Turbulence: Book One in The Renegades Saga

by E. M. Whittaker

  The agent accessed the email application and groaned when he typed on the Blackberry's small keyboard. At each typo, Travis gnawed the inside of his drying cheek, wheezing as another assault of pine hit his nostrils.

  “Don’t freak over typos,” Aviere said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not critical.”

  “Pine,” Travis answered, gulping when his throat tickled again. “Allergic, Mye.”

  “Shit, forest patrol must be hell.”

  Hazel eyes glowered at the Poisoner. “If I chase you near evergreen trees, I’ll find a veterinarian for your vaccinations, Mye.”

  She lifted a sleeve, presenting a series of white scarred dots on her shoulder. “My vaccinations are up to date, Travis. But ask Sanderson for an upgraded phone—one with a touch screen. Maybe you’ll manage better with bigger keys. Less incentive to crush your phone after every typo.”

  “I’m not getting an iPhone. Rather destroy the Blackberry, honestly.” Travis rubbed the back of his warm neck after sending his email. “What about those phones with the food-themed updates?”

  “Androids whistle, the interface feels clunky to me, not enough good cases to protect the screen, and I don’t need reminders to eat every time the cellphone pushes updates.” Aviere’s pointer finger rested on the opposite hand, bending her pinky finger. “Jelly Bean isn’t a viable name for any software. Neither is Nougat. I cringe every time I pass Reese and Limere’s phones on the counter.”

  “Look, Sanderson expected a thorough report this morning, and he’s pissed no one delivered.”

  “Sanderson can wait, Travis.” A chime sounded through the room and Travis watched Aviere gloss over the notification on her screen. “He’s not chasing Vinny McSeeten around the goddamn city.”

  “Chasing McSeeten’s my job,” Travis reminded her. “But you’ve elected to take the position. As a result, Peters and I fell behind on reports because we can’t communicate.”

  “Not my issue.” The Poisoner folded her arms across her chest. “You and Peters’ communication issues started long before my assignment.”

  “Mye, email me a detailed report, all right? And add what transpired this morning. I’d accompany you, but your brother’s being—”

  “What about Limere?”

  Travis loosened his tie and counted to ten, reminding himself not to shoot Aviere. As she pitched forward, Travis regretted mentioning her older brother as an invisible barrier formed between them.

  So much for relaxing Mye, he ridiculed. She won’t reveal shit now, Lyssa.

  “Travis, I know Lim’s been shady. I’m trying to understand his behavior myself. Limere’s screwed up a few times, but I don’t believe he’d jeopardize our livelihood with drugs again, considering the damage it caused our family.”

  “Mye, I assumed you’d charge to Dalara’s defense.”

  “I know what Limere is—how he operates. Nothing would surprise me. But before you accuse Lim, murdering someone’s complicated. It’d expose his location and magical energy. Right now, Limere’s greatest ambition consists of getting high and satisfying his girlfriend.” She pointed to the door as Travis’ nose twitched. “We’ll discuss Limere’s involvement later, agent. It’s no fun arguing with a man bordering on suffocation from pine air fresheners.”

  Travis did his best to remain composed, but coughed when his mouth dried out once again. He waved a hand over his burning face and stalked out of the townhouse before leaning against the wooden door.

  The taste of sticky, smoggy air greeted him, despite heating his reddened skin.

  The agent coughed a few more times, pounded on his chest, and swallowed until his throat felt comfortable. Once he composed himself, Travis sat on the townhouse steps, adjusting the earpiece’s volume to watch over Aviere Mye.

  Travis remained at his post for over three hours, draping the trench coat over the concrete steps. He fanned his face and prayed for a downpour, but the sweltering heat from the blacktop road warned of another humid afternoon. Sweat soaked his alabaster shirt and Travis grew bored watching children play kickball in the middle of the hectic street.

  His left ear crackled before a low growl emitted from the earpiece. “So, I found the information about the Tethered Mistress, Travis.”

  Stonefaced, Travis’ eyes dimmed when he watched a dark-skinned boy kicking a ball, chuckling as it sailed over a short Asian girl’s head. Other children headed after the kickball while the little girl sniffled. “Yeah?”

