Honestly, until this moment, I thought they had sent her to torch any evidence, and maybe our three months of surveillance were in vain. I mean, with a destroyed house, they are in vain. I don’t begrudge O’Dell having to call this in later, if Dem hasn’t already done so.
“Let’s get her secured at the house, and then we can pick up her car.”
I make a move toward her, and she kicks her bound legs out at me. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
O’Dell is having none of it, wrapping his hand around her throat and pinning her in place. “You have officially enteredfuck around and find outterritory, Cupcake.” Then he shoves the rag back into her mouth and pulls the Coban wrap back in place.
“You need a break?” he asks me.
“No, I got her.” I hoist her up on my shoulder and smack her ass hard for good measure, before completing the climb up the hill. We dump her in the first bedroom, the small one with a twin size bed. She bounces unceremoniously on the mattress, and without a backward glance, we shut and lock the door behind us.
“Unfuckingbelievable.” O’Dell growls, throwing my go bag on the couch. He hands me my filthy weapon—the one I had just finished cleaning a couple hours ago.
Dem chirps from the monitors. “Welcome home, boys. By the way, that was entertaining as fuck to watch. Right up to the explosion.”
“Yeah. Is EMS onsite yet?” I ask.
“Pulling in now.”
“We’ve got to get down there and remove the cameras before forensics or anyone else notices them.” O’Dell grabs two bottles of water, throwing one in my direction.
Dem nods. “We’re less than an hour before sunset, and it’ll take them at least that long to put out the flames and get the scene contained. We’ll go after they pull out tonight, but before the morning investigation crew arrives.”
“Townsend is going to kill us,” O’Dell grumbles, downing his bottle of water before tossing it in the recycling box.
While they are bantering—planning our next series of actions before we head back to Townsend Agency with our tails tucked between our legs—I’m thinking about the she-panther in the next room. She can fight, that’s for sure. Tall, sexy, voluptuous curves and a mouth to make the church moms weep and guys like me hard.
“Who do you think she is?”
O’Dell shakes his head. “Someone that hates Bobby as much as we do.”
“Let’s go get her car so we can start this interrogation.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
She’s smart, and I have to wonder if she’s had training. Her car is approximately a half-mile from the house, parked on the side of the road in a makeshift parking lot—as if she was a random hiker who parked along the side of the road outside of the state park to avoid fees—something a professional like us would do if we couldn’t fully camouflage our location.
She gave up her keys readily to O’Dell, and after retrieving the vehicle without incident, we’re now parked in front of the house. I’m rifling through her center console and glove box while he goes through her bag that was stashed in the backseat.
There’s too much information in her car to lead us to believe she is a professional, but she’s definitely clever.
“Kyra Stewart, age twenty-eight,” O’Dell reads from her license. “Her birthday was two weeks ago. She lives in Wicker Park, Chicago. There’s an expired Loyola University student ID card, as well as a Golds Gym membership.”
“Must be where she got that killer ass,” I mumble, my cheekbone throbbing. I slam the glove box shut. “Outside of a flashlight, fast food napkins, and some flavored lip glosses I’d like to taste first hand, there’s nothing special in here.”
“Bingo!” O’Dell waves a handful of notes in my face. “Love letters from Bobby boy. Looks like he’d been stalking her for a while.”
“That would explain her desire to blow him up. I guess it’s time for a talk.”
“Yep.”
We enter the house together as Dem throws protective cups at our heads. “I figured you could use those.”
“Fuck you,” I chuckle, tossing the cup on the table.
“Is she still bound?” O’Dell asks.