Chapter Seven
Eddy answered before the first ring finished, already moving toward the window. "Talk."
"Movement on the east road." Spillway's voice was tight, controlled. "Four vehicles, running dark. They're about ten minutes out."
"How many men?"
"Hard to say. At least ten. Maybe more."
Eddy's jaw tightened. He'd known this was coming—had felt it in his bones since those headlights passed at dusk. Samples wasn't the patient type. He'd regroup, call in reinforcements, and come back hard.
"Proof in position?"
"Road approach, quarter mile out. I'm flanking west through the trees."
"Good. They'll come by water too—Kirby's people know the lake. I'll hold the dock."
"Copy. We wait for your signal?"
"You wait for them to commit. Then you hit them from behind." Eddy grabbed the shotgun from beside the door. "Nobody gets to the cabin."
"Understood."
The line went dead.
Penny appeared in the bedroom doorway, her dogs clustered around her feet. She was fully dressed—hadn't changed out of her clothes, he realized. Hadn't expected to sleep.
Smart woman.
"They're coming?" she asked.
"Ten minutes, maybe less." He crossed to her, pressed the shotgun into her hands. "You know the bathroom? No windows, thick walls. You take the dogs and you don't come out until I tell you."
"Eddy—"
"This isn't negotiable." His hands covered hers on the stock, grip firm. "You stay hidden. You stay quiet. If anyone comes through that door who isn't me, you aim for center mass and you pull the trigger."
Her chin lifted. Defiant even now. "And if you don't come back?"
"Then you keep shooting until you run out of shells." He released the gun and cupped her face in both hands. Hard. Possessive. "But I'm coming back. Understand? I'm coming back for you."
She stared at him, eyes wide, and for a moment neither of them moved.
Then she nodded once.
"Go," he said.
She went. Dogs scrambling behind her, bathroom door closing, lock clicking into place. He listened for a breath to make sure she'd followed orders.
Then he grabbed his pistol and headed for the dock.
The night was black and silent.
No moon. Cloud cover thick enough to blot out the stars. The kind of darkness that swallowed everything—which was exactly what Eddy needed.
He positioned himself at the end of the dock, crouched behind the boat lift's metal frame. River pressed against his leg, ears flat, trained to silence. The water lapped gentle against the pilings, calm as glass.
It wouldn't stay that way.
His phone vibrated once. Spillway: Contact. Four vehicles stopped at the road junction. Splitting up—two heading for the cabin, two circling toward the water access.
Eddy typed back: Let them commit. Hit the road team when they're in the open.
Copy.
He pocketed the phone and waited.
Three minutes. Five. The night sounds of the Ozarks continued—frogs, insects, the occasional splash of a fish. Nothing that suggested ten armed men were closing in from two directions.
Then he heard the boats.
Two of them, running without lights, engines barely above idle. They came around the cove's eastern point like shadows, hulls cutting through the black water. Eddy counted silhouettes—four men in the lead boat, three in the second. Seven total from the water.
They thought they were invisible. Thought the darkness would cover their approach.
They didn't know he'd spent years learning to read water in the dark.
The lead boat nosed toward the dock. The men inside were armed—he could see the shapes of rifles against the sky. One of them muttered something, and another hissed for silence.
Eddy let them come.
Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
The lead boat bumped the dock pilings. A man in the bow reached for the cleat to tie off.
Eddy put two rounds in his chest before his fingers touched wood.
The night exploded.
Muzzle flash and screaming, the crack of gunfire echoing off the bluffs. The lead boat rocked wildly as the dead man fell backward into his crew. Someone shouted orders. Someone else returned fire, bullets chewing into the dock planks inches from Eddy's position.
He rolled, came up shooting, dropped a second man as he tried to climb onto the dock.
The second boat peeled away, engine roaring to life, heading for the tree line where the beach would give them cover. Smart. If they made landfall, they could flank through the woods to the cabin.
He couldn't let that happen.
Eddy sprinted down the dock, River at his heels, and threw himself into the aluminum fishing boat tied at the far end. Engine caught on the first pull. He swung wide around the cove, cutting off the second boat's escape route, and opened up with his pistol.
One man went over the side. Another screamed and clutched his shoulder.
The boat beached hard in the shallows, survivors scrambling for the trees. Eddy counted three—no, four. One of them was limping. Another had a rifle.
And one of them, moving faster than the rest, was Trey Samples.
Gunfire erupted from the road.
Spillway and Proof, hitting the land team from behind. Eddy heard the distinctive boom of Proof's shotgun, the rapid crack of Spillway's AR. Screams and shouts and the wet sound of men dying.
He didn't have time to count casualties. Samples was disappearing into the trees, heading for the cabin through the back route.
Heading for Penny.
Eddy beached his boat and followed.
The woods were black as pitch. Roots and rocks and deadfall invisible until you were already stumbling over them. He moved fast anyway—too fast, probably, but Samples had a head start and the cabin was only a hundred yards through the trees.
River ranged ahead, a darker shadow in the darkness.
Eddy heard the shepherd growl. Then snarl. Then a man's scream, high and terrified.
He crashed through a thicket of brush and found Samples on his back, River's jaws locked around his forearm, the dog shaking him like a rat. Blood sprayed black in the darkness. Samples was screaming, trying to bring his pistol around with his free hand.
"Release," Eddy said.
