The Littlest Witness. Jane M. Choate

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       ONE

      A muffled footstep awakened Caleb, setting him on high alert. There was no reason anyone should be here. No good reason, that is. Calmly, he slipped from the bed and stepped behind the draperies, just as an intruder entered the bedroom.

      Another man might have panicked, but Caleb Judd was not just another man. Instinctively, he clicked into Delta mode, a heightened sense of awareness overtaking him, his vision sharpening, his hearing growing more acute. His breathing remained regular, his pulse steady, courtesy of training from the United States Army.

      No one should have gotten in. Alfred Kruise had boasted about the state-of-the-art alarm system when he’d offered Caleb use of the guesthouse, insisting that both he and his nephew, Tommy, were safer here than they would have been anywhere else.

      Kruise had been wrong.

      The alarm system hadn’t gone off. Probably disabled.

      A pro.

      The stranger’s movements were nearly silent as he made his way toward the bed, his intentions clear. He wanted Caleb. But why? He had his share of enemies, but they weren’t personal. Fighting his country’s enemies was what he had been doing when he’d gotten the call about Michael and Grace’s murders.

      But now here he was in Atlanta, Georgia, eight thousand miles from Afghanistan, facing a gunman who clearly wanted to eliminate him. The only reason Caleb could think of was connected to his brother Michael, but that made no sense.

      With his own weapon packed in his duffel bag, he had no chance of going for it. If he were going to take the man down, it would have to be with his hand.

      Recognizing the disadvantages of his position, he relied on the faith that had sustained him through countless encounters with the enemy. It had never deserted him, even upon learning of the deaths of his brother and his wife.

      Caleb registered the assailant’s weapon held in a steady hand. A Walther. A good choice for an assassination. He’d probably appreciate it more if he weren’t the intended target. He stepped out from behind the draperies and kicked out, knocking the weapon from the man’s hand.

      The would-be killer, who had to be several inches taller than Caleb’s own six feet and weighed at least two hundred and twenty pounds, recovered quickly and grabbed for the weapon. Caleb spun, delivered a roundhouse to the man’s chest, but fatigue and unrelenting grief had taken their toll upon him, making his effort lack its customary power.

      The man gave a loud whuff. Caleb rammed a fist into the assailant’s jaw. He must have had an iron jaw because he didn’t buckle. The intruder pivoted on one foot and slammed the other against Caleb’s chest.

      Caleb dodged the worst of it but couldn’t completely escape the punishing blow. He spun, presenting his profile, a smaller target for the next attack. The assailant had obviously had close-quarters combat training, since he didn’t move away from Caleb’s fists but, instead, closed in.

      Just as the stranger raised his fist, a look of consternation passed over his face. And then Caleb noticed it. The man was wearing earbuds. Someone, a handler probably, must have been issuing orders.

      After casting Caleb a look that promised retribution, the man took off. What had his boss said that had caused him to give up so easily? He feared that the man realized he had the wrong target and Tommy was the intended one.

      Caleb should have never left his nephew alone in the main house. Alfred and Irene Kruise had insisted it was best for Tommy, yet another instance where they had been wrong.

      Whoever had sent a killer after Caleb might have also sent another after Tommy. But why? The boy didn’t know anything. Fury built in his chest at the idea of anyone hurting Tommy. Smother the rage, Caleb told himself as he retrieved his weapon. He didn’t have the luxury of giving in to it. Not now. Not when Tommy needed him.

      Besides, there were bigger things he needed to concentrate on at the moment.

      Three nights ago, Michael and Grace Judd had been gunned down in their own home while Tommy had watched. Caleb still shuddered at the thought of what his young nephew had endured. It was no wonder Tommy hadn’t said a word since witnessing the shooting of his parents. Some grief was too deep for words.

      The next few hours were a blur as Caleb had made arrangements to leave his unit in Afghanistan and fly to Atlanta.

      He was beyond exhausted, at a time when he couldn’t afford to make a mistake through a snap decision. One of the great ironies of life, though, was that in moments like these, snap decisions were all he had time for.

      A different kind of fear settled in his heart. What was he to do with a seven-year-old boy? With no other family outside of a cousin, Michael and Grace had named Caleb Tommy’s guardian in the event of the unthinkable. And now the unthinkable had happened.

      Ideally, a child needed two parents, a mother and a father. Where was Caleb supposed to come up with a mother? With one bad experience under his belt, he had no desire to get on the romance merry-go-round again.

      Impatiently, he shoved those worries aside. Right now he had enough on his plate, including staying alive and protecting Tommy.

      With the weapon he had retrieved from his duffel held close to his chest, Caleb sprinted to the main house to check on the boy. The humidity of the Georgia night pressed against him, stealing the breath from his lungs, but he scarcely noticed. Nothing mattered other than keeping his nephew safe.

      Silently, he admitted what he’d refused to acknowledge since he’d learned of the murder of his brother and sister-in-law: he needed backup.

      * * *

      Shelley Rabb lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped it against the door to the guesthouse of the Kruise estate. Set in an exclusive neighborhood that shouted old money, the estate was a showplace, filled with dark, waxy magnolias, stone fountains and an air of gentility that had her wondering if she should genuflect before presenting herself.

      Everyone in Atlanta knew of Alfred and Irene Kruise, who were featured on the society page of the paper at least once a week and were considered Atlanta royalty. Kruise was a federal prosecutor, and his wife sat on the committees of a half dozen or so charities. An invitation to the estate was a coveted ticket, although this wasn’t exactly a social call. She was here as a favor to her brother, Jake.

      “A buddy from Delta—Caleb Judd—called. He needs help,” her brother had said in a phone call early that morning. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

      She knew that. Just as she also knew that she couldn’t refuse. Jake was on his honeymoon with СКАЧАТЬ