Turbulence: Book One in The Renegades Saga

by E. M. Whittaker

  Travis couldn’t hate a criminal if they resembled his inner self—tormented with questions and plagued by half-hidden truths and answers.

  The gratitude and hopefulness faded when Travis stepped outside, eyes deadening at Peters’ silver Ford Focus parked in front of the shop. A warm hand patted his pocket and Travis held his breath, feeling the deep imprint of Q’s fingers on the barrel of his gun. No matter the story he weaved, Travis prepared for a tongue lashing.

  Lyssa, give me strength to deal with Peters. I don’t need chastising and I’m losing patience with these assholes.

  Peters honked the horn and rolled down the window, waving Travis in his direction.

  Travis advanced, creeping to the Focus. He slid the Blackberry in his hand, fiddling with the device while he made his way into the tiny car. Cramped between small seats and minute headroom, Travis checked his voicemail notifications and grimaced, deleting transcribed messages from the director.

  Mye may tamper with the evidence, but I doubt it, he thought. She’s eager to solve the case for answers and a halfhearted dream.

  “Here.” Peters dropped a Glock 22 in Travis’ lap, along with spare ammunition. “Hearing your encounter with Sanderson's associate was painful. I can't believe he crushed your Eagle.”

  Q’s flinty gray eyes haunted Travis. Pushing the memory away, he set the Glock and ammunition on the floor. Then he pulled his coat away, revealing the spare to Peters. “Lyssa bought me two. I’ll call a—”

  “Don’t bother. No one can repair crushed metal.” Peters gruff tone erected a barrier between them. “Tell me how you started working for Sanderson. I can’t access certain parts of their database and both the director and Sanderson told me conflicting stories.”

  Travis closed his eyes and contemplated, unsure where to start. The memories the men shared remained jaded and the story tread on forbidden discussion. When Travis blinked, Peters sneered, then typed hard against the iPad’s touchscreen.

  “Lyssa.” Travis’ voice softened to a husky tone. “It started with Lyssa. Three years ago, they got me.”

  The iPad screen cracked when Peters’ fist slammed against it a few times. “Then? So you served them in the precinct, too?”

  “They stopped my trial—got me reinstated and charges expunged. I transferred to the county precinct, but my reputation—well, you know the story, Shawn. You accused me of murder until I showed you proof.”

  “I remember,” Peters said, voice low. Coffee-colored eyes darkened at their shared traumatic experience. “I wondered how you got off.”

  “Shawn, you still think—”

  “No.”

  Travis noticed Peters’ tense expression and his clenched fist, watching Peters play with his sunglasses to avoid meeting Travis’ eyes. A minute later, the specialist spoke, keeping his voice low.

  “My sister—she—well. I can’t discredit the strange circumstances, Keith. Especially after hearing you went rogue. How you enjoyed your—other job.”

  “Neither did the precinct. No matter the evidence, they arrested me until the Renegades.”

  “Yeah, that pissed me off—considering I got your ass fired.”

  Shit. If Peters is telling the truth—no, Keith. Remember partners, not friends. Peters placated me… I need to be careful.

  “Remind me never to cross your bad side. But the same can apply now.”

  “At the time, I thought—”

  “Two years, the Renegades needed a cleaner against their mage enemies and noticed my record. I wasn’t interested, but they didn’t get the hint after killing three high-ranked operatives.”

  “So why am I involved?” Peters asked in a subdued voice, nursing his hand. “When did you become a hitman? Jesus, Keith—”

  “Shawn, I almost escaped. That’s why Sanderson pulled you. Speaking of which—” Travis read the time on the Blackberry and his stomach growled. “I thought Sanderson put you on house arrest.”

  “The director called me in,” Peters answered, squeezing his palm. “How long will Sanderson—”

  “You don’t escape. Most are forced to serve until death.” Sound cackled into Travis’ earpiece. "Mye’s in the same boat, though." He adjusted the device in his ear to hear her conversation. “Hang on, Mye’s talking. It’s garbled, though.”

