The Extraction of Parker Foley: Mind Warriors, #1

By R. Chris Wells

Parker Foley is your ordinary twelve-year-old kid, that is, except for his ability to move objects with his mind. When evil government agents discover Parker's secret talent, Parker finds himself running for his life into a world he never knew existed. Will Parker escape the clutches of the shadowy "Department" agents and make it to Mind Academy before its too late?

 

Find out in this exciting beginning to the Mind Warriors series of novels!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sola Kids Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201311803

Book preview

1

The late summer sun beat down on twelve-year-old Parker Foley like a red-hot anvil. His curly red hair felt like a used mop on his head and his freckled cheeks burned.

It was the first game of the cruel and unusual punishment Yarmouth City Parks and Recreation liked to call Youth League Soccer, and Parker was already regretting his decision to play.

You need to play, son, Gramma Lois had said to him three weeks earlier, sitting on the navy blue sofa in the middle of her double-wide trailer, looking like an extra-large dollop of mashed potatoes. Her flabby arms swayed as she gestured to him. You need to lose that baby fat! Too much blueberry pie!

Parker loved his grandmother—and her pie.

But that stung.

He turned away and looked out the window of the mobile home. He hated this place. He missed his old life with his mom and dad. How long had it been now? Three years now without them? It felt like an eternity.

His grandmother Lois had taken him in after the boating accident on Sebago Lake outside of Standish, Maine, but she was the exact opposite of his mother. His mom had had a penchant for order and cleanliness. His grandmother, on the other hand, was something of a hoarder and the tiny mobile home where she lived on the outskirts of Yarmouth made him want to jump out of his skin.

The August air was so humid he could barely see outside. Somewhere past the drippy haze of the window, a hummingbird darted by.

He turned back.

I don’t wanna, Gramma. I’d rather do band. Something. Give me a tuba. A piccolo. Anything but soccer. He turned back and met her pale blue eyes. I hate sports.

You hate sports? She crossed her arms and lifted her triple chin. What you need is some exercise.

What you need is to stop badgering me, he mumbled under his breath.

What did you say?

He sent his gaze downward at the vinyl oak-colored flooring. He could feel his face growing hot.

Bah! Gramma exclaimed, To think that I gave up moving to Aruba to take care of someone…

Oh no not Aruba again, Parker thought.

… so ungrateful. I could be living out my retirement in peace and quiet. Sunbathing every day on the pearly white sand—

It was nothing, Parker said. I’m sorry. He knew he would never win if Gramma started guilt-tripping him. He continued to stare at the floor.

She leaned forward, her enormous bulk making her look like Jabba the Hut. Okay. I forgive you, she said, But know this, if I let you let yourself go, you are going to look just like your father used to.

Parker turned away. She really knew how to dig in the knife. He could feel the red splotches already forming at his neck. He turned back, fists clenched at his sides.

Fine. I’ll do it on one condition.

And what’s that?

Stop comparing me to Dad. I’m me. Not him.

Three weeks later and here he was. Midfield. Playing for the Crushers. With his hands on his knees ready to lose his cookies. He had basically been about zero help to his team this entire game.

Sure, he had passed the ball a few times and crossed midfield a healthy two dozen times. But besides that, he was basically the team’s weakest link. A spot to fill after Aidan Phillips hurt his foot skateboarding. Nothing more.

His head throbbed, his baby blue Crushers jersey was now a deep navy, and the sweat poured down his forehead like he had been in a dunk tank. If only he could get a glass of Gatorade. Just one cup.

Maybe Gramma was right. Maybe he needed to lose some baby fat. Maybe he did need to lay off the blueberry pie.

Parker wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

For a moment, he observed the grass underneath him and the way the white spray paint had bleached its sharp fronds.

Just then a fiery pain shot through his back in a star-shaped pattern.

Come on, Porker!

Parker snapped to attention. Turning, he saw the source of the slap.

Vince Sansonetti. The team’s star forward. That chump.

The tan dark-haired boy ran by him. He turned and glanced back at Parker with beady eyes.

Porker, we’re gonna lose this thing cuz of you! Hop to it!

Then, he was gone, growing smaller and smaller as he ran ahead.

Parker’s nostrils flared. His back still felt like it was on fire. Vince Sansonetti. He spat on the ground.

Parker made fists and narrowed his eyes. It was 1-1. Maybe eight minutes left. They could do this.

The Jaguars had the ball, their bright green and white striped jerseys moved in a wave as the ball began to come his way.

He took a deep breath and pulled out his soccer shorts wedgie. It was time to show those Jaguars—and Vince Sansonetti—what Parker Foley was made of. He forced the thought of delicious orange Gatorade out of his mind and began to move towards the flow of the ball.

