Eddy's Everything (Ozark Ridgerunners MC #13)

Chapter One

The crate hit the water without a sound.

Eddy watched it sink through the murky green, his hands steady on the boat's railing as forty pounds of evidence disappeared into the cove.

Twenty-three feet down, the lake bed would swallow everything—shell casings, bloodstained canvas, a burner phone that connected too many dots.

The current here ran slow and deep, circulating debris toward the dam where nothing surfaced without permission.

He knew this cove. Knew every cove on the Lake of the Ozarks worth knowing. The water kept secrets when you understood how it moved.

His German Shepherd, River, sat motionless in the bow, ears pricked toward the dark tree line.

Good dog. Better instincts than most brothers.

The night pressed close around them, humid and heavy with the smell of algae and wet limestone, cicadas screaming from the bluffs like they were trying to drown out the memory of what just went under.

Eddy pulled the anchor and let the boat drift toward open water.

No engine noise, not yet. Sound carried across the lake at night, bounced off the bluffs and hollows until a careful man couldn't tell where it originated.

He'd learned that teaching tourists how to read rapids—every sound meant something, every ripple told a story.

The water had taught him patience. The club had taught him what to do with it.

Twenty minutes later, he tied off at a dock behind the Rusty Hook, a dive bar on the Branson strip where the tourists didn't venture and the locals knew better than to ask questions.

The neon sign buzzed and flickered, casting red shadows across weathered wood planks.

River stayed in the boat, trained to wait, trained to watch.

Eddy walked inside like he owned the place. Because in every way that mattered, he did.

The bar smelled like spilled beer and fried catfish, country music grinding out of speakers that hadn't been replaced since Reagan.

A handful of regulars hunched over their drinks.

The bartender—a thick-armed woman named Jolene who'd been pouring whiskey here for thirty years—caught his eye and tilted her head toward the back deck.

Eddy nodded once and moved through the crowd.

He found Ricky Sloane exactly where he expected to find him—sitting at a plastic table overlooking the water, three empty bottles in front of him, running his mouth to a blonde who looked bored enough to murder him.

Ricky was a problem that had been building for three months.

Shortages on the product he moved for the club.

Small at first—a few pills here, a few grams there.

Easy to miss if you weren't paying attention.

But Eddy paid attention to everything. He noticed the way currents shifted before anyone else saw the danger.

Ricky was shorting club product, and tonight, Ricky was going to stop.

"Need a word," Eddy said.

Ricky looked up, startled. His eyes went wide for half a second before he forced a smile that didn't reach anywhere close to genuine. "Hey, Eddy. Didn't see you come in, brother. Pull up a chair, let me buy you a—"

"Outside."

The single word landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread across Ricky's face—confusion, then calculation, then the first flicker of fear. The blonde took the opportunity to escape, grabbing her purse and disappearing toward the bar without a backward glance.

Smart girl.

Ricky's smile curdled. "Look, if this is about the numbers—"

"Outside. Now."

Eddy didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.

The calm was the warning, and men who'd been around the club long enough knew what lived beneath it.

Ricky had been around long enough. He pushed back from the table and followed Eddy through the back gate, down the weathered steps to the dock where the water lapped black and waiting against the pilings.

The moon hung fat and yellow over the lake. Somewhere across the cove, a bullfrog bellowed into the darkness.

"Eddy, look—" Ricky started.

Eddy grabbed him by the collar and walked him straight off the end of the dock.

The splash echoed across the water. Ricky came up sputtering, arms flailing, chest-deep in lake water that still held the day's heat like a fever. Eddy crouched at the dock's edge, perfectly still, watching the man thrash.

"Three months," Eddy said, his voice carrying easily over Ricky's gasping. "Sixty-two hundred short on product you were supposed to move."

"I can explain—"

"Don't want an explanation." Eddy's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Ricky's hair, forcing his head back until the man was staring up at the sky. "Want my money. Want the club's money. And I want you to understand something, Ricky."

He pushed down. Ricky's face went under. Bubbles broke the surface, frantic and desperate. Eddy counted to five—calm, measured, the same way he used to count rapids—and pulled the man back up.

Ricky coughed and gagged, lake water streaming from his nose and mouth. "Jesus Christ—"

"The club trusted you." Eddy's grip tightened. "I vouched for you. Said you could handle the strip without supervision. You made me look bad, Ricky. Made me look like I don't pay attention."

"I'll pay it back! Every cent, I swear to God—"

"Yeah." Eddy pushed him under again. Held him longer this time—seven seconds, eight. Watched the bubbles thin out and the thrashing get weaker. Pulled him up when the man's body started to go slack.