  The warm metal wedged in Travis’ pocket reminded him about the upgraded earpiece and he handed it to Peters.

  “Get this to work with our system, Peters. I placed the bug inside Mye’s purse through a little hole in the inside lining, so she shouldn’t find it even if she empties her purse, but forgot about the earpiece while I prayed for a safe drive.”

  A sinister snicker made Travis glare at his partner. “And I missed it, Travis.”

  “You’d be nervous after seeing a woman evade cops on I-295 with reckless maneuvers, Shawn.”

  Garbled speech pierced Travis’ ear, but the agent tried deciphering the conversation. After several sentences, Travis removed the defective object, tapping his foot while Peters hummed under his breath, calibrating the device to his equipment. He noticed Peters flip between the iPad, the earpiece and a software program at a rapid pace, comfortable with multitasking under intense pressure.

  “Hurry up, will you?”

  “It’s calibrated, Travis. Jesus, conversation can't be that interesting.” The specialist handed the earpiece to Travis, glowering as the mage snorted under his breath. “What is it?”

  As soon as the earpiece nestled inside Travis’ ear, once garbled conversation rang like soft melodic music. “Sanderson’s equipment works, Peters. They're coming in loud and clear.”

  He balled a fist to stop rancorous laughter and pressed two fingers to his ear, muttering under his breath. “Ah huh… gotcha.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  Travis filtered through conversation between Mye and her mage—Limere, he told himself, wondering who named them. “Nothing substantial yet. Normal conversation between brother and sister.”

  “I wanted to warn you about Mye’s brothers. They’re high on the bounty list. The shifter’s only a B-rank, but the mage is an S-rank. We’d make enough money to retire once—”

  Travis’ shrewd glare stopped Peters’ sentence. “Never suggest bounty hunting, Shawn.”

  “I didn’t mention you!” Peters exclaimed. “I meant Limere Dalara—the mage!”

  “Offing Mye’s brother would damper our delicate working relationship.”

  Peters grumbled under his breath. “Since when do you care? You don't even like partnering with me.”

  “I don’t, Peters. You’re good at working on computers and finding out information… even getting people fired. But on the field, you suck—and I can’t wait for payback.”

  Drawing slow steady breaths, Travis focused on Aviere’s womanly voice, young and vibrant without the steely undertone reserved for him. While pleasant in his ear, the siblings’ conversation was laced with normal topics. No incrimination—no threats—not even an argument between them.

  A minute later, Limere objected to one of Aviere’s questions, triggering the argument Travis anticipated.

  There are more important things to worry about then bitching about their new hiding place. You can set up a base of operations anywhere.

  Travis straightened in his seat and coughed as Peters sped down the street. At the same time, Limere reported to Aviere through snippets of complaints, giving Travis valuable information. Before he forgot the myriad of details, the agent accessed the Blackberry’s email application, trying to type on the tiny built-in keyboard.

  Jesus, I’ll never get used to texting. How do young people use these phones?

  Road rage and vicious swearing faded as Travis absorbed Limere’s details. Frustrated, he shoved the device in his pocket, opting for the cracked iPad screen instead. Cautious about the jagged glass, Travis put in the passcode and used the note application, successfully typing the leaked information.

  After recording a few names,
poisons, and locations for research, the Focus stopped in a dark alleyway and Peters turned off the headlights.

  “What did you find out, Travis?”

  “Check the last few dossiers we’ve worked on. Dalara’s mentioned quite a few things. I’m more amused at Mye’s tantrum about caution, though. Bitch told her best friend, yet she tells me I’m a liability.”

  The specialist grunted. “You are.”

  “She wants to go racing this evening.”

  Peters snorted before shaking his head. “You’re—wait. You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No.”

  Travis typed again after Aviere’s tirade, snickering at the fluctuating pitches. At one point, he swore her voice reached soprano before going to its normal tone. Items crashed, things rustled, and the computer beeped in the same succession of errors.

  She’s having a rough time, but I need to prepare. Mye won’t wait for me, even though I asked.