  “Yep.” Peters coughed twice before speaking. “It’s a sports bar Louis Armandi owns. You won’t like its location, though.”

  A ginger-haired boy rushed to the ball, sneering as the other children panted behind him. Travis shook his head and imagined himself kicking the redhead’s butt at his sarcastic manner.

  Peters mumbled to himself and groaned into the earpiece.

  “Peters, you sure you’re all right?”

  “Coffee, Travis. You’re not the only one living on caffeine. But I’m not fond of dark blends. Nah, French vanilla for me.”

  “Real men drink black coffee, Peters,” Travis teased. “Puts hairs on your chest.”

  “Screw you.”

  A spoon tinked against a ceramic cup and Travis winced when Peters slurped the beverage. After a few agonizing sips, Peters set the mug on a solid surface—a little too rough, Travis thought.

  “You find Mye?”

  “Yeah.” Travis sounded dejected, but grinned when a blonde in ponytails and a black sundress skipped to take her turn playing kickball. “Mye almost got iced, yet she’s still racing this evening. Nothing stops this woman.”

  “Because Mye’s insane, Travis.” Loud clicking sounded over the earpiece. “Hellcat or no, bitch pushes my buttons.”

  Lyssa, Mye and Peters try my patience. How the hell did you tolerate your brother?

  “Let’s get back to Tethered Mistress,” Travis directed between clenched teeth. “You mentioned a sports bar.”

  “Yeah. Google won’t list an address, but two men at our office visited.”

  So much for using Google Maps. If it’s underground— Travis smacked a palm against his forehead. The GPS! It’s in the Corvette. Damn, I might require the car, after all. Better than asking Mye—but then, maybe she’d escort me if I suggest it to her.

  “You’re not talking, Travis.”

  “Go on.”

  “The sources mentioned the pleasant staff and welcoming environment for underground gambling and sports.” Peters’ fingers bashed on keys for twenty seconds before he jammed one key loudly. “Mostly gambling—poker and blackjack. One said something about competitions in the back before blathering on about chicken wings and steak. Fucker made me hungry, so I went to the steakhouse afterward.”

  Travis chuckled, yearning for the meatloaf and mashed potatoes he’d craved earlier.

  “I’m not pleased, Travis. Means our group’s tainted with shifters.”

  The revelation changed the nature of their conversation. “I know.”

  “Don’t disclose that around the office,” Peters murmured. “If they’re anything like Sanderson’s men—”

  Travis’ pocket vibrated, and he sighed, cringing at Sanderson's number on the Caller ID. “You had to mention Sanderson, Peters. Now he’s calling me.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Hold on. I’m tired of deleting Sanderson’s voice mails.” Travis answered on the fourth ring before the call continued to his answering machine. “Travis.”

  “Take Mye if you’re visiting the Tethered Mistress. You don’t have access to get inside. Fact, they’ll shoot you on sight—which, despite the amusement, would complicate matters for all of us.”

  Interesting revelation.

  “Would it, sir?”

  “Travis. Stay with Mye, accept orders and don’t try my patience. I’ll dock your pay otherwise.”

  The humidity added to his reddening face as Travis concluded the call. “Get those directions, Peters. I’m staying with Mye till som
eone meets her.” He avoided the vibrating Blackberry in his pocket and dreaded sifting through more unwanted voice mail. “She’s—”

  Static overtook the line, followed by yelling before Peters’ connection died.

  Did Sanderson attack Peters because I ignored his calls? Jesus, Sanderson…

  The Blackberry vibrated again and Travis released a breath, recognizing Peters’ number. He answered after wiping a sweaty palm against his soot-colored slacks. “You haven’t used a phone in three months, Peters.”

  “My cat chewed the cord for my radio,” Peters explained in a stressed voice. “I don’t know why I kept Misha, considering I’m never home.”

  “What would the director say about Misha chewing government equipment, Peters?”

  “Anyway, before I got cut off—I forgot to brief you about Louis Armandi. The man’s influential in the Underworld. He’s drawn followers and travels with escorts and business investors. The blueprints for the Tethered Mistress are innovative, Travis.”

