Sanctuary: Seeking Asylum Book 1

by SM Olivier

  “I’m going to sign BJ out,” I said quickly before I hurried off, not caring to hear his response.

  I felt their eyes on me, but I didn’t care, I needed to get away from here. It was terrible enough having reminders everywhere. I didn’t need to see the people who put those memories there.

  ֍

  The principal, a Sargent Major on special assignment at the school, was eager to show me where my brother was. Apparently, BJ was in combat class. The usually stoic man was genuinely effusive in his compliments on my recent accomplishments; making the National Team was something he admired.

  He knew it took a lot of skill, hard work, and dedication to get to the level I was at now. He told me how other visitors were in the school today, helping the junior and seniors decide their career paths. Most of the students had their minds made up, but people like my brother were still on the fence. BJ had a spot next door, but he could always enlist, if that was the route he chose to take.

  “So, what’s the likelihood of you sparring one of our combat veterans?” he asked quietly as we entered the gymnasiums.

  I laughed until I realized he was serious. “Can I think about it and see what I’m working with before I make that decision?”

  He smiled and nodded at me, indicating a few seats next to the doors. It was close enough to see the action but not so close that we were a distraction.

  Inside, I could see approximately fifty students sitting on the mats on the outside of a ring, much like what I was used to seeing. Currently, there was a man dressed in a black shirt and khaki cargo pants grappling in the center of the ring with a student. It was clear the cadet wasn’t going to win. Not because the man was that much bigger than the teen, but it was obvious the man was bred to be a fighter.

  “There are about twenty joint operations specialists in our building as we speak,” Sergeant Major continued to talk in hushed tones. “All of them are here as a favor, and a few of them just returned at the beginning of the week and wanted to help us with our students.”

  I really hoped Corbin wasn’t among them. I had successfully avoided him for a year. By now, I could only imagine he had received the invitation for his brother’s wedding, maybe even planned on encouraging me to attend and stand by my sister. I wouldn’t. Not even if my father begged.

  “I’m sure they are a font of knowledge,” I murmured in return.

  I believed it. Especially if everything Dad had told me was right.

  About six years ago, a new task force of military was created. Before this task force was built, there were the Marines, Navy, Air Force, Army, Coast Guard, and all their guard and reserve units. Uncle Sam decided to take the best of the best from each service and create the Joint Operations Specialty Group.

  These teams of six to ten people called themselves JOpS. Each team was comprised of a variation of all the branches. Dad had told me that these people were typically sent on missions that would always be considered top secret. The JOpS were a cohesive unit that was purported to be closer than teammates and more devoted than siblings, because they spent twenty-four hours, seven days a week, watching each other’s six’s− or backs.

  He confided in me that these groups generally stayed together even after their deployment and missions were completed. They prided themselves on their camaraderie and closeness. Unfortunately, if one or two of their members caused any discord, the rest of the team could petition their superiors for a “swap out.” Most of the time the petition was granted because they realized how important trust and solidarity were for these teams.

  I honestly played with the idea of joining just to see if I could make one of these teams. Typically, the service members had to spend a minimum of four years in their career fields before their supervisors and superiors recommended them to be evaluated for the JOpS. It was a highly sought after and prestigious position to be in and just as competitive.

  Wyatt and Corbin hadn’t even been in for a full four years before someone recognized their potential and had placed them on a JOpS team. I knew that said a lot about them. They may always be M&M to me, but apparently they had another side of them I hadn’t been aware of.

  “They really are,” Sergeant Major confirmed as we watched two new girls take the mats.

  I watched as the JOpS woman and the high school student began their match. Within sixty seconds, the female on the JOpS team had me bristling in irritation. She was skilled, there was no doubt, but wasn’t she supposed to be here in a training capacity? She was taunting the girl in the ring, and I could see the teenage girl’s confidence getting shaken.

  The last JOpS had patiently coached and helped his opponent during and after the match. I respected that so much more.