  The iPad jerked from Travis’ hands when he stopped typing and Peters whistled. “My, my. All our dead people, down to substances the toxicologists confirmed.”

  “All within the last few victims, including their details in the dossier.” As Aviere continued to chastise her brother, Travis waved his hand and rolled his eyes. “Damn it… okay, Peters. Write down formaldehyde, too.”

  “The hell does formaldehyde have to do with—”

  “It seems Mye and Dalara have been investigating the hierarchy’s deaths longer than us, but formaldehyde—” The popping sound on the iPad’s screen stopped Travis’ analysis. After a few sentences appeared on the screen, the agent groaned. “I don’t think they rigged anything to explode, Peters. But I can ask Mye… if I remember later.”

  The sneer returned to Peters’ face. “You don't trust her.”

  “Don’t get the wrong idea. It's not an ideal arrangement, her and I.”

  “If she’s taking off again, I guess I can handle the reports. But you’re not racing in my Focus.”

  Travis pulled out the silver key Q handed him, fighting the churning in his stomach and crashing fatigue. “Someone in the organization hooked me up with a vehicle. Can you take me to pick it up?”

  “Where the hell does Sanderson—”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Silence suited Travis as he stared hard at the number taped to the key. He straightened his back and cracked his neck, cramp relieved. Clumsy fingers retrieved another cell and dialed the numbers in the skinny Motorola flip phone, flinching at the rough voice. “Yeah, I need a vehicle.”

  Peters waved his hand in a circular motion, rolling his eyes at Travis flexing his fingers.

  “I don’t care what kind of Corvette it is, man. The only requirement is speed. I need to chase a street racer and she keeps taking off on me.” The agent’s demeanor changed when the mechanic on the other line agreed to his request. “Where are you located?”

  The iPad’s GPS application flashed across the screen and Peters placed the damaged device in Travis’ lap. Travis nudged the phone in between his face and shoulder, typing in the address. “Yeah, I got it. Thanks. See you around seven thirty.”

  “So?”

  “The dude sounds like he smokes a pack a day,” Travis remarked, flipping the phone closed. “But it’s a few miles away from her shop. Let’s grab lunch and enjoy some downtime before we’re scattered again. Mye’s hanging low till about eight.”

  “How long’s it been since you drove, Travis?”

  “Eh.” Travis ran a hand along his neck, glancing at the ceiling to calculate. “Can’t remember. I didn’t need to drive before.”

  “So what prompted this change of heart?” Peters started the car, slapping his hand against the steering wheel. “I tried persuading you for years to get a car. Even Lyssa—”

  “Mye demanded, and she escapes at first opportunity.” Travis withheld a wince, remembering the motion sickness and disgust at his method of transportation. “She’s determined to keep her night job.”

  “This is amusing, Keith,” Peters marveled, chuckling with a sarcastic undertone. “A hellcat convinced you to become a commuter.”

  “Drive, Peters. Knowing my luck, I’ll get a ticket while Mye brushes past with no consequences.”

  “If you put that kind of effort into your day job, you’d earn a promotion.”

  “Bite me.”

  The GPS dictated directions and Travis welcomed the distraction, pondering how to hide an elaborate vehicle. He wanted to picture the rugged-sounding guy on the other line, but no images popped in his scatterbrained mind. The city commuters with their lunch boxes, briefcases, and book bags usually sparked Travis’ interest, but everything passed in a blur as Peters sped down the road. Fatigue threatened to smother him until he forced himself to think.

  Lyssa, this woman is insane. I don’t know how people handle her. Wait.

  “Peters, when you talk to Sanderson, get him to give you some better equipment. I keep getting static from your end when I’m in the underground.”

  “You eavesdropped on Mye and Dalara fine, Travis.”

  “The bug in her purse was new tech. Besides, Mye needs an earpiece, too.”

  “She’ll resist.” Peters revved the engine, turning a hard left. “I’m still decoding her dossier, since someone encrypted it… but I know what species she is. Cat with supersonic hearing—”

  “Peters, this isn’t negotiable.”

