Chapter Nineteen
The lake house glowed like a beacon in the darkness.
Eddy crouched in the tree line, watching lights flicker behind curtained windows.
Two guards on the deck, just like Penny had said.
A single vehicle in the driveway—Kirby's black SUV, freshly washed, arrogant as the man who owned it.
The supplier's car was already gone, meeting concluded, which meant Kirby was inside with product and the illusion of safety.
Tonight, that illusion ended.
"Positions," Eddy murmured into his radio.
Responses came back in sequence. Cottonmouth and Spillway at the front, ready to breach. Limestone and Proof holding the road, blocking any escape. Current in the extraction vehicle with Penny, a hundred yards back, waiting for the signal.
River pressed against his leg, hackles raised, sensing what was coming.
"Stay," Eddy said quietly. "Guard the perimeter."
The shepherd's eyes met his—understanding, loyalty, trust. Then River melted into the shadows, taking up his position.
Eddy moved toward the water.
The cove was glass-smooth.
He entered without a ripple, the cold shock of the lake snapping him into sharp focus. This was his element. The place where his calm became a weapon, where the currents he'd learned to read on whitewater rapids translated into something deadlier.
Kirby had built his empire on fear. On strangled dogs and terrorized women. On leverage that broke people before they could fight back.
He'd never fought water.
Eddy swam in long, silent strokes, cutting through the darkness toward the lake house. The deck jutted out over the cove, lit by cheap security lights that created more shadows than they eliminated. The two guards were visible from the water—one smoking near the railing, one checking his phone.
Lazy. Complacent. Men who'd never faced a real threat because Kirby's reputation did the fighting for them.
That reputation ended tonight.
Eddy reached the pilings beneath the deck and surfaced slowly, water streaming from his face. Above him, he could hear the guards talking—sports scores, complaints about the cold, mundane conversation that had no idea death was rising from the lake below.
He keyed his radio twice. The signal.
The front of the house exploded.
Flashbangs lit up the night.
The guards spun toward the sound, weapons drawn, attention locked on the chaos erupting at the front door. Cottonmouth's shotgun boomed. Glass shattered. Men screamed.
Eddy pulled himself onto the deck in one fluid motion.
The smoking guard never saw him coming. Eddy's knife found his throat before he could turn, a single clean stroke that dropped him without a sound.
The second guard spun at the wet gurgle—too late.
Eddy was already on him, driving the blade between his ribs, twisting, feeling the resistance and then the give as steel found heart.
Two down.
He stepped over the bodies and moved toward the sliding glass door.
Inside, chaos reigned. The front room was a warzone—furniture overturned, a body crumpled by the entrance, Spillway methodically clearing the space while Cottonmouth covered the stairs. They moved like the professionals they were, years of violence honed into brutal efficiency.
Eddy's eyes went to the stairs.
Kirby was up there. The corner office Penny had described. The man who'd ordered Biscuit's death, destroyed Penny's business, held her mother hostage for eight months of terror.
The current surged beneath Eddy's calm surface.
"Upstairs is mine," he said.
Cottonmouth nodded, stepping aside.
Eddy climbed.
The hallway was dark.
Three doors, all closed. The corner office was at the end—a sliver of light visible beneath. Eddy moved in silence, pistol raised, every sense tuned to potential ambush.
The first door opened on an empty bedroom. The second, a bathroom.
The third...
He kicked it open.
The office was smaller than he'd expected. A desk, a computer, stacks of cash and product arranged like trophies. And in the center of it all, phone in hand, stood Duane Kirby.
Thirty-nine years old. Lean and sharp-eyed. The restless charm of a predator who'd spent his whole life making women trust him and then making them afraid.
He looked up when the door burst open, and for one moment, genuine surprise flickered across his face.
Then the charm snapped into place.
"You must be the biker." Kirby's voice was smooth, controlled. "The one who's been killing my men. Samples. Welch. Hensley." He set down his phone on the desk. "You've cost me quite a bit of money."
"Drop the weapon."
Kirby's hand had been drifting toward his waistband. It stopped.
"Let's talk about this," he said, that predator charm oozing from every word. "Whatever Linda's daughter is paying you—whatever she promised—I can double it. Triple it. Name your price."
"Her name is Penny."
"Fine. Penny." Kirby spread his hands, playing reasonable. "This is business, friend. Nothing personal. I needed her kennels for distribution, she refused to cooperate, I applied pressure. That's how the world works."
"You strangled a dog."
"I had someone strangle a dog." A flash of irritation. "Details matter. I don't get my hands dirty."
"You do tonight."
Eddy crossed the room before Kirby could react.
He grabbed the man's shirt and slammed him against the wall, driving the air from his lungs. Kirby gasped, clawed at Eddy's wrist, tried to reach for the gun he'd never have time to draw.
Eddy pinned that arm to the wall. Twisted until bones ground.
"Eight months," he said quietly. "You kept her mother in this house for eight months. Used her as leverage. Made her daughter choose between her business and her family."
"She could have left—"
Eddy slammed him against the wall again. Harder. Something cracked.