  As a teenager, I was often bumped up into another age division to challenge me. I willingly chose that path. I even fought in divisions above my weight class at times, when specific tournaments allowed me too. Again, it was my decision. I was trained for that.

  The teen in the ring hadn’t asked to be humiliated and publicly ridiculed. She also didn’t deserve the too-hard hits aimed and inflicted on her.

  I looked over at Sergeant Major and noticed the same frown reflected on his face.

  “If she’s game, I’ll spar her,” I whispered to the Sergeant Major.

  He gave me a knowing smile and nodded, obviously not liking the way the JOpS was treating his students, either.

  The JOpS in the ring was a dark-haired beauty with fair skin and was about an inch shorter than me. Where my muscles were toned and defined, I would never—and could never—bulk up like she had, even if I’d wanted to. Hit for hit, she could probably kick my ass, but I had something she didn’t. I had strategy and speed going for me.

  She looked as if she liked to get her opponent on the ground and use her strength. I would just have to make sure she never got me down.

  Tae Kwon Do might not be a hand to hand sport, but I had been trained by some of the best Judo and Brazilian Jujitsu instructors in the world. For a while, I even had a coach for the USA team who tried to convince me to start training in Judo. I had enjoyed learning the other arts, but I loved the art of Tae Kwon Do most, so I had to let him down gently.

  “JS Burns,” Sergeant Major called out with a smile as we neared the ring. “I know I asked you to only spar with our cadets, but could I talk you into sparring a member of the national Tae Kwon Do team? I’ve always wondered how our training compared to the competition level.”

  Burns looked over at me and immediately grinned. I knew I didn’t look like much. I was five foot eight and classified as a featherweight, weighing in at one hundred and thirty-two pounds. With my height, I appeared almost too skinny. Thank God I had a decent pair of breasts and a nice butt to balance out my petite frame.

  “Is that a big deal?” Burns insulted me as she slowly perused my figure once more. “Of course, Sergeant Major.”

  “It is,” Sergeant Major barely contained his frown. “I’ll let you rest, and perhaps after the next match, we can have you females get in the ring.”

  My dad had run into a team of JOpS during his deployment and had come back cursing the insolence of their team lead. They had disobeyed a direct order from my dad, and in the end, half of his team paid the price with their deaths.

  He supported the JOpS concept but didn’t like how some of the bad seeds still found their way through the cracks. He always maintained they were necessary and helped cut through a lot of the standard military bureaucracy but acknowledged the program was still a work in progress.

  “I don’t need to rest,” Burns stated with another cocky smile.

  Sergeant Major looked over at me with a raised brow, and I gave him a shrug. “Harrison just came in from a long drive. We’ll do another match, and you can be up next.”

  I smiled thankfully at him, forgetting that little detail. I didn’t need to stretch, but it was probably a good idea. As I walked to the ring, I began to extend my arms. I saw my brother sitting near the front, and
I couldn’t resist giving him a loud resounding kiss on his cheek as I came up to him.

  Some of the guys sitting near him snickered. PDA, or public displays of affection, was frowned upon on campus, but I knew Sergeant Major wouldn’t care if I teased my brother with an innocent kiss. As predicted, he reddened.

  “Hi, BJ.” I smiled at him.

  My nickname for him earned me more laughter and a few muttered innuendos. My brother hated his childhood nickname of BJ− for obvious reasons− and went by Bry now. On-campus he was generally called Harrison, as was the norm in military settings.

  “Knock it off, Ave,” he grumbled.

  I smiled cheekily at him. I knew he was just acting embarrassed for the sake of his friends, who laughed at his expense. I dropped down next to him and began to stretch, grabbing my foot as I leaned forward to touch my cheek against my leg. I turned and looked at him.

  I loved my little brother. We couldn’t look more different, other than our height. Having tall parents, it was no surprise we were both tall as well. Two years ago, he had finally hit his growth spurt, so he was finally taller than me by three inches.