Ricky vomited lake water, hanging limp in Eddy's grip. "Please—"

"You'll pay it back by Friday." Eddy's voice never changed. Same level tone, same steady control. The current underneath stayed hidden where it belonged. "Every dollar. Plus interest—call it another thousand for my trouble. And then you're done moving product. Someone else handles the strip."

"But that's my territory—"

Under he went again.

This time Eddy held him until the thrashing stopped completely. Until the bubbles went thin and desperate. Until Ricky's hands stopped clawing at the dock pilings and his body drifted limp in the black water.

Then he pulled him up.

Ricky hung there, barely conscious, choking on water and terror. Eddy leaned close, his mouth next to the man's ear.

"The lake keeps secrets," he said quietly. "Whole club knows I understand how she works. You want to be one of those secrets, Ricky? Want to sink down where nobody finds you?"

A sob. Pathetic and wet and scared.

"Friday," Ricky whimpered. "I'll have it Friday. I swear."

Eddy released him. Ricky collapsed against the dock pilings, clinging to the wood like a drowning man given a second chance—which was exactly what he was. Eddy stood, brushed his hands on his jeans, and walked back up the dock without looking back.

The bartender didn't glance up when he passed through. The regulars kept their eyes on their drinks. This was Ridgerunner territory, and what happened on their docks stayed on their docks.

River was waiting in the boat, tail thumping once against the hull when Eddy climbed in. He scratched behind the dog's ears and started the engine, pulling away from the Rusty Hook as Ricky Sloane dragged himself up onto the dock and lay there like a landed fish.

Dawn broke pink and gold over the compound as Eddy rode in through the gate.

The night's work had taken longer than expected—two stops after the Rusty Hook, a conversation with a marina owner who'd been letting unauthorized boats dock in club territory, a drive-by on a house where a potential problem was starting to brew.

By the time he hit compound gravel, the first fingers of sunlight were reaching over the bluffs.

His phone buzzed as he killed the engine. Still's number.

"Yeah," Eddy answered.

"Where you at?" The president's voice was gravel and patience, a man who'd learned to let things cook slow.

"Just pulled in. Disposal's done. Ricky Sloane's been handled—he'll have our money Friday or he'll have another swimming lesson."

A grunt of approval. "Good. Got something else. Need you at the lodge."

"On my way."

The clubhouse sat at the heart of the compound—a converted fishing lodge with knotty pine walls, mounted bass, and decades of outlaw history soaked into every floorboard. Eddy found Still at the bar, coffee steaming in front of him, dawn light cutting through the windows.

Earl Hutchins looked exactly like what he was—a man who'd grown up running moonshine through these hollows, who'd watched the feds burn his family's operation and sworn they'd never take anything from him again.

Forty-five years old, weathered by Ozark summers, hands scarred from copper stills and a lifetime of brawling.

"Sit down," Still said.

Eddy sat.

Still slid a phone across the bar. On the screen, a photo—pills in a clear bag, hundreds of them, stamped with markings Eddy didn't recognize.

"Pill traffic's increasing through the lake corridor," Still said. "Coming through small businesses—bait shops, boutiques, couple of the tourist traps on seventy-six. Someone's using legitimate storefronts as cover."

Eddy studied the photo. "Not our product."

"No. But it's our territory." Still's jaw tightened. "Someone's moving weight through here without permission, without paying tribute. Setting up shop like they own the place."

"You want me on it?"

"I want eyes. Who's running it, how big the operation is, which businesses are involved." Still finished his coffee and set the mug down with a heavy thunk. "Don't move on anyone yet. Just find me information."

Eddy nodded. Information was water—you had to understand how it flowed before you could redirect it. He'd spent nine years reading rivers, learning to see the currents nobody else noticed. Reading criminal operations wasn't so different.

"I'll have something by end of week," he said.

Still studied him for a long moment. That bootlegger patience, measuring everything twice before deciding. "Get some sleep first. You look like you've been up all night."

"Because I have."

A rare smile cracked Still's weathered face. "Then you've earned the rest. Report's noted—disposal done, Sloane handled. Go sleep."

Eddy pushed back from the bar. River was waiting outside the lodge door, loyal and watchful, and together they walked across the compound toward his cabin. The lake glittered beyond the trees, morning fog rising off the water like ghosts.

Pill traffic through small businesses. Someone setting up a distribution network right under the club's nose.

The surface of the day stayed peaceful. Birds sang in the trees, brothers started moving toward the garage, the compound coming awake like it did every morning. Normal. Peaceful.

But underneath, Eddy felt the current shifting. Something was coming. Something that would require all his stillness, all his skill at pulling problems under before they knew they were caught.

He'd deal with it after he slept. The water would keep its secrets until he was ready.

It always did.