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.
Our clubhouse isn’tlike 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.
Decorations on the walls are purposeful with no fluff or frills.The American flag hangs high and proud on one side, with Alaska’s flag, a deep blue backdrop with the North Star shining bright, on the other.Between them, centered above the fireplace, is our club logo.It’s a bold statement carved out of wood and painted with care, a symbol of who we are and what we’ve built.
The room smells of wood and smoke, and there’s a weight in the air that makes you feel grounded.The long table in the center is where we gather for every meeting and make decisions.Flint made it himself—thick slabs of timber joined seamlessly together.He’s got a knack for craftsmanship, a side of him most wouldn’t guess at first glance.He burned our club logo into the surface, the lines dark and precise, standing out against the rich, natural grain of the wood.It’s a centerpiece, a reminder that this place, this life, is ours.
Fury drops into a chair at one end of the table, leaning back as if he has all the time in the world.Ranger moves slower, quieter, but there’s an edge to him, the kind that never really dulls.I take a moment to look around the room, feeling that familiar tug of pride.We built this, every stone, every beam, and it’s more than a building.It’s a fortress, a refuge, and a symbol of what we’ve survived.
“How are we looking?”I ask, shifting my attention to Stash.
He slowly rises from his chair, his movements precise and deliberate.There’s something sharp about him—the way his eyes seem to pierce through you as if he’s cataloging everything down to the smallest detail.He rolls his neck from side to side, the subtle crack of bones echoing in the quiet room, and then he smiles a quick flash of teeth, confident but guarded.
“We’ve got enough food and alcohol to see us through winter,” he says, his tone smooth and self-assured.“And then some.”