  The kickball game lost Travis’ interest as a recognizable figure strolled toward the townhouse. Travis gaped, squinting at the plum-colored business suit, pressed soot-colored slacks, and matching dress shoes. As Travis tilted his hat to deflect sunlight, he complimented Maurice’s fashion sense, which merged almost seamlessly with his light skin and dreaded hairstyle.

  It looks good for sure, but Mye’s bitching about her money struggles. So where are Dalara and… Maurice, yeah—where’s the money coming from?

  “Peters, get a clean connection. Mye’s relative is approaching the townhouse, so I’ll catch up afterward.”

  As he finished the call, Travis focused on Maurice’s annoyed gray eyes and tight-lipped scowl. Overlooking his particular fashion sense, Travis realized he’d learned nothing about him. In their last encounter, the male resembled a six-foot Bengal tiger, different from the figure striding toward him.

  Travis recalled part of the exchange between Maurice and Aviere, trying to understand why Maurice associated with Aviere and Limere. Maurice’s reluctance was logical, but remaining with Aviere contradicted his statements.

  Stormy gray eyes fluctuated between fury and collectedness as Maurice stormed toward Travis. Unlike Limere, who remained flighty each time Travis approached, Maurice seemed to address problems calculatedly, allowing no room for error. Between the frosty attitude and well-kept appearance, Maurice could pass for an ordinary person.

  Then Travis recognized the familiar, blazing gray eyes from Maurice’s majestic Bengal form, and shivered on the concrete steps.

  Maurice makes the perfect front man—handling day-to-day operations while Mye and Dalara safeguard their younger brother. But the way Maurice regards me—he’s handled cops. But does Maurice crack under pressure, or is he perceptive?

  Travis rose when Maurice reached the townhouse and tried strolling past him. The agent thrust an arm over the free space and planted himself between them, folding his arms over his chest. As Travis met Maurice’s unflinching gray eyes, Travis wished he slipped the damp trench coat on instead of exposing his occupation by the tie, alabaster shirt, and black slacks.

  “Well, you interrogated Lim and baby girl,” Maurice stated, running fingers through his dreaded hair. “Suppose it’s natural you’d question me sooner or later, agent. But I ain’t involved in what my family’s doin’.”

  Travis squinted, cracking his toes again inside his boots. “Not one hundred percent, shifter.”

  “You ain’t no innocent yourself,” Maurice said, growling after his last word. “Surprised you’re a fed, with your power ‘n all. But this ain’t ideal for discussin’ business. Step inside and we’ll chat, agent.”

  Yeah, Maurice is seasoned in interrogation tactics. He might win if I’m not thorough, Lyssa.

  “You’re the reasonable one,” Travis responded, ignoring Maurice. “Why stay around? You’re resourceful enough to distance yourself, Maurice.”

  “I’ll show you. Maybe you’ll understand afterward.”

  Travis expected a specific photograph from Maurice’s wallet, not countless pictures trailing to the ground. He dipped his head to observe each of them, but Maurice snatched the reel with clumsy fingers, maneuvering through until he flashed one particular picture near Travis’ face. The deadpan stare never dissipated, but increased in intensity as Maurice pointed to it again.

  A flash of blue registered to Travis before hazel eyes settled on young Aviere’s sundress, almost swimming in her outfit. Aviere’s lithe frame contrasted against the enormous, athletic man standing next to her in a tuxedo, presenting a rose almost swallowed by his hand. Matching gray eyes regarded Aviere warmly as a hand played with loose strands of the man’s braided silver hair.

  These people—Mye, Rodriguez… Rodriguez had muscles at a young age?

  The agent looked at the picture further, eyes fluttering a few times before identifying the rest of Mye’s associates. Both her brothers stood beside the massive man in matching tuxedos. Limere cleaned up well in a suit and with a clean appearance. He recognized Maurice, with darker, coarser hair. At the end stood Joe, folding his arms across his chest despite the broad grin plastering his face.

  From Aviere’s side, only Jemina remained, cleavage threatening to spill from the black bridesmaid’s dress on her heavy frame.

