Guardian: Through the eyes of a warrior

By John Orlen

Based on real-life experiences. The Guardian follows John, a respected private security specialist and martial artist. After 20-plus years of guarding executives and working in night clubs, John contemplates retirement until someone close to home needs his service. The path between peace and the fight for his life begins…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BooxAi
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9789655785654

Book preview

PROLOGUE

In the early evening's embrace, Boston revealed its soul-transforming magic. The sky, a canvas of brilliant hues transitioning from the fiery orange of sunset to the deepening blues of twilight, painted a masterpiece above. The warm sun cast its golden glow, caressing the city with its fading warmth. The air, crisp and invigorating, whispered secrets of impending change. Amidst this enchanting setting, the faint yet unmistakable scent of leaves carried a promise: autumn was on the brink. In that fleeting moment, as daylight yielded to the tender embrace of dusk, Boston held its breath, ready to unveil the mysteries that nightfall would bring.

Connor Mitchell navigated the cracked sidewalks of Benjamine Drive, his small hands expertly steering a remote-control toy car. Living under his grandmother's roof had its peculiar advantages, most notably the absence of curfews upon his return from school. At this hour, his grandmother would likely be deep in a boozy slumber on the living room couch, blissfully oblivious to his whereabouts. Benjamine Drive was Connor's sanctuary, an oasis of personal freedom, far removed from the mother who had forsaken him, the father he'd never met, and a grandmother whose affections were eclipsed by her devotion to a bottle of Scotch.

The treasured toy car that was his source of joy had been a gift from his grandmother's neighbor, a small gesture of goodwill extended to a lonely child bereft of friends in the neighborhood. Mitchel's swift, agile legs propelled him past the weathered shops that lined the street. Most of them were abandoned, and the ones that were not were too busy trying to scrap every dollar to care about a child playing with a toy on the streets. 

In a matter of moments, Mitchel arrived at the long-abandoned bakery, a site where he has attempted countless high-speed trials and daring maneuvers with his beloved toy.

Connor directed his steps to the rear of the bakery, where a broken window had long provided an illicit point of entry. The main door remained stubbornly locked, but the fractured pane offered him unfettered access to his secret hideaway. Inside, he placed his bag and toy car with deliberate care, preparing for another adrenaline-charged session of make-believe racing.

As he manipulated the controls, mimicking the high-octane scenes from his favorite racing movies, an unexpected sound shattered his cocoon of solitude. It was a noise distinct from the familiar whirring of the toy's rotors and his own triumphant chuckles. Connor froze, his eyes narrowing as his ears followed the source of the unsettling sound. 

In the eerie shadows of the storage room, an ominous voice whispered through the darkness. It bore the weight of adulthood, a somber tone that beckoned Mitchel to flee, but the curiosity of a child kept him rooted in place. His innocent gaze remained fixed on the dimly lit hallway leading to the storage room as if anticipating a mysterious presence emerging from the abyss. Was it real or a figment of his imagination? Mitchell pondered. His grandmother often uttered incoherent sentences in her sleep, memories she never retained upon waking. Could this disembodied voice be a mere phantom, a specter conjured by his young mind? He was six years old, after all, far too wise to be beguiled by tales of monsters lurking in the dark. Or so he thought.

The voice faded into silence, and Mitchel breathed a sigh of relief, convinced it had been a mere figment of his imagination. His attention returned to the cherished toy car before him, but his relief was short-lived. A sudden intrusion disrupted his solitude, a grating voice that cut through the shadows.

What are you doing here? the voice demanded, sending a shiver down Mitchel's spine.

Turning slowly, Mitchel's eyes met the gaze of three imposing figures who had materialized from the inky darkness. A profound unease gripped him as he beheld their stern countenances, far from friendly. The leader of the trio, clad in a sharp suit, crisp blue shirt, and black jeans, stood at the forefront, exuding an air of authority. His two companions dressed more casually, bore an unsettling resemblance to the figures in the rap videos Mitchel had occasionally glimpsed on MTV.

I... I came to play with my toy, Mitchel stammered, his voice quivering.

Kids, one of the others scoffed, dismissing him with a wave. Let's bounce and leave him to his play.

