Chapter Sixteen
They rolled out at midnight.
Eddy led the convoy—four bikes cutting through the darkness on back roads that didn't exist on any GPS. Behind him rode Cottonmouth, Limestone, and Current, the core strike team for a mission that had only one acceptable outcome.
Craig Hensley was going to die tonight.
The target was a rented lake house on the Branson strip—a weathered two-story that Kirby's distributors used for staging product.
Hensley had been there for three days, according to the intel Still's network had gathered.
Holed up with four of his men, celebrating the destruction of Pampered Paws like they'd won a war instead of terrorizing a woman who groomed dogs.
They hadn't won anything yet.
Eddy killed his engine a quarter mile out, coasting the bike to a stop in a gravel turnout. The others followed, dismounting in practiced silence.
"Limestone, Current—you've got the front," Eddy said, keeping his voice low. "Wait for my signal, then hit it hard. Flashbangs through the windows, breach the door, put down anyone who's armed."
Limestone nodded, checking his shotgun. "Rules of engagement?"
"Hensley's mine. Everyone else is free game."
"And if Kirby's there?"
"He's not." Eddy's jaw tightened. "Intel says he's at the main house with Penny's mother. Hensley's running this show solo."
Current adjusted his rifle strap. "How do you want to play your approach?"
"Water side. I'll come through the back yard while you're drawing attention at the front." Eddy checked his pistol, his knife, the zip ties in his pocket. "Give me five minutes to get in position. When you hear the flashbangs, I'm already inside."
"And Cottonmouth?"
"Back door." The Sergeant at Arms showed his teeth in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Anyone tries to rabbit, they run into me."
The plan was simple. Clean. The kind of operation the Ridgerunners had executed a hundred times before.
But this one was personal.
Eddy thought about Penny standing in the wreckage of her business, holding that red collar, her eyes gone flat and cold. Thought about the photo of her mother, terrified, holding a newspaper like proof of life.
Hensley had done that. Had orchestrated the destruction, the terror, the systematic dismantling of everything Penny had built.
Tonight, Hensley paid.
The lake was black and still.
Eddy slipped into the water two hundred yards from the target house, letting the cold shock his system into sharp focus. He moved through the darkness like he'd been born to it, arms pulling in long, silent strokes, eyes fixed on the lights visible through the trees.
The rental sat on a gentle slope above a narrow beach. Two stories, wraparound deck, sliding glass doors that opened onto the water view. Security lights illuminated the front yard, but the back was shadowed—bad placement, typical of renters who didn't know the property.
Their mistake.
He reached the shallows and paused, treading water, counting windows. Ground floor lit up—living room, kitchen. Second floor dark except for one room on the corner. Voices drifted across the water, punctuated by laughter and the clink of bottles.
They were celebrating.
Eddy smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
He pulled himself onto the beach, water streaming from his clothes, and moved through the shadows toward the house. The back yard was overgrown—rental company hadn't bothered with landscaping—which gave him cover all the way to the deck stairs.
He crouched beneath the deck, checking his phone. Four minutes since he'd left the others. One more minute until breach.
Voices above him now. Clearer.
"—told Kirby we should've burned the place down. Spray paint and broken shit doesn't send the same message."
"Boss wanted it done clean. No fire means no fire department, no investigation, no cops sniffing around."
"Still say it would've been better. Bitch needed to learn—"
Eddy's hand tightened on his knife.
Sixty seconds.
He moved up the deck stairs, silent, keeping to the shadows. Through the sliding glass door, he could see the living room—leather couches, big-screen TV, scattered beer cans. Three men visible. One more voice coming from the kitchen.
Hensley would be upstairs. The corner room with the light. Running the show from above like the coward he was.
Forty-five seconds.
Eddy positioned himself beside the sliding door. The lock was cheap—rental-grade, easy to force. He'd be inside before they knew what hit them.
Thirty seconds.
He could hear Current and Limestone moving into position at the front. Soft footfalls in the gravel. The familiar rhythm of brothers preparing to breach.
