Murder Under The Mistletoe. Terri Reed
floor and kick it over to me,” she said, her eyes sparking with challenge and distrust.
“No way. That’s not how this works.” An agent never handed over his firearm. He stood. The world swam. His vision blurred. He reached out for the desk and missed.
He toppled face-first onto the floor and fell into darkness.
* * *
Oh, no. He’d passed out. Or had she killed him?
Horrified by either prospect, Heather remained rooted to the floor. Her first impulse was to help him. But the need to protect her son was a fierce force, urging her to turn tail and run, grab Colin and head for the car.
She couldn’t leave the intruder lying there without making sure he wasn’t dead. Or that he didn’t die from the wound she’d given him. She would not feel guilty for clobbering him with the pan.
Stuffing his wallet into the deep pocket of her robe, she tentatively moved closer. Her foot bumped up against the gun holstered at his hip. Carefully, she slipped the weapon from the leather holster and clicked on the safety before tucking it into her pocket next to his ID.
Her muscles and nerves tensed, on high alert, ready to jump away if he so much as twitched. He didn’t move. She laid two fingers against his neck. His pulse beat with a strong rhythm. Good. He wasn’t dead, only unconscious.
Which wasn’t good. She’d probably given him a concussion.
She gently turned him onto his back. He’d made an intimidating picture awake, but now with his features relaxed, she noticed the chiseled strength of his jaw, the angles and planes of his brow and cheekbones. Handsome. Though his eyelids were closed now, she’d noticed his striking blue eyes were the color of the sky on a clear day.
He had to be at least six feet tall. The black cargo pants and black long-sleeved T-shirt beneath the leather jacket showed off a well-conditioned physique. Was he really a drug enforcement agent? What did he mean, Seth had been working for them?
She grabbed a kitchen towel and used the material as a makeshift bandage for the laceration on his scalp. Then, after undoing the ties to the dining room chair cushion, she slid the cushion off the seat, gently lifted the injured, unconscious man’s head and slipped the pillow beneath him. His eyelids popped open. Startled, she scuttled back and slipped a hand into her pocket to cradle the gun there.
Keeping a close watch on him, she called the number on the card placed opposite his badge inside the brown leather case and even though the man that answered identified himself as Deputy Director Moore, she asked, “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
The agent sat up and rubbed his head. She stared him down, and he met her gaze, waiting.
“Excuse me? Who is this?” Irritation threaded through the tone of the man on the other end of the line.
Not willing to give her name, she said, “I’ve a man here claiming he’s a DEA agent and that you are his boss. But how do I know you two aren’t in league together and this isn’t some elaborate scam?”
“Madame, call this number.” The man rattled off a ten-digit number. Thankful for the memorization skills she’d learned in college, she put the number to memory. “You can confirm for yourself who I am. Once you have, ring me back.” The man hung up.
Still disbelieving, she input the number into the phone and waited a moment until a woman answered, “Department of Homeland Security, how may I direct your call?”
Surprised, she hesitated, then hung up. Was this for real? Homeland Security? No way.
She quickly called 411 and asked for the main number of the Department of Homeland Security. The automated voice gave her the same number that she’d just dialed.
Stunned but not quite ready to accept that the man sitting on the floor watching her was really law enforcement, she redialed the number for Homeland Security and asked to speak to Deputy Director Moore.
“The deputy director is not in at the moment. Would you care to leave a name and number for when he returns?”
Heather chewed on her bottom lip for a second before she said, “Uh, can you tell me if there is an agent name Tyler Griffin working for the DEA?”
“I’m not at liberty to give out that information. Did you want to leave a message for the deputy director?”
“No, that’s okay.” Heather hung up.
Tyler arched an eyebrow at her.
She narrowed her gaze and redialed Deputy Director Moore’s direct line. He answered on the first ring.
The man confirmed his agent’s identity. The relief was unexpected. At least she didn’t have to fear the agent was there to hurt her.
“Let me speak to Agent Griffin,” the gruff man on the phone demanded.
She squatted down next to Tyler and handed him the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Tyler held the phone to his ear. “Griffin here.”
He listened, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. The local sheriff is on his way here. Thank you, sir.” He pressed the end button. “My boss will be in contact with the sheriff’s department.” He held out the phone. “Are you satisfied?”
“I suppose.” Her fingers curled around the phone.
His hand clasped around her wrist.
She let out a little yelp and tried to break his hold. His grip was warm, tight, but not painful.
“Not so fast,” he said. His intent gaze held her captive as surely as his hand. “I want my gun back.”
Her heart beat wildly. “It’s in my pocket.” Why did she sound as if she’d run a marathon?
With his free hand, he reached into the pocket of her robe, retrieved his weapon and jammed it into his holster.
“Uh, you can let go of me now.” She stared at the point where his big hand circled her slender wrist. She had no doubt he could break her bones with a quick snap if he chose to.
He let go, holding his hands up, palms out. “Sorry.”
“Tell me what you meant when you said my brother was working with you. And why did he think something would happen to him?”
Tyler scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Your brother informed my office that your family’s tree farm was being used to smuggle cocaine into Canada.”
She dropped from a squat to her knees. “Cocaine?”
The official ruling in her brother’s death flashed in her mind. Overdose of injectable cocaine. She’d had so much trouble accepting the coroner’s findings. Seth had been belonephobic. He abhorred sharp objects, especially needles. He’d snorted, smoked and swallowed his drugs.
Plus he’d promised her he was clean. She’d believed him.
However, the sheriff hadn’t believed her when she’d claimed Seth wouldn’t have injected himself with drugs. She could tell the sheriff had thought she was fooling herself. He’d said junkies would do whatever they could for the high, even overcome a lifelong fear.
Without any evidence to the contrary, she’d had to come to terms with Seth’s death as an accident. But now...?
“Someone here on the farm was involved in drug smuggling?” It didn’t make sense. “That can’t be. Most of our employees have been with us for years. I trust them. I can’t imagine any of them partaking in drugs, let alone using our farm for nefarious purposes.”
“Not all of your employees are long-term, right? You do have some transient workers.”
She chewed on the inside of her lip. An anxious flutter started low in her tummy. “True. We do have a few seasonal laborers who come in