The Protectors

by T. N. Simmons

  THE PROTECTORS

  T. N. SIMMONS

  THE PROTECTORS

  Copyright © 2017 by T.N. SIMMONS

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza- tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact :

  TERRICANSIMMONS@GMAIL.COM

  http://m.facebook.com/TerricaNicoleSimmons/

  Book Formatting template by Derek Murphy @Creativindie

  Book and Cover design by Les Solot

  Book Editing by A.J. Myers and Staci Troilo

  About the Author photo by Carissa Campbell

  ISBN:

  First Edition: November 2017

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1 On my own

  2 The Box

  3 Secrets

  4 The Compound

  5 Unbound

  6 What am I?

  7 Home Sweet Home

  8 Uncle Jonathan

  9 Face to Face

  10 The exchange

  11 The Void Within

  12 Training 101

  13 Overcharged

  14 The Harvest

  Dedication

  This, my very first book, is dedicated to my husband, Logan Simmons and to my favorite author AJ Myers, for always believing in me and giving me encouragement along the way. My amazing children, Aiden, Peyton and Evelyn for always encouraging me even when they had to eat take out another night because I was writing. �� My mother Lynn Price for loving me unconditionally and to Shaun Lovett for his love of teaching taekwondo to my children. May you rest in peace my sweet friend.

  Chapter One

  On My Own

  The frigid night air whirls around my face in the dark alley. The flickering streetlight makes it difficult to see as I try to reach the road. I speed up my pace, and my heart starts pounding faster as though it may explode at any moment. I jump at the sound of metal hitting the ground. I can’t bring myself to turn around.

  Fear has taken control of my body, and I cannot run nor scream. I stand completely frozen, perspiration building on my forehead, then I hear footsteps coming toward me. I must force myself to move. I gain control of my legs and manage one slow, unsteady step. Then another. And another. My momentum builds, and I break into a run. Only then do I turn around…and see him in shadows, hiding his face as he sends a wave of flames rushing towards me.

  Just before the flames engulfed my body, I woke with a start, soaked with sweat and trembling. I reminded myself once again it was just a dream. It was always the same dream, haunting me throughout the night.

  Most people hated mornings, but I was glad to greet the day and put the night behind me.

  After my shower, I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at my reflection. My cheeks were pink from the heat of the water, and my jade eyes were streaked with red from lack of sleep. I wondered if I looked like my mother. Did I have her wide smile or her curly red hair? Would she recognize me?

  I forced myself to smile at the weary-eyed creature staring back at me through the looking glass and promised her, “Today is going to be a good day.” I repeated the sentence several times to myself. Today is the day I will finally begin my search for my parents.

  After a quick blow-dry, threw on a pair of jeans and my favorite black sweater. I took one last look in the mirror before I headed downstairs to meet my taxi. My eyes now shone with optimism and my smile beamed confidence. I was ready. One more time, I repeated my mantra. “Today is going to be a good day.”

  I took a deep breath, fully expanding my lungs. My mind was clear and full of possibilities. I had waited eighteen years for this blissful feeling of freedom. No more bouncing from foster home to foster home. No more hiding in closets, scared of who may sneak in during the night.

  My hands trembled as I unfolded the paper holding the address to the convent. Today perhaps I would find out who I was and where I was from. Would anyone there remember the day I was left at the door?

  “2215 Monroe Ave, please,” I said to the taxi driver.

  He gave me a questionable look in the rearview mirror. “Miss, that’s over an hour away. Are you sure you don’t want to save some money and take the bus?”

  “Yup, I’m sure.”

  He shrugged, started the meter, and pulled into traffic. The ride was quiet, which was nice, but my nerves were still on edge. We passed a large museum to my left and I watched the crowd of tourist snap family photos. Perhaps one day I would have that same luxury.

  “Would you like me to wait, miss?” My driver asked as we pulled up and parallel parked along the street in front of the building.

  “Yes, please.” I climbed out of the cab and looked up at the massive convent. This was it. I was finally there. A ball of nerves began to tingle in my stomach.

  The building was tall and outlined in large grey-and-brown stone. It was beautiful and reminded me of a medieval style castle. There was also something very sad and lonely about the old place. Twenty-five stairs led up to the massive door, above which was a carved sign reading, “Heavenly Angels Convent”.

  I opened the large door and walked inside. The room was lightly lit with candles placed along the entrance ways and up the stairs, giving it a glowing effect. It was sparsely decorated, making it easier to navigate to where I needed to go. I walked up to small desk and rang the silver bell for service. An older lady wearing a black habit and white veil approached.

  “May I help you?” She donned a small pair of eye glasses, looked up at me, and squinted as if she was trying to figure out who I was. She adjusted her glasses to get a closer look and whispered something I couldn’t quite make out.