Fifteen seconds.
His hand found the door handle.
Ten.
Five.
The world exploded.
Flashbangs went off like thunder.
Glass shattered at the front of the house. Men screamed. Gunfire erupted, sharp and staccato, Limestone's shotgun booming beneath the crack of Current's rifle.
Eddy ripped open the sliding door and went through.
The three men in the living room were still reeling from the flashbangs—stumbling, hands over their ears, blind and disoriented. Eddy put two rounds in the first one before he could recover. The second spun toward the sound, weapon coming up, and took a bullet between the eyes.
The third ran for the back door.
Cottonmouth was waiting.
The shotgun blast echoed through the house. Eddy didn't look back.
He took the stairs two at a time, following the light, following the muffled sounds of someone scrambling above. A door slammed. Footsteps pounded.
Hensley was running.
The hallway was narrow, three doors, only one with light spilling from underneath. Eddy kicked it open and found an empty bedroom—window hanging open, curtains blowing in the night breeze.
Shit.
He crossed to the window and looked down. A figure dropped from the second-story roof to the yard below, stumbling on the landing but staying upright. Young, wiry, moving fast toward the tree line.
Hensley.
Eddy didn't hesitate. He swung out the window, grabbed the roof edge, and dropped.
The impact jarred through his legs, but he was already moving—sprinting across the dark yard, closing the distance. Hensley had a head start but Eddy had fury, and fury ran faster.
The trees swallowed them both.
Hensley crashed through the underbrush like a wounded animal.
Eddy tracked him by sound—snapping branches, gasping breaths, the desperate scramble of a man who knew death was behind him. The darkness was absolute, no moon, no stars through the canopy, but Eddy didn't need to see.
He could feel the water ahead.
The lake curved around this part of the shore, creating a small cove that was invisible from the road. Hensley was running toward it without realizing—thinking he was escaping into the woods, not understanding that the land ended fifty yards ahead.
Eddy let him run.
The trees thinned. The ground turned soft, muddy. Hensley burst out of the brush and skidded to a stop at the water's edge, chest heaving, head whipping back and forth as he searched for an escape route.
There wasn't one.
"End of the line," Eddy said, stepping out of the shadows.
Hensley spun, hand diving toward his waistband. He was fast—young and scared and running on pure adrenaline.
But Eddy was faster.
He crossed the distance in three strides and caught Hensley's wrist before the pistol cleared his belt. Twisted. Bones cracked. Hensley screamed and dropped the weapon, and Eddy kept twisting until the man's arm bent the wrong way entirely.
"That was for the business," Eddy said quietly.
He swept Hensley's legs and put him on his back in the mud. Dropped a knee on his chest. Wrapped one hand around his throat.
"And this is for the dog."
Hensley clawed at Eddy's wrist with his good hand, eyes bulging. "Wait—wait—I can tell you where Kirby—"
"I know where Kirby is."
"The mother—the woman's mother—I know where he's keeping her—"
"Same place." Eddy's grip tightened. "Welch told us everything before he died. Your intel's worthless."
Terror flooded Hensley's face. The realization that he had nothing to bargain with. Nothing to offer that might save his life.
"Please—"
"You nailed a dog collar to her door." Eddy's voice was flat. Empty. The current running cold and deep beneath the surface. "Left a photo of her mother like a threat. Destroyed everything she built because you wanted to break her."
"I was following orders—"
"So am I."
He dragged Hensley toward the water.
The man fought. Screamed. Kicked and thrashed and begged with every breath he had left. But Eddy's grip was iron, and the lake was waiting, and there was nothing Craig Hensley could do to change what was coming.
The water was cold.
Eddy waded in until it reached his waist, dragging Hensley behind him. The man was crying now—sobbing, pleading, making sounds that weren't quite words.
"Two minutes," Eddy said quietly. "That's what it took to strangle Biscuit. Your buddy Samples timed it. Said he wanted to see what it felt like."
