Yuletide Suspect. Lisa PhillipsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       TWO

      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.

      Hurrying back to Tate, Liberty held out the leash. He motioned to the guy with a tilt of his head. “You do it.”

      “Put your hands behind your back.” She stowed her weapon and stepped behind him, where she secured his hands with the leash. “The sheriff is on his way.”

      “Good.” Tate tugged on the man’s elbow, took him into the kitchen and deposited the man on a chair. “Don’t move.”

      Liberty shut the back door and took off her gloves, so thin they were pointless. She blew on one hand, then the other, switching off the hand holding her gun as she attempted to impart some warmth back in her stiff fingers. Tate frowned and then hit the power icon on the display of his coffee maker. Fancy. She used a four-cup coffeepot, the cheapest she could find, but he’d always been particular about what brand he drank. Liberty didn’t care, so long as it was thick, hot and strong.

      The man in the chair glanced between them but didn’t say anything. Under the LED kitchen lights his clothes looked worn, his hair matted to the top of his head.

      Liberty disliked silence. She motioned to the man but asked Tate, “Is this the guy from outside the barn?” He could have come back and gotten inside somehow. Though he’d had a gun before.

      Tate shook his head. “This is a different guy.” He pushed off the counter and took a step toward the man. “Come here with your partner. Come here to kill me. Why? Who am I to you?”

      The guy looked away. Liberty had to wonder where the other man had disappeared to. Two assailants at Tate’s house tonight, within minutes of each other? It seemed impossible they weren’t connected.

      Tate slammed both palms on his table. Liberty started and the seated man’s eyes widened. Tate said, “Why did you come here to kill me?”

      “I want my lawyer.”

      Liberty said, “We’re not cops.”

      The minute the words were out of her mouth, Tate glanced at her. What? What had she said? He was being hard on the man. Yes, he had a right to be angry. But it was as though he’d forgotten everything they’d learned about questioning and just gone with what was in his gut: anger.

      The last time she’d seen him, Tate had been so angry it had taken two of their fellow agents to pull him back from punching the director. He hadn’t been fired; it’d been more like a mutual decision between both parties that he should move on from the Secret Service. Liberty’s heart had broken even more than it already was that day, as she’d realized it was all her fault. Those tendencies he’d had as a kid to get mad instead of working through his problems had resurfaced through no fault of his own. Only hers.

      Liberty strode to the intruder, because if she didn’t she’d start crying, thinking about how everything between her and Tate had gone wrong. She didn’t want to contemplate again how it was all her fault.

      She said, “Stand up,” and glanced at Tate. He nodded to indicate he had her back. Liberty stowed her gun, but the man hadn’t moved. She hauled him up by his elbow and patted his pockets.

      She found a cell phone, then a knife, and laid both on the table. She kept searching but found nothing else. Liberty grabbed the phone and stepped back. It wasn’t locked, and it had no apps downloaded. There were no contacts listed, and if there were any messages, those had been deleted as well.

      “It’s clean.” She tossed the phone on the table.

      “Our friend here can talk to the sheriff.”

      “And