though? They’ll pay a fortune for a ‘handcrafted Alaskan original’ that came out of a factory in China, which, of course, we rebrand with ‘Made in Alaska.’

And then there are the preppers. Those paranoid sons of bitches will buy anything so long as it comes with the promise that Uncle Sam won’t find out—guns, fuel, generators, freeze-dried food.

If it helps them sleep at night, they’re happy to fork over the cash.

We don’t judge. Their money spends just fine.

We don’t hurt people unless absolutely necessary.

That’s a line we don’t cross. But when you’re this far north, in the kind of cold that cuts through bone, you learn how to take care of yourself.

If someone comes for us, or what’s ours, we’ll remind them real quick why messing with the Kings of Anarchy is a bad idea.

No one fucks with the Kings.

This morning’s meeting is about winter prep.

It always is this time of year. As the tourists thin out and the snow stakes its claim on the land, we need to know how our supplies look and how we’re keeping the cash flowing through the lean months.

It’s a ritual that takes place every year at the end of fall.

But I’ll never forget the first time we did this.

My first year as president wasn’t exactly one for the history books.

Hell, it wasn’t a good one. We were a newly established chapter, fresh on the map, and I’d never lived anywhere so unforgiving.

Alaska doesn’t give a damn if you’re tough or resourceful—it chews you up anyway.

Back then, there were only four of us—Fury, Ranger, Vex, and me.

Just four men trying to carve out a life in a place that doesn’t leave much room for mistakes.

It wasn’t until later that King, the national president, started sending me all the misfits.

Every loner, troublemaker, and outcast who didn’t fit in with their chapter got shipped to us.

“They’re your problem now,” King had said with a smirk as if he was doing me a favor.

I hated it at first—it felt like we were becoming a dumping ground.

But over the years, those misfits turned into my brothers, and now we’re seventeen strong.

Seventeen men who know what it means to be out in the cold and what it takes to survive.

As I glance around the table in the clubhouse, I see how far we’ve come. Vex looks as though he’s already calculating next year’s odds. The rest of them? They’re all here because they’ve got nowhere else to go, and that’s what makes them dangerous.

This place? It’s not just a chapter anymore. It’s a home for the men no one else wanted.

And I’ll be damned if I let it fall apart.

Fury and Ranger saunter into the hall, their boots echoing off the wood floor.

Our clubhouse isn’t fancy, but it’s solid and built to last, the same as the men who call it home.

The walls are fully lined, keeping the biting cold at bay, while the massive stone fireplace at one end radiates heat that seeps into your bones.