"I didn't—that wasn't me—"
"No. You just ordered the retaliation. Targeted her business, her livelihood, her mother. Used fear as a weapon because that's what Kirby taught you." Eddy's hand moved from Hensley's throat to his hair, forcing his head back. "You wanted to see what fear felt like? Let me show you."
He pushed Hensley under.
The water closed over the man's face like a fist. Bubbles erupted, silver in the darkness, desperate and frantic. Hensley's hands clawed at Eddy's arms, his chest, anything he could reach.
Eddy held him there.
Counted seconds the way he used to count rapids. One. Two. Three. Feeling the current in his blood, the cold purpose that had replaced everything else.
Penny's face flashed behind his eyes. Standing in the wreckage. Holding the collar. Her voice saying: It makes me dangerous.
She wasn't dangerous. She was strength and warmth and everything worth protecting.
He was the dangerous one. The current that pulled people under when they threatened what was his.
Thirty seconds.
Hensley's struggles weakened.
Forty-five.
His hands stopped clawing.
Sixty.
Eddy pulled him up just long enough for one gasping, desperate breath.
"That's one minute," he said. "Biscuit got two."
Then he pushed Hensley under again.
The second minute was quieter. Less fighting. More acceptance.
When it was over, Eddy let the body drift. The current would take it somewhere—didn't matter where. Craig Hensley was done threatening anyone.
The house was secured when he got back.
Limestone met him at the tree line, shotgun resting on his shoulder. "Hensley?"
"Done."
"Bodies?"
"Lake."
A grunt of approval. "We've got four inside. Current's doing a sweep for product—might as well take what we can carry."
"Any intel?"
"Phone on the kitchen table. Texts from Kirby going back two weeks. Should give us everything we need."
Eddy nodded, water still dripping from his clothes. "Burn the house when we're clear. I want Kirby to see the smoke from his window."
"Thought you'd say that." Limestone's teeth flashed in the darkness. "Already prepping the accelerant."
They worked fast. Efficient. The Ridgerunners had done this before—cleaned up messes, erased evidence, sent messages that couldn't be misunderstood.
By the time the fire caught, they were already on the road.
The compound was quiet when they rolled in.
Eddy parked his bike and sat there for a long moment, watching the flames of the distant fire reflect off the low clouds. Message sent. Message received. Kirby would know by dawn that his last enforcer was dead and his staging house was ash.
The endgame was coming.
Still met him at the lodge steps, coffee in hand despite the hour. "Hensley?"
"Gone."
"The house?"
"Burning."
"Good." The president studied Eddy's face, reading something there. "Your woman's in your cabin. Wouldn't sleep until you got back."
Eddy's chest tightened. "She's safe?"
"Brothers on rotation all night. Nobody getting close." Still took a sip of his coffee. "Church tomorrow at noon. We plan the final strike. Kirby's got nowhere left to run."
"His supplier meeting's Thursday."
"Then we hit him Thursday." Still's eyes were hard. Cold. "Three days to plan. Then this ends."
Eddy nodded and walked toward his cabin.
The light was on inside. He could see Penny's silhouette through the window, pacing, River following at her heels.
Waiting for him.
He pushed open the door and she was in his arms before he could speak, holding tight, her face pressed against his wet shirt without complaint.
"Hensley?" she asked.
"Done."
"Good." No hesitation. No guilt. Just cold satisfaction from a woman who'd stopped smiling through chaos and started fighting back. "What's next?"
"Thursday. Kirby's lake house. We end this."
She pulled back to look at him, searching his face for something. He didn't know what she found, but it made her nod.
"Three days."
"Three days."
She kissed him—hard, fierce, a claiming of her own—then pulled back and took his hand.
"You're freezing. Come inside. Let me warm you up."
He followed her into the cabin, the door closing behind them, the fire still burning on the distant horizon.
Three days until Kirby paid for everything.
Eddy could wait.
The water had taught him patience.