River let go instantly, backing away, lips still peeled back from bloody teeth.
Samples rolled onto his side, clutching his mangled arm. "Call it off! Jesus Christ, call it off—"
"She's not on you anymore." Eddy stepped closer, pistol leveled at the man's chest. "You've got maybe thirty seconds before the blood loss drops you. So let's make this quick."
"I can tell you where Kirby operates—"
"I already know."
"I can give you his supplier, his distribution network—"
"Don't need it."
Samples' eyes went wide. Even in the darkness, Eddy could see the terror dawning. "You're not going to let me walk out of here."
"No."
"I was just following orders! The dog, the pills, all of it—Duane told me to—"
Eddy crouched down. Close enough that Samples could see his face in the minimal light. Close enough that there was no mistaking the absolute certainty in his expression.
"You told her it took two minutes," he said quietly. "Strangling that dog. You said you wanted to see what it felt like."
Samples' mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You know what two minutes feels like now?"
Before the man could answer, Eddy grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him toward the water.
The lake was cold.
Samples thrashed and spluttered, chest-deep in the shallows, his torn arm trailing blood that turned the water black. He tried to fight—swung at Eddy with his good hand, kicked at his legs—but shock and blood loss had made him slow. Weak.
Easy to pull under.
Eddy held him down with one hand on his chest. Watched the bubbles break the surface, silver in the darkness. Counted in his head—one, two, three—the same way he used to count rapids.
He pulled Samples up at fifteen.
The man gasped and coughed, vomiting lake water. "Please—"
"Two minutes." Eddy's voice was flat. Empty. "That's what you said. Two minutes for that dog to die while you watched."
"I'm sorry—"
Under he went.
Twenty seconds this time. Twenty-five. Thirty.
Samples' struggles went weak. His good hand stopped clawing at Eddy's arm. His body started to drift, loose and pliant in the cold water.
Eddy pulled him up one more time. Let him take one breath. One desperate, shaking gulp of air.
"Her name was Penny," he said quietly. "The woman you threatened. The one you were going to hurt tonight."
Samples' eyes, glazed and unfocused, tried to find his face.
"She's mine." Eddy let the words settle like stones. "And you'll never touch anything of mine again."
He pushed Samples under.
And he didn't let go.
The man fought. Thrashed. Clawed. But the water was patient, and Eddy was more patient still. He held the man down through every desperate spasm, every weakening surge, every final twitch of a body that didn't know it was already dead.
Two minutes. Just like the dog.
When it was over, he let the current take the body. It drifted out toward deeper water, toward the cove's center, where the lake would swallow it the way it swallowed everything.
Eddy stood in the shallows, water to his waist, breathing hard for the first time all night.
River appeared on the bank, whining softly.
"I know," Eddy said. "Let's go."
The cabin was still standing.
Eddy came through the front door with his pistol up, River at his heels, scanning for threats. The living room was empty. The kitchen was empty.
The bathroom door was still locked.
He knocked twice. "Penny. It's me."
A long pause. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened.
She stood there with the shotgun still in her hands, three dogs pressed against her legs, face pale but absolutely steady. She looked at him—soaking wet, blood on his hands, something dark in his eyes—and didn't flinch.
"Did you get them?"
"Most of them." He took the shotgun gently from her grip. "The others won't be coming back."
"And Samples?"
"He's done."
She searched his face, and he let her look. Let her see whatever she needed to see.
"Good," she said quietly. "He deserved it."
Something eased in his chest. He hadn't realized how tight it had been.
Spillway appeared in the doorway, rifle in hand, blood spattered across his cut. "Road's clear. Five down, two running. Proof's chasing them on foot, but they're probably halfway to the highway by now."
"Let them run." Eddy set down the shotgun and pulled his phone from his wet pocket. Miracle it still worked. "They'll tell Kirby what happened. Let him know we're coming."
"Church in the morning?"
"Yeah. And we're moving her to the compound tonight. This place is burned."
Spillway nodded, gave Penny a respectful look, and disappeared back into the darkness.
Eddy turned back to find her watching him with an expression he couldn't read.
"The compound?" she asked.
"Safest place in the Ozarks. Perimeter security, brothers on rotation, nobody getting through without going through all of us." He stepped closer, close enough to touch. "You're done hiding in the woods. Time to go where you're protected."
"And you?"
"I'll be there." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers were cold from the lake, but she didn't pull away. "I'm not going anywhere."
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded.
"Let me pack the dogs."
"Take your time. We've got until dawn."
She moved past him toward the bedroom, her three rescues following. At the doorway, she stopped and looked back.
"The compound," she said. "Is that where all the bikers' women end up?"
He held her eyes. "Only the ones worth protecting."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe. Or understanding.
Then she disappeared into the bedroom, and Eddy stood alone in the cabin, water dripping from his clothes, the taste of violence still sharp in his mouth.
Samples was dead. The message was sent. And Penny Bradshaw was about to become a permanent fixture in Ridgerunner territory.
He pulled out his phone and texted Still: First blood. Coming in at dawn.
The response came thirty seconds later: Church at nine. Bring the woman. She's one of ours now.
Eddy looked toward the bedroom, where he could hear Penny murmuring to her dogs.
One of ours.
He let himself think it. Let himself feel the weight of those words.
Then he went outside to help the brothers clean up the dead.