  “Ugh, fine.” Revulsion laced Peters’ voice when he pressed on the accelerator. “Bad enough I hear the bitch through your connection.”

  “You’ll both live.”

  “You’re doing the reports if I have to talk to Sanderson. He’s worse than the director.”

  “Fine.”

  “There’s a tracker inside the glovebox. You can wear it around your wrist and bring up a screen to locate Mye, since your collar’s around your neck. I stole it from their facility—though I’m sure they know I took it.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll grab it after I’m done listening to Mye whine.”

  Travis ignored the grumbled complaint from his partner, listening to Aviere’s brother spill more secrets for blackmail later. After a few minutes, Travis developed a rhythm with the iPad, allowing the program to correct his spelling errors. Aviere’s objections made him snicker.

  You’re not the only one capable of manipulating the rules, Mye. I’ll trap you, one way or another.

  Darkness cloaked him like an old friend as he made his way into the six-story parking garage, sighing when Peters peeled out of their destination, leaving him behind.

  They settled their differences for the time being, but Peters remained closed off after their conversation. The ride through the city remained tense, but Travis had welcomed the quiet and relaxed in the Focus’ cramped, cushioned seat. Bright neon lights on Charm City’s busy streets reassured the agent as he let out a soft breath.

  Mye, you’ve got it right. We’re crazy to call this damn city home.

  Hookers strutted in front of the strip joints and lines congregated out the door at two buildings. From the corner of his eye, he caught two men fighting and cops trying to break the confrontation. The fluorescent strip club signs, police station, and crossing pedestrians made Travis remember certain cases as a homicide detective and the places he loitered for information.

  He lingered on a familiar raven haired hooker, trying to place her name. She stepped out of the street light and faded from view, almost invisible against the corner of a building across from the parking garage.

  Travis jolted from his reverie when his pocket vibrated.

  Please, God—tell me it’s not the damn director. He’s called five times, but I’ve reached my asshole quota for the day.

  Cold chills settled when the pre-programmed number in his Motorola showed Mye’s number. Then his chest tightened, but Travis dismissed it when the call connected. “Travis.”

  “I’m heading out to clear my head. Thought I’d let you know.” Then the cal
l ended.

  No! Jesus, Mye!

  Thick, calloused fingers twitched as he pressed the redial button, slamming his thumb on the large plastic square. After one ring, the call directed to an upbeat, cheery voicemail.

  “I swear to God, Lyssa—Mye will get us killed.”

  “Moaning to a dead woman—I’ve heard it all. Lyssa hated pity parties, you know.” Peters’ voice trailed off in his ear, turning to admiration before a subdued laugh. “She always knew what to say, though. Never stayed mad for long.”

  Travis scurried to the end of the parking garage, squeezing his neck and focusing on the pain. Losing his composure before meeting a Renegade associate never ended well. “Not now, Shawn. She left… again.”

  “Wow, you’re emotional.”

  “It’s been a long forty-eight hours.”

  “Thirty-six. I haven’t slept yet.”

  Travis ducked from a car heading toward him, trying to calibrate the watch on his wrist. The prompts seemed self-explanatory, but he trembled, common sense fleeing from momentary panic. “How do you work this goddamn thing?"

  “If you pressed the button, it should ask you to calibrate. Press yes, then wait for a data connection. It works like a smart phone, so you’ll get the option to track her like a GPS while driving.”

  “I may not have that long.”

  “Stop worrying. Technology trumps logic every time, Travis. Report back after you’ve met with Mye again.”

  “I’ll leave the earpiece on so I don’t forget, geek.”

  The watch blinked, giving off a bright light. Travis turned his wrist, shaking his head, wondering how she’d covered two miles since he arrived at the parking garage. The blistering humidity made his clothes stick to his sweaty body and every sound in the garage rang in the agent’s ears.

  Shit, I forgot to ask who I’m looking for or what kind of Corvette I’m driving. Jesus, not like me at all…