Page 1 of Property of Necro
Chapter
One
A fadedWelcometo Kings Cursedsign greets us as we slowly cross the town limit. My escort snorts at the graffiti “turn the fuck around”scrawled across the bottom in red. From the passenger seat, I rub my sweaty palms on the top of my jeans.
I shouldn’t be nervous. This is what I agreed to.
Tell that to my gut when we pass King’s Cunts strip club—a small hole in the wall on the corner of what I assume is their downtown. An old neon sign hangs haphazardly on the aged brick. A printedProperty of Kings of Anarchysign is taped to the inside of the glass front door that’s in need of some soap, water, and elbow grease.
It’s midday, and there’s not a person in sight.
Not mowing their yard.
Not walking on the chipped sidewalk.
Not… anywhere.
It looks like a ghost town with a strip club that, for all I know, could be out of business.
“We’re almost there,” Dark, the reason I’m here,comments as he navigates down a street lined with older but well-kept, single-story houses. There's a church at the far end, past a sign that readsNoOutlet. A fence straight out of a horror movie, made of black iron and spikes, surrounds the large plot of land. A gate made of the same material serves as a barricade to the single lane that leads to the ominous stone church on the hill. It’s open, resting in the grass on either side of the path as if they’re waiting for us.
I guess they are.
They know I’m coming.
I’m a gift.
Or so they think.
That’s how Dark explained it when he asked me to take this job for his club—the Sacred Sinners. Due to their business dealings with the Kings of Anarchy, this chapter in particular, they need a spy to keep an eye on things from the inside, and that’s what I do. I work for the club. Intel mostly. But this isn’t a normal job. I’m not infiltrating a sex trafficking ring, which I’ve done plenty of times before. I’m not communing with rich fucks who couldn’t remember a face if you paid them. I’m not spreading my legs for a Mafia boss on his fiftieth birthday or, like my last job, working for a porn director who exploited women. Yes. As in past tense. That bastard is dead, six feet in the ground, rotting in Hell, thanks to me. Good riddance.
This is different from any of those jobs.
The Kings of Anarchy are friends with the Sacred Sinners, and I’m here to fuck their president.
Which generally sounds like a jolly good time. It’s not myfirst rodeo.
Except…
It kind of is…
Because Dark hasn’t briefed me about the club, what he needs me to find, or the men I’m dealing with.
Just as I haven’t told him I have a poison in my backpack, courtesy of his ex-wife, just in case someone gets out of line. Death by tea, anyone?
“You ready for this?” He nods toward the church as we turn onto the lane and creep up the hill, giving the residents plenty of time to see we’re coming.
“As ready as I can be,” I reply after we park in front of the slate-gray building, rubbing my palms on my pants one last time.
A line of motorcycles, resembling props from aMad Maxfilm, are parked on the side of the lot. A shirtless man in ripped, worn-out jeans exits the double-doored church and pauses at the top landing. Speckles of some substance dot his chest and abs. He cards a hand through his black, movie-star-worthy hair.
“That’s Rot,” Dark explains, climbing out of the SUV to greet the biker.
They back-clap like men do as I hop out, slam my door shut, and round the hood.
Rot, huh?
What a name.
