Chapter 11 Phoenix
Phoenix
It's auction night. I pull up to the front gates of the Abbey and wait for security to do their thing. They scan the vehicle, check my identification, and go to open the rear hatch.
“There's a live one back there, so be careful,” I warn him. “It's okay. She's still sedated. Or, I should say, re-sedated.”
I couldn't get her here last night. I didn't want to have to make a second trip, so I kept her under. Hopefully it doesn't cause her any deficits, but there aren't really any rules to how they get here, so long as they get here in one piece and look ripe for the picking.
The wrought iron gates swing open, and I slowly roll forward.
The Abbey is more of a castle, a decrepit one, than anything else.
It's a massive old church in the hills in the middle of nowhere, put together with old red brick and stained-glass windows.
There's a big entrance at the far end, akin to a barn door, which I drive through before stopping.
He owns this place. The boss. I don’t really know him. I’m not sure anyone’s ever seen his face. Hell. I’m not even sure it’s a him. But the idea of a woman doing this to other woman is too much for my brain to comprehend.
I’m basically a company bitch. No, I don’t train the girls or muck the stalls. But when the boss wants something done, I fucking do it. The orders don’t come with options or side quests. It’s either succeed or never be seen again. Or worse. You become one of the products.
My primary focuses are making sure nobody knows The Sect exists and assuring all the money is moving where it needs to. How it needs to. When it needs to.
I’m a data whore. I gather intel on anyone and everyone. Mostly, I gain background on prospective merchandise and potential buyers. Hence my interest in Mercy.
The gig’s usually laid back. I scour the digital globe for young talent and vile men, and in return, I get loads of untraceable cash, and introductions to other high ranking lowlifes. Ultimately, I help the rich get what they want. And the girls—well—most of them never had a future to begin with.
Going on eight years now, I’ve been coming here once a month for The Sect’s auction. An all-night affair with bidding, chasing and fucking.
Truth be told, I was a bit of a wreck back when the boss found me.
Swimming in the bottom of a bottle. Hacking dogshit mobsters.
Waiting for someone to come and put a bullet in the back of my head.
I was a mess after Sam ran out on me for the second time in a few years.
We were supposed to be celebrating our one-year anniversary.
I had a ring and a whole proposal ready.
I wanted her to be the woman at my side for the rest of ever. She absolutely ruined me.
Then the boss sent his lieutenant, Clark, which I am certain is a bullshit alias, with an ultimatum. I could either put my services to use for him or turn up missing. Either way, my time interfering with the criminals The Sect relies on was through.
They’ve helped me focus that energy. The rage I had brewing deep in my chest. The Sect is what showed me I didn’t need a partner. I could take what I wanted from these girls. I could use them like the cock sleeves I need them to be and never give a single fuck about any of them.
I’m partial to the redheads. The ones who look like her. The cunt who betrayed me. To be able to run her down in the wild and ravage her, while she looks into my cloaked eyes, as I steal the last bit of hope she has, is enough to carry me on a cloud of euphoria for weeks. Or it was. Until—
Fuck. I have no time for this right now.
As a bonus for the turnstile of women I assess, The Sect credits me with $250,000 in auction funds per event, which I can spend on a single product. I never need more than one.
The scene unfolds as imposing, shirtless giants in tactical gear, cargo pants, to be precise, and sturdy boots, with nylon masks secured over their faces, swing open the back of my SUV and carefully maneuver Mercy out.
“Handle her with care. She thinks she’s feral,” I quip with a smirk. The shorter of the two men lets out a chuckle. She is blissfully unaware.
An hour later, the crowd falls silent. My fingers trace the jagged edge of my hockey mask, the familiar weight settling against my face. I adjust it slightly, making sure my eyes align with the narrow slits. My breath hits the plastic and bounces back warm against my lips.
Some of the guys here arrive dressed to the nines, donning immaculate three-piece suits and polished shoes, looking as though they've just stepped out of a spy movie.
But that's not my style. It isn't practical for what I have planned.
Instead, I've opted for a moisture-wicking polo shirt, paired with athletic pants and sturdy running shoes, ready for anything the night might bring.