  “Yes ma’am, I am hoping you might be able to assist me.” I rolled my sweaty hands together.“I was dropped off here as an infant eighteen years ago. I am trying to locate records or witnesses… any information that might help me in my quest to find my birth family.”

  She stepped forward, and gave me a good look. “Ah, yes, I remember you. My name is Sister Ann Marie, and I’ve been here over twenty years now. I remember you like it was yesterday. Your name is Jaime Weaver. When you came here, you were so tiny. Only about a week or two old. Your mother stopped by, said she was in some trouble, and asked if you could stay here until she returned. She gave a large donation to the convent to provide everything we needed to care for you. Of course, we were more than happy to help.

  “We enjoyed you so much that we lost track of time. Month after month went by with no word from your mother. You were about five months old when we got a package in the mail saying that if we received it, then your mother and father had passed away. The instructions were to call social services and to give them the enclosed paperwork containing your first name only. The other items were to be sent to a post office box in your full name, and we were to hold the key until you one day found your way back to us.

  “Our hearts were broken to see you placed in the system, but we gave our word to do as your mother asked. Social services came to claim you right away. We didn’t even have time to say goodbye.”

  I saw a tear run down her cheek as she looked up at me and touched my chin. My heart went out to her as her loss was also my own. Why would my parents want me in the system when I was obviously loved at the convent?

  “I tried to find you some years later, but failed with every attempt. You look so much like your mothe
r, you know.” She smiled and opened a drawer in the desk. “I am the only one left from those days. Other than you, of course.”

  After rummaging around in the drawer for a few moments, she handed me a piece of paper with an address and a gold necklace with a key attached. The chain was long and could easily slip over my head. The little silver key had a square handle that displayed the number 501.

  “I hope you find the answers you are looking for, dear. You will always have a place here should you need it.” Sister Ann Marie gave me a tender hug.

  I hugged her back, saddened to have to leave so soon even though I had only just met her. I was usually uncomfortable with physical gestures, but with her if felt natural. Maybe that was how a child felt when they hugged a grandparent.

  “Please keep in touch, sweet Jaime,” she whispered as she walked me to the door.

  Dazed as I literally held the key to my existence in my hand, I returned to my cab. My stomach was full of butterflies, and my heart was heavy knowing I would never get the chance to meet my parents.

  “To the post office, 3115 Ryder Street, please,” I said to my driver as I buckled my seatbelt. “I am sorry to keep you waiting so long. I know it’s your job, but I appreciate all you are doing.”

  He looked up at me and smiled then, typed in the address into his navigation device. He’d removed his hat, revealing his sandy blond hair. His voice was cheerful when he said, “I’ve never had anyone thank me before. You are very welcome, miss. My name is Troy, by the way.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Troy. My name is Jai.”

  We gave each other a smile and began our journey to the post office. It wasn’t far, maybe a block or two from the convent. I smiled and got out of the car, clutching my key tightly in my hand.

  I walked into the post office and went toward the back. The building was small, and numbered boxes lined one wall. I suddenly felt nervous and claustrophobic in the small space. I found the box corresponding to the number on my key—501. I took a deep breath, inserted the key, and opened the door.

  Inside was an eight-by-ten size silver box with gold flowers etched on the top. The box was sealed and didn’t appear to have a lock. I had no idea how I was going to get the thing open, but I decided I would worry about that when I got home. At that moment, all I really wanted to do was get out of that tiny little post office.

  Once back in the cab, I asked Troy to take me home. My mind raced, and my heart fluttered with excitement as I gripped the mysterious box in my arms. When we arrived at my apartmen I paid Troy, adding a nice tip for his patience with me, and thanked him once again for his time.

  I dug around in my pocket for my keys. My hands trembled with anticipation as I tried to unlock the door. I juggled my new inheritance, trying not to drop it in the process of getting in the door. I was anxious to get inside, anxious to find a way to open that box and see what my parents had left me.

  Looking back, even I couldn’t have expected what I would find or the way it would change my life forever.

  Chapter Two

  The Box

  Iwalked into my tiny one-bedroom apartment and sat down on my brown futon to inspect my unusual inheritance. It was sealed tight, and I couldn’t force it open with only my fingers. I grabbed a butter knife out of my kitchen drawer and attempted to pry it open, but the only thing I managed to do was bend my knife.

  I didn’t want to break the box, but I was desperate to see its contents. Perhaps a blow torch would work. In the heat of frustration, I threw it on the ground in hopes that it would crack open. Nothing happened.

  Other than a loud bang, the results were the same as my bent butter knife—the mysterious box remained firmly, and infuriatingly, shut tight.

  ***

  After two days of searching for a way to open the box—using some very creative methods along the way, I might add—I was beginning to lose hope. Frustrated and disappointed, but not defeated, I placed the box on my nightstand while I put on my work uniform—a blue shirt and a pair of khaki pants.