You're insane? He's seen our faces, probably been spying on us for a while, witnessed us with the coke and heard all we've said, the best-dressed man hissed, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. Do you comprehend what a DA can do with that in court?

The third man, the most compassionate of the trio, addressed Mitchel directly. Yo, homie, grab your gear and bounce, right? You ain't seen or heard Jack squat around here, you feel me?

Yes, sir, Mitchell replied. He didn’t understand all the languages spoken, but he figured they were telling him to leave. His legs trembled, but he willed them to support him. These men, looming ominously before him, were not to be trifled with.

With hurried, shaky hands, Mitchel collected his belongings, cradling his precious toy car close. He made a frantic dash for the window, hoping to quickly squeeze his small frame through the narrow opening that had initially granted him access. As he sprinted, his heart pounding like a captive beast, he became aware of the ominous sound of footsteps trailing him.

Stop, the well-dressed man commanded, his voice dripping with authority. Mitchel recognized him as the leader, his voice evoking terror in the young boy.

Frozen in place, Mitchel slowly turned, facing the three formidable figures. I'm going for the window, sir, he finally managed to articulate.

Why? the leader inquired.

I came in through there, sir. The door is always locked.

The well-dressed man cracked a paternal smile. You're a little rascal, you know that? Already breaking and entering at your age? Alright, you won't have to go through the window. I'll open the front door for you.

Thank you, sir, Mitchel responded, his voice filled with gratitude and fear.

The well-dressed man led the way to the front door, and Mitchel trailed behind, flanked by the two others. Even in the faint light that filtered into the room, Mitchel's wide-eyed gaze darted between the menacing trio, his heart threatening to escape its confines.

As the well-dressed man retrieved a key from his pocket to unlock the front steel door, Mitchel's gaze caught a glint of something on his hip. It flashed briefly before the man adjusted his suit, concealing whatever it was.

Is that a medal? Mitchel wondered; his curiosity was aroused.

He yearned for another glance, but the well-dressed man swiftly ushered him toward the exit. Run along, kiddo, the man urged, his lips curling into a sinister smile.

Thank you, sir, Mitchel replied, his voice quivering.

With the speed and grace of a gazelle, Mitchel bolted from the room, sprinting as though his life depended on it. He had scarcely covered a mere five paces when a deafening sound reverberated through the air. An unbearable pain seared through his back, draining his energy as he tumbled to the ground. A guttural grunt escaped from someone's lips, though Mitchel couldn't discern whether it was him or one of the men behind him.

What just happened?

Everything grew dim, his struggle to keep his eyes open proving futile. But one final thought pierced the darkness.

That wasn't a medal on his hip, you fool. It was a gun.

The thought was in his grandmother's slurred voice, the last remnants of consciousness before Mitchel succumbed to the grasp of unconsciousness.

CHAPTER ONE

Lorenzo Caruso snared at the feeble aged man trembling in front of him once again. Some ten years back, he would have considered letting him live, but today, he knew he would enjoy seeing life drain out of him. Lorenzo sucked his teeth, failing terribly to get the piece of steak that was stuck between his premolars once again. He had eaten the meat hurriedly that night before coming on this mission. Now, his gapped tooth was harboring a piece that was making him uncomfortable.

I swear, I’d open the safe if I knew the combination. The feeble man squirmed.

A cracking sound sent the man flying down the linoleum floor of the jewel store. The source was a slap from the hand of Austine Hyde. He was Lorenzo's right-hand man and executioner. 

Both Lorenzo and Austine had spent the better part of the previous week casing the jewel store. It was a small shop called Beacon Gems & Jewels. It had been around for the most part of two decades, and almost everyone in Back Bay Boston knew that the shop was just a pawn shop that bought wedding rings and cheap necklaces from people in need of quick cash before flipping them for some profit. Normally, it wouldn’t have been a target to hit. However, Lorenzo received credible info from a source that the shop was going to be used to store a cocaine shipment for the Brothers in Arms, a rival gang in Boston. 