"You terrorized a woman who grooms dogs for a living.
Destroyed everything she built. Sent your men to nail a dead dog's collar to her door.
" His voice stayed level. Calm. The surface perfectly still while the current raged beneath.
"And when that didn't break her, you threatened to kill her mother. "
Kirby's charm had evaporated. What remained was raw fear—the expression of a man who'd built his empire on intimidation and finally met something he couldn't intimidate.
"I have money," he said desperately. "Connections. I can make you—"
"I don't want your money."
"Then what do you want?"
Eddy leaned close. Close enough to see the terror in Kirby's eyes, the sweat beading on his forehead, the rapid pulse in his throat.
"I want you to understand something," he said quietly. "Before you die."
Kirby's breath came in short, panicked gasps. "Please—"
"The woman you threatened. The one you tried to break." Eddy's grip tightened on Kirby's throat. "She's mine. Her mother is under my protection. Her business will be rebuilt under my watch. And you—"
He dragged Kirby toward the window.
The lake was visible through the glass. Dark and smooth and patient.
"You're going to disappear. The same way Samples disappeared. The same way Welch and Hensley disappeared." Eddy's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "The water keeps secrets. You should have learned that before you set up shop in Ozark country."
"I'll give you everything—"
Eddy threw open the window and forced Kirby's head through.
The man screamed. Grabbed at the frame, at Eddy's arms, at anything that might save him. But Eddy was stronger, and more importantly, Eddy was certain. The current didn't hesitate. The current just pulled you under.
"Two minutes," Eddy said. "That's how long it took your man to strangle Biscuit. That's how long I held Samples under before he stopped fighting. Welch. Hensley. They all got two minutes."
"I'll do anything—"
"You'll do nothing." Eddy pulled Kirby back inside, spun him around, and slammed him to the floor. "Because you're done. Your operation is done. Your men are done. Everything you built on strangled dogs and terrorized women—it ends tonight."
He pressed his knee into Kirby's chest. Wrapped his hands around the man's throat.
Kirby thrashed. Clawed. Made sounds that weren't quite words.
Eddy squeezed.
"This is for Penny," he said quietly. "For her mother. For every woman you've controlled and every life you've destroyed."
The thrashing weakened.
"This is for Biscuit."
The clawing stopped.
"And this is for everyone who thought they had to smile through your chaos because fighting back wasn't an option."
Kirby's eyes went glassy. His body spasmed once, twice, then went limp.
Eddy held on for another thirty seconds. Then sixty. Making sure. Making absolutely certain that Duane Kirby would never threaten anyone again.
When he finally released his grip, the room was silent.
"Clear upstairs," Eddy said into his radio.
"Copy," Cottonmouth responded. "Ground floor secure. One hostile down, one in custody."
"The mother?"
A pause. Then: "Found her in the basement. She's scared but unharmed. Penny's with her now."
Something loosened in Eddy's chest. He stood, looking down at Kirby's body, feeling nothing but the cold satisfaction of a job completed.
The pill operation was over. The man who'd built it was dead. The woman Eddy loved would never have to look over her shoulder again.
He walked to the window and looked out at the lake.
The surface was glass-smooth. Perfect stillness, reflecting the stars. Not a ripple, not a disturbance, nothing to suggest the violence that had just occurred.
The water kept its secrets.
So did he.
The extraction was clean.
Eddy descended the stairs to find the house secured. Brothers moved through rooms, collecting product and cash, eliminating evidence. The efficiency of men who'd done this before and would do it again.
He walked through the chaos without stopping, heading for the front door, for the night air, for the woman waiting somewhere in the darkness.
She found him first.
Penny came running across the yard, leaving the extraction vehicle behind, ignoring Current's shout to stay back. She threw herself at Eddy with enough force to stagger him, arms wrapping around his neck, face pressing against his throat.
"Is it over?"
"It's over."
"Kirby—"
"Done."
She pulled back to look at him. Searching his face for something—damage, regret, darkness. He didn't know what she found, but it made her eyes well with tears.
"My mother," she said. "She's—she keeps asking for you. Wants to thank the man who—"
"Later." Eddy cupped her face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his eyes. "Right now, I just need to see you. Know you're okay."
"I'm okay." She laughed, a wet and shaky sound. "I'm better than okay. He's gone. It's really over."
"Really over."
He kissed her. Hard and fierce, claiming her in front of the brothers who were still securing the property, in front of the burning house and the dark lake and the stars wheeling overhead. She kissed him back with equal intensity, and for one perfect moment, nothing else existed.
"Take me home," she whispered against his mouth.
He would.
But first, he turned to look at the lake house one last time. The lights were still on. The guards' bodies were being moved. Inside, Kirby's corpse lay in an upstairs office, and somewhere in the basement, eight months of product was about to become Ridgerunner property.
A pill operation built on strangling dogs and controlling women.
Ended by a man who understood currents. Who knew how to pull things under before they realized they were caught.
The surface of the lake stayed smooth.
The water kept its secrets.
And Eddy took his woman home.