  My job at Walmart selling fishing and hunting supplies was easy but extremely boring. I often wished I worked at the front cash registers. They were always busy.

  When my taxi showed up, I was glad to see that Troy wasn’t my driver. I didn’t feel much in the mood to talk. I couldn’t get that blasted box out of my head and cursed my unknown parents for not leaving me instructions.

  I arrived at work fifteen minutes early, as usual. Krista nearly knocked me over with a football-tackle-style hug when she saw me.

  “Krista, it’s so good to see you! I have so much to tell you,” I said as we released our embrace. Krista was one of the most beautiful women I had ever met, and I loved her, from her long raven hair to her perfectly-painted toes. Her hourglass figure and her emerald eyes paired with her dark hair made her look like a goddess.

  “I have missed you the last few days. Where have you been, little lady?” She shook her pointy finger at me.

  “That’s a long story I would love to talk about over dinner at my house. If you’re up to it?”

  “Absolutely, but only if you’re making your killer mac and cheese.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me and I laughed.

  I’d never had a steady family, but I’d been friends with Krista since I was fourteen. We were more like sisters, really. She was the only constant in my life. Foster homes came and went, but she was always there for me.

  We started working at the local Walmart when we turned sixteen. Neither of us could afford college, so we decided we would begin working early and save up enough money to start a new life that didn’t include caseworkers and juvenile courts.

  I had saved up more than three thousand dollars when I accidentally left my checkbook ledger open. My foster parents took almost every dime I’d managed to save, claiming it was owed to them for my room and board—as if they didn’t already get a check from the state for that and weekly ‘rent’ payments every Friday when I cashed my paycheck. After that, I gave my earnings to Krista to hold for me until my birthday last July, since her money went into a special account only she and I knew about.

  Krista and I had plans to share an apartment, but she was still six months away from her eighteenth birthday. So, for the last three months, I’d been on my own. I had enough money saved and with two years of employment it was easy to get a small rental contract.

  I managed to scare the crap out of my customer when I screamed because one mischievous cricket jumped out of the bucket on to my hand. Those things seriously creep me out. The rest of my shift was uneventful. I clocked out and told Krista to meet me in an hour.

  ***

  The doorbell rang, and I heard Krista yelling for me to hurry and open the door. She was early, and I was still cooking. I rushed so I didn’t burn our dinner. She was disheveled, out of breath, and appeared to have been running.

  “Why on earth are you screaming?”

  “There is a super-hot guy on his way up the elevator, and I am a hot mess. He can’t see me like this!” I rolled my eyes at her and we both busted out laughing.

  “Seriously, we need to get you a boyfriend,” I teased and tousled her hair as she stared at her reflection in the mirror and smoothed out her shirt until it was perfect again.

  “You’re one to talk. When is the last time you had a boyfriend, when you were six?” She stole a large bite of un-melted cheese out of the pot.

  I finished preparing the pasta while Krista proceeded to tame her new troll hairstyle in my tiny bathroom mirror. Apparently satisfied she no longer looked like she stuck her finger in a light socket, Krista came in and helped set two places for us at my small round kitchen table. As soon as I placed the pasta on the table, she dug in as if she hadn’t eaten in a year.

  “This is so good.” She shoveled the creamy noodles into her mouth. “I can’t get enough of your macaroni and cheese. It’s so much better than my mom’s.”

  “Well, it’s not hard to make, but you better not tell Momma Jane that
. She won’t cook for me ever again.” I laughed.

  Krista’s mom, Jane, owned a local catering company and was an amazing cook. I grew up calling her Momma Jane because she was the closest thing to a real mother I ever knew. She told me she would always be my Momma Jane, no matter what, and the name stuck from that day forward.

  Krista and I ate, and then I showed her my special locked box and asked if she had any ideas about how to open it. She attempted to pick the lock with her bobby pin and she bent her debit card when she tried to slide it through the sealed lid.

  Nothing worked. Even Krista’s magic lock-picking skills didn’t get the stubborn thing to open. It was starting to really frustrate me. So, when Krista said goodnight and headed home, I decided what I really needed was a night out. The dance club was only a block away from my apartment and the street was brightly lit at night. I liked to listen to the music and be around other people for a while. Even if I didn’t know a single person there.

  I put on a low-cut green dress that fit my body like a glove and ended just above my knees. I slipped on a pair of white strappy high heels and gave my hair a once over. Satisfied with my party girl ensemble, I smiled. I looked hot in my dress. I snapped a few selfies and sent them to Krista as I locked my door and headed outside.

  I arrived just after eleven. The club was slow for a Friday night. The bartender, a much older gentleman, skillfully and quickly served multiple drinks at a time, careful to check for the notorious red X—the mark of the underaged—for those ordering alcoholic beverages. I found an empty seat at the bar and ordered an unsweetened tea. There was a live band playing on the stage, and I turned to listen while the bartender fixed my drink.