Sweet Firecracker Read online

  Sweet Firecracker

  All rights reserved ©2017

  Cover by: Ravenborn @ https://www.selfpubbookcovers.com/Ravenborn

  Edited by: Covey Publishing, LLC

  ISBN:ISBN: 978-0-9977999-3-4

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Rules

  Betrayed

  Mack

  Gotcha

  Director

  The Past

  Intruders

  Trust and Doc

  Safe Room

  Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

  Memories

  Lindsay Phillips

  Help

  Taken

  Author Bio

  Blurb

  Melissa was a foster child and the daughter to one of the world's most dangerous agents in the world. At least, that what she announced to her current foster mother. The current boys in the foster home and friends, Dallon and Garrett shrugged her aside till she wiggled her way past their walls and stunned them. It was too bad that no one believed her until someone did...then she disappeared.

  All grown up, Dallon and Garrett are serving in the US Army and are now a part of an elite team of super soldiers sent on a secret mission. Someone has stolen the H-15 serum and they've gone hunting. Their team pursues a lead and discover it is linked to that little slip of a girl that they once knew and never forgot. But was she on the same side as them? That's not their only issue... the enhancements that the government gave them were inducing side effects. One's the team members hadn't counted on.

  Now with the capability to identify their mate, both Garrett and Dallon wanted one woman between them. They both wanted her.

  She fled, and they pursued, changing their lives forever.

  Rules

  Bath, Oklahoma

  Melissa

  Remember the rules. Remember the rules.

  It was the only thing that rushed through my eight-year-old mind as I struggled to forget what had happened the past few days.

  I sighed out a long and steady breath as I remembered rule number five. My father instilled all the rules in me at a young age. Keep quiet; breathe calmly. Panicking never helped a beating heart.

  So, that’s what I did when I saw the sprawling farmhouse with a red barn behind it and nothing but wide open spaces. Nowhere to hide.

  Rule number thirteen: When all you have is open space, use what’s around to blend into the surroundings.

  When my breathing hitched up, I once again focused, remaining calm. It wouldn’t be bad, I told myself. Maybe, just maybe, I’d fit in. I just had to remember the rules.

  We drove up to the farmhouse, and I remained seated as I took in the area.

  “Melissa, I’m going to talk to Mrs. Farnsworth for a minute before we get you settled, okay?” my caseworker, Mrs. Anderson, stated like it was an everyday occurrence.

  I glanced at her, met her eyes through the rearview mirror, and nodded. This apparently was an everyday occurrence in her life. She smiled, looking thrilled she got that much out of me. I didn’t talk much, if ever, and I never cried.

  Rule number two: Crying is a killer’s siren. I didn’t want to die, so I never cried.

  Satisfied with my acknowledgement, Mrs. Anderson got out of the car to talk to Mrs. Farnsworth, my new foster parent. I sighed and glanced back out my window to take in the area once again.

  A basketball hoop was set into the ground at the edge of the concrete driveway. Behind it, a vast, grassy area with two trees stretched up toward the front bedroom windows.

  I turned back to the front door and saw Mrs. Anderson talking to a large, motherly woman who stood on the porch. Every so often, she’d peek in my direction. Most likely Mrs. Farnsworth.

  Rule number four: Do not get comfortable; you’ll always end up running.

  After Mrs. Anderson talked a little bit to Mrs. Farnsworth, she walked back to the car. I opened my door before she could grasp the handle, and she stepped back, startled, but adjusted herself accordingly. As I climbed out, she then pressed the button on her keychain to pop the vehicle’s trunk where a black trash bag rested inside. It held all my clothes.

  I walked around to the back and reached inside the trunk for it but wasn’t quick enough as another hand grabbed the plastic bag before I could. My head shot up, meeting Mrs. Anderson’s narrowed gaze. I gave her one of my own and held out my hand, waiting for her to give it to me. I could get it myself. Given her age and the hand she held my bag in, I could easily press a spot on her right arm to make her drop it, but I chose not to.

  Rule number seven: Don’t, unless you have to.

  And I didn’t have to share my expertise with her. In fact, I shouldn’t. My father was a world-famous CIA agent. My mother was all about intel. But, I wasn’t supposed to know. It was a random break in they said. I knew better but never said anything. I gave them one word. One word I had been taught beyond all else.

  Uспорченный

  Help was supposed to come with that single word, but until then, rule ten remained in play: Trust no one.

  Mrs. Anderson’s lips pressed together, then turned downwards into a frown as she handed me my bag. “I was trying to help, sweetheart.”

  I protectively took it and nodded, acknowledging her words before I turned and made my way toward the porch. Less was better.

  The summer heat made the air sticky. The sun, now midway up in the sky, signaled that lunchtime was near, but it could have been the pangs deep within my stomach that really told me. Either way, I hoped Mrs. Farnsworth was a good cook.

  Treading with caution, I made my way up the porch toward my new foster parent. Her face, which was pinched with worry as I walked up the steps, now dissolved into a warm smile. “Hello, Melissa, I’m Emma Farnsworth. You can call me, Mrs. Farnsworth, but I much rather you call me Emma. It’s a lot easier to say then yelling out my last name all the time, don’t you think?”

