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“I was hoping that not only could you obtain it for me but consider setting it up. I pay well.”
Clay had all he needed from this asshole—he even had a hidden device under his shirt that recorded every word.
In one swift lunge, he grabbed the kid. Tearing him off the box by the front of his shirt, he yanked him to his feet and glared down at his pasty face.
He made a strangled noise, and Clay gave him a little shake just to hear him make it again. Yeah, he might run more to the sadistic end of the scale when it came to torturing assholes who planned on killing innocent people, but that didn’t make him the bad guy.
“Your game is up, blackwillow73. You’re going to prison for a long, long time.”
The kid’s eyes flew wide, his mouth opening and closing.
Clay yanked him higher so his feet barely touched the office carpet. “How does a dweeb like you get here anyway? Tell me. You probably didn’t lose your virginity until your senior year of college. Your sock drawer is definitely organized by colorandoccasion, and—What do you even weigh? A buck? A buck twenty?”
Blackwillow73’s face paled even further.
“You’re coming with me.” He gave him a nudge toward the exit. “It’s going to be a long drive to Boulder to deliver you to the FBI. I suggest you make use of your Miranda rights.”
He forced the kid to walk at a steady pace in front of him. He wasn’t kidding that this was going to be a long drive. After being awake for forty-eight hours straight, the last thing he wanted was a drive. But he was amped to the max on Red Bull, amphetamines, and now the adrenaline of victory.
Who needed backup? Not him.
First order of business was to place this douchebag in FBI custody.
And when he got home, after all the shit he’d taken wore off? He was going to sleep eighteen hours straight.
* * * * *
Lark switched the car air conditioning on full blast and aimed the vent directly at her face. Renting an apartment over a garage sounded great for the pocketbook, but not so much when it came to eighty-degree temps.
She was parked in front of said garage. Not somebody’s family garage. An actual freaking fix cars, change oil, fumes wafting up to her apartment, ogled on the daily by greasy mechanics, garage.
A tap on her window made her look over. As soon as she saw the oil-stained work shirt looming in front of her face, she let out a groan but rolled her window down anyway.
“What do you need?” she asked the guy with the endearing name of Chowder written on his nametag. How he received that nickname was not something Lark wanted to know. Ever.
He offered her a crooked smile and a cocked brow—a single unibrow that had never seen a pair of tweezers. “Hi, Lark. Just wanted to ask if yourcarneeds jacked up.”
Meaning her ass. He meant her ass.
At his question, an explosion of catcalls and whistles came from the open garage bay, where three other mechanics grabbed their crotches or made other rude gestures.
Lark gave him a smile. “This is called harassment. And I think the local newspaper would be very happy to report that any woman who doesn’t want this sort of treatment should never bring her car here for repairs.”
His face fell. Even his unibrow seemed to sag.
Lark rolled her window back up. She ignored the guys who were forced back to work, and she pulled out her phone.
Cool air dried the perspiration on her throat as she scrolled through an app. Quick Bunny sounded like an app for dirty-minded people like those mechanics, but it provided Lark with enough money to pay rent and buy a few groceries. Making it on her own, without the help of her big brother, was the most important thing to her right now. Running errands and doing odd jobs for people who used the app seemed like a small trade.
Besides, she was only freelancing on Quick Bunny until the East Canon newspaper had a job opening for her. She would have tried getting a job at her hometown magazine…but that didn’t exist. And the hometown television station didn’t think she had what it took to be their on-the-street reporter.
She was on the streets now, she was happy to report. And in her opinion, she’d handled that garage goon pretty well.
A job popped up on the app.
“Aha!” Deliver donuts. She wasmadefor that.
She might eat all the profits, but coffee and a warm glazed donut from Murray’s sounded great right now. She needed something sweet to wash out the sour of her encounter with Chowder.