  Like Dad, Mom had been adopted. We weren’t confident what nationality she was, but the hospital she was dropped off at thought she was Polynesian. A Polynesian community surrounded the area she was dropped off in, so it probably was a reasonable hypothesis. Her dark hair, eyes, and tan skin tone had supported that theory. Dad was Caucasian, with sandy-blond hair and sapphire blue eyes. Our parents had been night and day in looks.

  BJ had Dad’s looks, but he tanned as Mom had. Emery and I were the spitting images of our mom in so many aspects, except my eyes weren’t a genuine brown. Most people called the color a light amber, and in some lighting, they looked more golden.

  “You’re going to annihilate her,” BJ murmured confidently to me as I switched sides.

  “Aww, thanks,” I teased him some more. “It helps to know you have that much faith in me,” I said more seriously.

  Our relationship was so easy and natural. I was thankful I had at least one sibling that just clicked with me. I had lamented several times that I wished he’d been my twin. Other than the occasional twin telepathy, Emery and I were nothing alike. BJ and I were too similar; it was scary at times.

  “I do.” BJ smiled at me briefly before turning back to the match in front of us. “I have a lot of faith in you,” he continued murmuring. “I’ve been bragging to my friends since Wednesday. I’ve shown them your videos, and…” He blushed suddenly.

  “And what?” I asked him as I nudged his shoulder with my own.

  “And I had to change the password on my phone,” he muttered with a scowl. “They kept trying to take my phone. Some of them were begging me for your number, and a few of them asked if they can come home with us this weekend. They think you’ll hook up with them.”

  I stared at him in shock. “You’re joking, right?”

  I wasn’t one of those girls that said I was ugly, just to fish for compliments. I knew by some guys’ standards I was beautiful, but I never put in the effort most girls put into their looks. I lived in jeans and hoodies or jean shorts and tank tops. Oh yeah, and athletic gear. I kept my hair up on most days, because if it hung down my face too often, it annoyed me. I still couldn’t cut it, though. Since I was such a tomboy, I felt long hair gave me a feminine look.

  “I wish I were.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Well, they haven’t met me,” I said with a shrug. I’d hung out with enough guys to know my personality was off-putting at times. Simon, Will, and Abe, the guys Sylvia and I typically liked to hang out with, had no qualms listing my flaws, one being my independence. They had told me all men wanted to be needed and wanted.

  I had only been in one real relationship, and that was with Trevor. I could never deny wanting him, but my dad and his had made sure I never needed a man. They had raised me to be independent.

  It had hurt when I realized Trevor had the same grievance with me. One day, I had blown a tire and had pulled over to the side of the road to change it myself. He was upset that I hadn’t contacted him to let him know. I hadn’t seen the problem with it—it had been broad daylight in a safe area. And I knew how to change a tire. I couldn’t understand why he’d been so upset.

  Simon said most men liked predictable and stereotypical females. Most guys assumed I was like Emery but came to realize we were vastly different. I had never conformed to society's standards and beliefs in some areas. I couldn’t pretend to be vulnerable to stroke any man’s ego.

  I wasn’t crazy about going shopping. I thought roses and jewelry were a waste of money and preferred practical things instead. I preferred something I could use or eat; a favorite hoodie; a surprise cup of coconut-mocha latte; a picnic to a favorite place. I thought Trevor had understood all those things. Somewhere along the way, he had changed. Trevor wanted me to dress up and show me off. He wanted the four-star restaurants and the girl who texted him several times a day… someone needy.

  BJ snorted. “And it’s going to stay that way.”

  My brother was full of contradictions. One minute he wanted all men to stay away from me, and the next he was telling me I needed to start dating. He was overly protective while encouraging.

  “Did you tell them the packaging may be… pretty but it doesn’t reflect who I am?” I teased in a self-deprecating tone. “Sure, it’s fun to think your girl could—or can—kick your ass, but reality doesn’t match with expectations. Most guys can’t take a hit to their ego like that.”