Tonight, my focus is set on a particular girl.
She's another redhead, like Sam was, though with a different aura. Less interesting. She’s not unpleasant to look at.
Far from it. She just evokes memories I’d pay to have carved from my brain.
I need to rid myself of these women, always entangling my mind.
You see, The Sect collects women like some nerds collect stamps.
They’re collected, trained, and put on display to be sold to the highest bidder once a month.
Whichever reprehensible soul wins the bid then gets to go on The Chase.
The game wherein the auctioned girl is set free to run for her life through the woods, while the single winner hunts her down and does just about anything he wants.
The person bidding against me is a gentleman I know only as Dex.
There's nothing particularly remarkable about Dex.
He's a bit shorter than I am and has a scrawny, wiry frame.
Though he has some muscles, they are mostly because he's all skin and bones.
He's dressed far too formally for the occasion, as if he's attending a high society gala rather than an auction.
But it doesn't really matter. He's not going to win.
There's no chance anyone is going to outbid me on this one.
No one is willing to go up to a full $250K, which is my limit, and they have no clue.
They aren't aware of the arrangement I have. They don’t even know who I am. Another advantage of wearing the mask.
The steel floor panels shudder and slide aside, unveiling a heavy iron grate bathed in a single, harsh spotlight slicing through the darkness and casts long shadows across the vacant chamber below.
There she stands. Red. I don’t know her real name, and it doesn’t matter.
Here, she is simply Red. An average-height woman with an agile, well-proportioned frame.
Her hair is a vivid, almost unnatural crimson, spilling past her shoulders in a rippling cascade.
Freckles dust her nose and cheeks like scattered embers, but her eyes remain a mystery.
I haven’t been close enough to see their color.
Her skin seems smooth, and I’ve heard she fought hard last time.
The promise of a fight, of something to break up the monotony, makes my pulse quicken.
The Sect only puts forward the best for these clients.
Natural beauties with God-given looks. Choice pieces picked up from dark corners with no cameras.
Na?ve camgirls who think they have their hooks in a whale.
Girls from rich families who will cry more at the realization they’re lightyears from the ivy league husbands they were raised to give children to.
If they’re gorgeous and marketable, they’re fair game.
I see Mercy standing at the front of a nearby stall below, naked and afraid.
Her wrists are bound, and her arms pulled taut, crossed firmly over her bare tits.
A black gag is clamped between her teeth, held in place by leather straps which disappear under her hair.
Her eyes dart nervously between the participants above as we all look at her.
For a second I think she catches me staring, and I look away, my stomach twisting, despite knowing she has no idea it’s me. Besides, I’d be surprised if she’s not still feeling the effects from all the sedatives I’ve given her over the last twenty-four hours.
I take deep breaths and blink slowly, trying to get a grip. But all I see is the pride she wore across her face after devouring my cock.
Fuck.
Mercy won't be up for auction. Not tonight. Not until she undergoes the rigorous training she requires. She’s going to watch.
To see her future. I'm not even sure if I want to get involved beyond getting her here.
I crave the thrill of the hunt, but her connection to Roni leaves me queasy. I need to purge them both from my mind.
A crackling voice booms from the battered speakers behind us.
“The time has come,” it croons, the auctioneer’s voice deep and thunderous.
He loves this moment. The instant of tension before bids fly.
In The Sect, there’s no reason to take on additional risk without necessity.
The boss could hire anyone to run this show, but Clark loves playing puppet master.
So why bother giving yet another potential problem access?
At the rail, a pair steps forward, a man and a woman wearing wolf masks, their garments a swirl of white fur and ash-gray cloth. They glance at each other, silent, as if unsure whether to begin.
I doubt they’ll press the bidding.
A fourth figure emerges. A tall, lean man, whose hunched gait suggests years of wear on his joints. He wears a simple black ski mask pulled low, as though he couldn’t be bothered with pretense. Makes me wonder if he’s doing someone a favor.
Behind the two-way mirror, more faces watch in shadow. Clients who prefer to stay hidden. To see how high the price climbs before spending the energy to engage.