Several yards ahead of him, a tall and lanky red-head sporting a Number 7 green and white jersey dribbled the ball, weaving right and then left—directly in the path of Sansonetti.

Parker’s eyes watched him closely as he held his zone tight.

Just as Vince tried to steal the ball, Number 7 did an epic spin, leaving Vince stunned and cursing.

He continued up the field and passed the ball to Number 5, a short stocky kid with a buzz cut. This guy was small, but he looked bad to the bone. His eyes blazed with an intensity he hadn’t seen in the other players. This was a kid on a mission.

His wide-set eyes locked onto Parker as if to say, You’re mine. Then, he charged forward with a burst of speed, sweat flying off his hair like a dog shaking himself after a bath. Parker hadn’t done much all game, so he reasoned that this kid didn’t expect too much from the Crushers’ Lucky Number 4.

As soon as Number 5 came in range, Parker shot toward the ball, stretching his chubby leg outward.

Pop!

Miraculously, Parker connected with the ball and sent it flying. It bounced on the turf ten yards in front of him.

Parker’s eyes widened. Had that really just happened?

The crowd erupted.

The Jaguars’ defensive players, who had been playing aggressively all game, had pulled up too far. Parker couldn’t believe it. An open field and defenseless ball was the only thing that stood between Parker and the goal.

Parker took off.

Get ‘em, Porker! came the annoying high-pitched voice of Vince Sansonetti from behind.

Parker blocked out his rival’s cry, focusing his entire attention on the ball that was scooting along the grass like a possessed weasel.

He overtook the ball and tapped it forward. He tapped it again, dribbling toward the goal. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot.

The Jaguars’ goalie danced on the balls of his feet, his hands outstretched, his bright hunter orange jersey distinguishing him from the other players.

Ahhhh! Parker cried like a soldier charging an enemy line. He pounded his chubby legs as hard as they possibly could go. Hot fire blazed in his thighs. His lungs burned with every gasping breath.

He feigned right, did what he thought in his mind was a juke move—though he imagined it probably looked more like a wiggle. He pulled his leg back to kick the ball and—

WHAM!

The next thing Parker knew he was tumbling, hurdling sideways, the sky and the ground trading places so quickly it made him want to throw up. Then, at long last, his right shoulder slammed into the turf.

A dull ache spread throughout his entire right side.

Ughhhh... he cried.

Behind him, a whistle blew, and he could make out the crowd booing in the distance.

Is he alright?

Is he dead?

Number 5 is such a punk.

Porker!

Parker opened his eyes. For a brief second, everything was a blur. Then, ever so slowly, forms began to take shape.

A mustached face stared down at him. Can you hear me?

Yes, Parker said blinking. Yes, I can hear you. He slowly sat up, feet outstretched. He exhaled and blinked several times. His right shoulder burned like crazy.

Now, he really wanted a Gatorade.

You took a rough hit, kid, said mustached face that Parker now realized was the referee. You get a penalty kick.

A penalty what?

A penalty kick. You’ve been fouled, so you get a chance to kick a goal. Can you stand?

I... I think so.

Good, if you can stand, take your place, and we’ll set you up. He gestured to the place Parker needed to stand, about 12 yards from the goal. A black and white soccer ball sat there like a planet suspended in space.

How much time was left? They had been playing for quite a while now. Parker tried to figure it up in his head and frowned. Probably only a minute or two left, which meant the game was going to come down to him.

Great.

Wincing and rubbing at his shoulder, Parker hobbled to the place where the ball lay. This was going to be bad. He could feel it.

You got this, Porker! came a voice to his left—Vince’s voice.

Parker barely noticed. All he could think about was the pit that was forming in his stomach. He could already taste vomit beginning to rise up his throat. The game was going to come down to him. He couldn’t believe it.

And worst of all—he had the most inconsistent shot on the team by far.

He glanced at his teammates, lining up beside him, their pale faces revealing exactly how they felt in this moment.

Just as worried.

He stole a glance at the Jaguars on his right.

Number 5 cracked his knuckles and smiled. Yellow teeth grinned back at Parker. No remorse at all.

Parker took a deep breath and glanced up at the stands. Soccer moms in their white capris and baby blue Crusher shirts. Dads in golf polos and khaki shorts. Little kids running too and fro like squirrels on Mountain Dew. The city had even brought the news out for the event—a reporter leaned over the fence watching intently in a navy-blue blazer and black sunglasses, a cameraman flanking his side with long greasy hair.

Parker gulped. So much pressure.

And there not five feet away from the camera crew sat Gramma on her red mechanical scooter. She waved both arms frantically as she cheered.

For a moment, Parker thought she looked like a giant manta ray flapping its wings in an ocean of people.

Parker smiled. He could do this.

The ref blew his whistle.

The goalie bounced on his feet, ready to dodge left or leap right.

"Prepare