  BJ gave me a dramatic eye roll. “No, I didn’t want to encourage them. Had I told them the inside far exceeded the outside, they would have wanted you more. I didn’t want them to realize that you are one in a million, and any real man would value that more than any superficial packaging.”

  I was surprised by his bold statement and almost teared up when I saw the conviction in his eyes. I realized then he knew where my deep-seated insecurity came from and was trying to convince me that Trevor had been an idiot. Sylvia had said the same thing, but it was easy for those who loved you unconditionally to see past your flaws.

  “Harrison,” one of the JOpS called me.

  I looked up, startled to see the last match was over. I took a deep breath in and schooled my features. I needed to get my head in the game. Emotions had no place in the ring.

  ֍

  Burns and I fist-bumped after the Sergeant, the instructor of the class, explained the rules. They were relatively simple and straight forward; one three-minute match, light contact only, no direct face hits, no groin kicks, no scratching, biting, or hair pulling. Points were awarded by clean hits, takedowns, how long you kept your opponent down, and forcing your rival out of the ring. The match was called after the three minutes, if your opponent tapped out, or if you were run out of the ring more than three times.

  The whistle blew, and I immediately dropped back into a ready stance and leaned forward on the balls of my feet. If I remained flat-footed, it took more energy and time to react and leap into defense or offense. I lightly bounced up and down.

  I didn’t give her time to attack. I liked to take Wayne Gretzky's philosophy and apply it to sparring: You will miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. Granted, he was a hockey player, and I was a martial artist, but it still applied to my situation. I had three minutes to take as many shots as possible.

  I immediately noticed how she kept one hand protecting her face, and the other crossed over her chest. She left her whole midsection open to my kicks. With quick succession, I did a double roundhouse kick. I led with my left foot, since my right foot had the power in it. I tapped her with enough force to let her feel my kicks but not enough power to be considered heavy contact.

  She bent slightly over and grazed the padding, protecting her head from the top of my foot with another roundhouse kick.

  I bounced back out of her range of motion. “If you leave your mid-section exposed, you allow your opponent th
e perfect opportunity to strike there,” I called out loudly enough for most of the room to hear. “Your natural reflex is to lean forward to protect your stomach, leaving your head exposed.”

  I didn’t want to humiliate her, by any means, but I wanted to give her the constructive criticism that she should’ve been providing the girl at least five years her junior.

  She glowered at me and leaned forward, telegraphing her next movement. She wanted to get me on the ground. Her arms were stiff and extended somewhat out. My following action would probably be considered cocky, and brash even, but I had ten years of gymnastics and eight years of demonstration teams to make me believe my next move could work. I knew I had surprised her when I rushed towards her as she came at me. She tensed right before she went to grab me by my waist and placed her foot behind my own.

  I leaped over her bent form, using her back as a springboard. My hands braced on the strong part of her back, bouncing off into a front handspring. I vaguely heard the surprised gasp around me, as I didn’t give her the time to react. I crouched down and spun my right leg, hooking her ankle, and swept her feet out from underneath her. She fell, twisting her body, landing with a loud thud. I leaped up to a fighting stance once more, bouncing, always moving.

  I watched as she tried to catch her breath on the mats. It sounded like she was trying to find her wind.

  “If you want to know what your opponent is going to do next, watch their hips,” I explained loudly. “I knew she wasn’t going to attack me with her fist or feet because she was charging me. Sometimes you have to use your rivals’ strengths against them. I know she’s a strong girl and could easily take me down, but I used my strengths to my advantage.”

  I heard whistles and clapping around me, but I kept my face impassive.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Burns was pissed when she rolled over and glowered at me. I allowed her to get up and saw that she had her hands up, covering her head and most of her midsection now. She wasn’t rushing me, so I knew I was back on the offense.

  I skipped in and quickly landed an ax kick to her shoulder, making sure my heel connected to her pressure point between her shoulder and neck. She swiped out to grab my foot, but I quickly pulled back, using my lead leg to land a push kick to her solar plexus.