  Her voice was soothing, her words filled with sincerity. I could tell when people were genuine from their tone and body language. He taught me that, but it didn’t matter. He took me in when my family was killed only to get killed himself. Another random break-in. I often wondered how many times the police could use that excuse until random became choreographed, perfectly planned.

  “Emma,” I answered her.

  I was almost sad for her. Would a random break-in happen here? Was I safe? I stayed quiet as the three of us entered the house, and she showed me to my room. Or the room I would be staying in.

  “There are three boys who also live here and another young girl like you. You and she will be sharing.”

  Two wooden, brown beds took up the center of the room. Each one sported a quilted, purple and green blanket. The bed on the left looked used with the blanket slightly rumpled, like someone slept in it recently. The one on the right, though, looked straightened and smooth. That one must be mine. I walked over to it and dropped my bag on the quilt, wrinkling the surface before I turned back to Emma.

  She glanced at Mrs. Anderson and then returned my smile. “The dresser beside the bed is yours.”

  I nodded once again, not ignoring her, but not talking, either.

  “Well,” Emma said cheerfully as her hands clasped together. “It’s almost lunchtime. I think I’ll get started on that.”

  Again, I nodded.

  My caseworker smiled at Emma. “I’m just going to have a brief talk with Melissa before I go. I’ll leave you with her paperwork.”

  “Sure.”

  With that, we were alone. I sat on my new bed, lo
oking down as I picked at a string that held part of the quilt together, unsure of what more my caseworker and I needed to talk about.

  She walked over and bent down beside me, putting her hand on my knee. “It’s only for a little while, Melissa, just until we can figure this all out.”

  “Uспорченный,” I whispered.

  “What?” she asked with surprise, leaning in closer.

  “Tell them, Uспорченный.”

  “What does that mean, Melissa?” She sighed. “You’ve told me this before. What language is that? I know you speak English. You’re American, but that’s not English.”

  “Russian,” I explained, giving up the only thing I could. “Uспорченный.”

  “I know, but what are you saying?”

  Peeking up, my heart pounded as I stared straight into her eyes. I stopped picking the string on the quilt. “It’s what I’ve been telling you all along. The police, the detectives, and you. Uспорченный. Tainted. Someone knows what it means. Someone understands. Don’t give up. Pass it along.”

  “Melissa,” her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes sharp, “Are you in the witness protection program? Are you hiding?”

  I pressed my lips together and looked back down as I pulled at the string once more. “Just pass it along.”

  She waited, but when I didn’t say anything more, she patted my knee and got up. “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll pass it along. I don’t know what good it will do, but I’ll pass it along.”

  Then she left, and I wondered how long until random crime visited here.

  A bell rang, and Emma’s loud voice yelled out on the porch, “Lunch time.”

  I ventured out of my room and followed the same path down the stairs toward the front living room. I didn’t know where the kitchen was, but soon I would. Later that night, I would know every inch of this house and all the possible exits: natural exits and self-made.

  Rule number eleven: When natural exits are blocked, windows, air vents, and chimney chute are always secondary options. Followed by rule number twelve: When you have nowhere to go, go up.

  The pounding of feet and voices came from outside, and my heart constricted. Not ready to meet anyone, I hid. I found the hall closet at the bottom of the stairs and ducked inside, listening to Emma and the other kids as they came in to eat.

  “. . .now, I don’t want any pranks on her. She’s really very shy.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t dare,” a boy’s voice spoke. He wasn’t sincere in his response. His tone held too much mirth and mischief.

  “You’re lying, Weston! I know that you and the others have been planning something in your little boys’ club!” a girl voiced.

  “Shut-up, Haven!”

  “Language, Seth!” Emma scolded.

  “Sorry, Emma.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  I could hear them getting closer. So close, I believed one stopped right outside the closet door. I silently backed behind the coats that hung overhead and sank down to make myself smaller. A girlish squeal sounded, followed by the shuffle of feet as two people stayed behind, and Emma’s voice floated farther away.

  “Don’t say anything. You’re getting adopted in a few weeks. If you want your last few days here to be prank free, you won’t say a word to her. Everyone goes through it here.”

  I heard a thump followed by an—

  “Ow…” the boy whined.

  “It’s no wonder Emma doesn’t get new kids. You three are horrible,” a girl announces.

  “We’re family.”

  She snorted and moved away. “You’re not even related, Aaron.”

  The boy named Aaron raised his voice. “And what do you call your adoption?”

  “Chosen,” she stated simply. Her voice carried as she walked away.

  Something hit the closet door, like a fist, and I jumped.

  Aaron whispered, “Someday, it will be real.”

  I stayed put a few minutes longer, making sure they both left before I slowly opened the door. Aaron’s secret wish was not possible, but somehow, he believed it.

  I wandered until I found the kitchen. A long countertop taking up most of the back wall curved into an island, a window above the sink, and a table in the middle where I met the four kids living there. They were unexpected.

