Yuletide Suspect. Lisa Phillips
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Название: Yuletide Suspect
Автор: Lisa Phillips
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
Серия: Secret Service Agents
isbn: 9781474080514
isbn:
Liberty pulled out her phone. “I’ll call emergency services. Get a sheriff, or whoever is the law around here, to come over.”
“Give me your phone. I’ll call him.” Even if her cell actually worked up here, she shouldn’t do the talking. That was more involvement than she needed to have in this situation.
Then again, if she left now, he could make the report to the sheriff and perhaps pretend she’d never even been here. It wasn’t exactly honest, but tell that to his heart.
Liberty clutched the phone. “I’ve given you enough already.”
She had no idea. “I don’t have a signal, and I don’t have a landline either.”
“So how do you communicate with people?”
Tate said, “Shortwave radio.”
Liberty glanced up from her phone. Evidently she had the one carrier that actually got a signal up here. “There’s no reason to be rude.”
She thought he was lying? Tate just enjoyed his privacy.
She said, “I know you want me to leave, but there’s a reason I’m here, so I’m not going to go. I came to tell you the Secret Service is on their way here to talk with you.”
“About what?” He had even less to say to his former employer than he did to his former fiancée.
“A plane went missing a hundred miles from here. Two White House staffers and a senator were on board.”
“I haven’t heard anything about it.” Not that he watched the news much. His aerial only got half a dozen channels, and he didn’t listen to the police band all the time on his scanner.
She kept talking. “It happened in the early hours of this morning. They lost contact right after the pilot sent out a distress call. We don’t know if the plane went down or if they were hijacked. Everyone is out looking for it.”
“I’m sure I can lend some assistance with the search,” he said. “For old times’ sake.”
“That isn’t why the Secret Service wants to talk with you.”
Tate didn’t know what else there would be to say. It didn’t seem like this had anything to do with him. “They’ll have to get in line. I need to make a report with the sheriff about a gunman on my property.”
Liberty let him change the subject. “Did you see who it was?”
Tate shook his head, still leaning his forearms on her open car door. Was she ever going to get in and drive away? This was painful enough without her drawing it out.
Tate sighed. “I didn’t get a good look at his face, but he didn’t seem familiar to me.” And it had definitely been a man. “Joey nearly chased him to the trees.”
Liberty didn’t smile. He knew she liked dogs, so he figured the problem was him. Tate glanced at the dogs. Joey wasn’t sitting the way Gem was. Instead, the Airedale paced the porch by the front door with his nose to the mat. He pawed at the door and then barked once.
Tate saw the flash of movement through the living room window.
He started running toward his cabin. “Someone’s in the house.”
Tate ran to the front door, so Liberty circled the house in case the intruder ran out the back. It was slow going, wading through thick snow, but she was already soaked and there would be time later to thaw out her toes. Liberty pulled out her cell phone and dialed emergency services. She requested the police, and was told the sheriff was on his way. The dispatcher seemed to know exactly where Tate’s house was, but this was a small town. Maybe they knew each other. Maybe she—it had been a woman—was his girlfriend.
Liberty stuffed her phone back in her jacket pocket and huffed out a breath at the workout she was getting. Okay, not only at the workout. Who cared if there was someone in Tate’s life now? It wasn’t like she had any claim on him. Not since she’d broken it off and severed the tie between them. As much as it had pained her to do it—and the reason for it hurt almost more than the act of doing it—Liberty hadn’t had another choice.
There was no future for them.
Still, if she got the chance, then she might tell him she regretted hurting him. But Liberty was never, ever going to tell him why. She could barely even think about it herself.
She reached the rear corner of the cabin, and the back door slammed. Liberty brought her gun up as the man flew out the door, stumbled and then started to run.
“Secret Service! Freeze!” Her voice barely carried.
He didn’t even slow down.
She ran after him. Tate rushed out the back door and got to the man first, launched himself at the guy and tackled his legs. The two went down in the snow like an ugly version of a snow angel. Tate grunted, and the two men struggled.
Liberty stopped six feet away and planted her now-numb feet. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!” Tate would have to get out of the way first, but the man didn’t know.
Tate shifted and she saw the man’s face. He was probably in his midthirties.
He gritted his teeth and struggled. Tate jammed his arm up under the man’s chin. “Who are you?”
The man jerked his head around, trying to get away. “Get off me.” His gaze found hers, and she saw the moment he realized he’d lost this fight to the two of them. His eyes flashed. “Let me go.”
If he was going to try to get her to shoot him, Liberty wasn’t going to oblige. Suicide by cop might be something the police had to face, but it wasn’t part of her résumé. “Tate.”
He lifted the man off the snow to his feet. “Who are you?”
The guy looked like he was about to bolt. He wore jeans, boots and a heavy jacket. The men had both dressed for the weather, while Liberty was dressed for a mild winter in DC. Which was exactly what they’d been having. How was she to know this part of Montana was freezing and buried under four feet of snow?
When the man didn’t answer, Tate said, “Find me something to secure him with.”
Liberty went inside and found a dog leash hanging by the front door, beside where a big duffel sat on the floor. He’d always carried a bag to his workouts. The two animals were on dog beds in the living room, making the Christmas picture complete. They watched her move through the cabin, but thankfully didn’t come over expecting her to pet them. Liberty couldn’t handle that, when they would only remind her of her favorite dog. She’d had only cats since Beauregard died.
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