After three days of careful observation, they had Regan Ford's – the seventy-five year old feeble man - routine down. At the crack of dawn, between seven thirty and eight in the morning, he unlocked the shop. He'd then eat his fast-food breakfast amidst the trinkets. Customers, if any, came and went till twelve-thirty when he left for lunch. He'd return, stay till eleven at night, and then lock up for his solitary walk home.

Now inside the shop, a warm glow cascaded from antique chandeliers that dangled like crystalline memories. The air was dense with nostalgia, an amalgamation of decades-old stories and the echo of bygone laughter. Mahogany shelves, kissed by a fading velvet lining, stood like faithful sentinels, guarding what would once have been shining jewelry with a whispered promise to keep their tales alive. Wedding bands, each a circle of promises exchanged under different skies, lay nestled beside pearls worn by flappers who had danced with abandon in Jazz Age ballrooms. Pocket watches that had ticked through war and peace stood beside brooches that had adorned lapels during moments of triumph and defeat. An array of heirlooms, each carrying a fragment of history, glistened softly in the hushed ambiance. The view of the empty street lay beyond the clear glass door that had the sign closed and hanging from it. The trio in the shop were behind the heavy wooden counter where no eyes could see them. Regan had switched off the major lights when Lorenzo and Austine forced their way in. 

I’ll ask once again, Regan, to open this safe now. Mind you, I can crack it open myself, but it will take time. Time which I do not have. However, if you make me waste time cracking that safe, I’ll crack you open too. Lorenzo said in a dark tone that conveyed that he wasn’t joking. 

Regan Ford shuddered in his pants, his legs vibrating like working jackhammers. They’d kill me if I did. They forced me to keep it here in the first place and warned me that they’d kill me if any of it went missing.

I am the one here now, and I’ll kill you if you do not open that safe! Lorenzo replied. 

Regan’s sob broke into a cry. I’m sorry, I can’t, he said, his voice trembling and croaky. 

He is wasting time, and the cops could be on their way anytime from now, Austine whispered to Lorenzo. 

Lorenzo aimed the colt .45 he held in his left hand at Regan’s temple. He fired once and watched his target freeze briefly before slumping down dead. 

How long before you can get the safe opened? Lorenzo asked. 

It’s one of those antique jewelry safes. I figure about thirty minutes, give or take.

"You have twenty. I want to be out of here before the cops arrive. 

Lorenzo's longing for a cigarette sent a deep itching coursing through his throat, but he wrestled his craving under control, resisting the urge to snatch one of the dual-filtered cigarettes from the pack nestled in his pocket. If his stint behind bars had taught him anything, it was the pivotal lesson that any haphazardly abandoned item left at the scene of a crime could transform into a telltale trace that pointed right at the culprits. The fact that he had spent over forty tense minutes inside the jewelry store weighed heavily on his nerves. The situation in itself was perilous, and if the sequence of events deviated even slightly from his meticulously crafted plan, law enforcement's sirens could soon be wailing. His quiet confidence came from the fact that he had executed Regan Ford with a silenced firearm, eliminating the chance of a gunshot being the catalyst for a swift police response.

Beyond the soft, methodical sounds of Austine's deft fingers dancing over the safe's intricate mechanism, the night clung to silence like a shroud over a grave. Lorenzo was on the brink of inquiring about Austine's progress in cracking the safe when a sudden burst of flashing light sliced through the darkness, causing him to narrow his eyes in bewilderment.

What the hell? he muttered to himself, his body tensing like a coiled spring. Reacting to instinct, he surged to his feet, the gun clenched firmly in his hand, and bolted toward the door. Yet, midway through his dash, a rational thought sliced through the adrenaline haze. Was recklessly advancing toward the source of light a wise move? Logic argued against it, but there was no way to retract his impulsive burst now.

The street lay as deserted as a stage after the final act, save for a lone stray cat skulking in the shadows. So, what could have cast that glaring light? Thunder perhaps? Yet, it was an abnormally arid night for an October summer. No, it couldn't be summer. Lorenzo's mind was still untangling the enigma of the light's origin when the distinctive hum of a car engine seized his attention. A 2002 Toyota Corolla in a shade of blue hummed to life, its engine growling with determination as it accelerated away from the scene, heading in the opposite direction.

Lorenzo's eyes were fixated on