  The girl, Haven, was around my age. The three guys were older, almost teenagers, and threatening. Emma sat at the head of the table with Haven seated next to her on the side closest to me. The two chairs on her left remained empty. I took the spot right next to Haven. On the opposite side, that was a different story as all the boys’ eyes met mine. I folded my arms and narrowed my gaze, not backing down.

  They put their heads together and started to whisper rudely between themselves.

  “Melissa! I’m so glad you made it down here.” Emma smiled. “Once I had them settled, I was going to get you.”

  I nodded, turning my attention to her. My stomach growled, but I never showed the emotion.

  The guys laughed, and Emma shushed them as she got up, went to the counter, then came back with my plate. “Here ya go. A turkey sandwich with cheese, lettuce, and tomato.”

  When she placed my lunch, I wrinkled my nose at the tomatoes.

  The other girl smiled my way as she lifted a hand to brush her blonde hair out of her brown eyes, then gave me a small wave and introduced herself. “I’m Haven.”

  I looked toward her as I picked apart my sandwich. “Melissa.”

  “You have beautiful, black hair.” Her comment made me pause because my hair wasn’t black. There were some snickers from the other side of the table.

  I turned to her with a frown. “My hair’s red.”

  “Haven,” Emma softly reprimanded.

  She turned to Emma and nodded, then smiled at me. “I know.”

  She continued to eat. I wrinkled my brow, not understanding.

  Emma sat again and nodded to the boys. “Seth, Aaron, and Weston here are good helpers.” Haven snorted. “If you need help, you can ask any one of them.”

  “Hi, Melissa,” said the brown haired, blue eyed boy named Seth. Aaron, the boy with brown hair and green eyes who sat beside him elbowed him in his side, causing him to groan. “Ah! Jeez, Aaron!” he yelled, pushing him back.

  “Melissa,” Weston murmured as he studied me with brown eyes, eating quickly beside Aaron.

  “Boys!” Emma reprimanded.

  Aaron and Seth froze.

  “Yes, ma’am?” all three of them questioned together, synchronized as if they were one person.

  It was unusual.

  “Behave.”

  “Yes, Emma.” Again, together.

  Weston finished his lunch and sat back. He looked to the other two, and after a second, he nodded then turned to Emma. “Can Dallon and Garrett sleep over? We want to sleep in the tree house.”

  “And so, it begins,” Haven muttered.

  I ignored Weston, Seth, and Aaron, or Troublesome Three as I decided to name them, for the rest of the afternoon until I saw their friends Dallon and Garrett. Now, they looked like they were up to no good, so I decided to be preemptive. They weren’t going to mess with me. I’d keep them busy. After a quick layout of the house and a short walk around the outside, I found their little tree house with a very large sign that said, ‘Boys Only.’

  I visited the kitchen and got what I needed.

  The first night they didn’t get to any pranks because they were too busy trying to get the burning out of their eyes. Someone should have told them there was ground Cayenne pepper in their pillow cases.

  I slept under my bed.

  The second night, I found nails in the garage, left over by the late Mr. Farnsworth, and while the guys slept off the Benadryl I slipped into their chocolate milk during dinner, I nailed them in. It was a good thing I could pick locks and knew what I was looking for. I was familiar with that medicine. Haven peeked outside our window and saw me, but she never said a thing.

 
; The third night, I let them be, and Dallon and Garrett went home. They had their sleeping bags in hand, ready to head out the door, when I walked past. They both glowered at me, letting me know they knew who had been the culprit of their pain.

  I looked away with a small smile.

  The week Haven left was the most peaceful of them all. The Troublesome Three never gave up on me. No, I was just good at avoidance.

  Rooftops were a great place to sleep. I always kept a spare set of clothes hidden under my mattress, and I wore my shoes to bed. I learned that lesson the first time my family was attacked. It’s easier to escape when you can readily run. What I didn’t plan for was Weston, Seth, and Aaron to find out where I slept at night.

  So, when I woke up early in the morning two weeks later to find the window that I used to get onto the roof locked, I walked across the roofline to their room and knocked.

  A very tired and cranky Garrett pushed open the glass, not surprised.

  “Truce?” he asked, holding out a hand. The others sat up in bed, looking toward us.

  Glancing back to him, I took his hand and agreed, “Truce.”

  Instead of dismissing me, they brought me into their fold. I became one of them. I had friends. Dallon and Garrett, though, became my closest ones above all else. They understood me even though they weren’t foster children.

  I got comfortable. I got careless. I let secrets go.

  ***

  “Now, you knead the dough just like so,” Emma explained as she showed me how to make bread. “We want to get all the air out and let the yeast activate.”

  “Why?” I asked, curious. I’d never made bread before.

  “Because yeast helps it to rise, honey.”

  “Then what?”

  “We set it out and let it be. It will get twice the size as it is now.” She leaned in and whispered like she was telling me a secret, “That’s when you know it’s done and ready to be put in the oven.”

  I smiled, my hands deep within the dough. I liked her. I liked the boys, too. Then, I frowned. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to them. Maybe… Maybe, if Emma knew, she could prepare. I paused and shot my gaze toward hers.

  When she noticed my change in mood, she asked, “What’s the frown for, honey?”