  “We’ve all known each other since school,” Maurice explained. “We were different then. Baby girl’s known them twenty-three years. Longer from Lim, shorter for me. But hey—she married my brother, the two got on—they were inseparable, honestly. She got close to his two dearest friends, despite Jem’s interference half the time.”

  “That explains their hostility,” Travis said, peeking through the rest of the photos. “But your brother’s feminine looking, for a brick shithouse.”

  “Gun hated the hair,” Maurice confessed with an uneasy chuckle. “Baby girl insisted on growin’ it, so he did. However, you don’t abandon family just cause someone’s goin’ through a turbulent patch, see?”

  Poor bastard, Travis thought, scanning the wavering emotion in Maurice’s eyes. The man’s caught in the middle by association. I’m sure Maurice would escape if Mye presented the opportunity.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’—what you’re pokin’ for, agent.” Maurice fished for his keys, jiggling them as Travis stepped aside. “But leavin’ isn’t a choice. We don’t allow our friends to fry, and Aviere’s not responsible for everythin’ goin’ on.”

  “I want to despise Mye,” Travis confessed. “Woman’s heading toward a death wish with no regard for anyone else. She gallivants through Charm City in a muscle car which should be impounded. Mye lies at every opportunity and entrusts a drug addict over the man appointed to protect her.”

  “It’s tough to hate Aviere, but I understand what you mean.” The latch clicked and Maurice opened the door. “She’s her worst enemy sometimes and you prefer to live.” The fashionable dresser turned to Travis and yawned. “Limere’s better at protectin’ Aviere. You’re not at your full potential. Least, what we speculated, anyhow.”

  “Hard to train when Mye’s targeted every moment she’s alone, shifter,” Travis shot back, softening his tone when Maurice’s face paled. “Since lockup, your sister’s been nothing but trouble. My partner and I tried keeping her from Sanderson.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sole word stopped Travis’ criticisms as he sucked in a strained breath. “What?”

  “You tried, right?” Maurice nudged the door open. “Then it ain’t entirely your fault, so I can’t blame you for bein’ pissed off. But baby girl’s ran entire factions—organizations. I realize what my family’s capable of, and Aviere’s ruthless when she’s hard-pressed for somethin’.”

  Travis gave a crisp nod before letting out a gratifying sigh. “Yeah, but she’s brash. A group of shooters followed her out of a meeting and she totaled a Porsche this afternoon.”

  Painful silence lingered as Travis sensed Maurice’s apprehension. The sil
ver aura around the shifter brightened and expanded, mirroring his smoldering gray eyes. A few seconds later, a massive hole decorated Jemina’s front door and wood clanked to the ground.

  Jesus, Lyssa… I thought Maurice was the cool one, after his careful answers and deductions.

  “I know Limere and baby girl engage in questionable activities, but I can only disclose sprinkles of details at this time. They try hidin’ things, so I network by alternative means for information.” Maurice straightened his suit, brushing splintered wood from his jacket. “Since I can’t watch Aviere and Limere, do your damn job so she doesn’t die. Survive, and you’ll gain allies—provided you don’t arrest us afterward.”

  Before Travis rebutted, Maurice slammed into the door again and more pale wood littered the floor as the man pushed his way into the house.

  “Jesus,” Travis whispered. “Lyssa—”

  “Keith, Lyssa would concur with me,” Peters interrupted. “I didn’t sense Gunther lying to you—just angry about being played by Mye and Dalara.”

  “Wait.” Travis paused when Maurice’s Jamaican accent carried through the hole in Jemina’s doorway. “Mye refers to her spouse as Gunther.”

  “Last name. They’re all different, Travis.”

  The Jamaican accent grew stronger and Travis’ stomach knotted. He fetched the dirty trench coat and heaved it over his arm, pinching his nose as he reflected on Maurice’s last name. Travis hurried away from the townhouse and relaxed after powerwalking down the street, overlooking the bickering children still playing their kickball game.

  “I can’t find anything on Mye’s husband, though,” Peters interjected. “I’ve tried. Nothing appears on either database, so someone’s sealed his records. Believe me, even keyloggers aren’t helping me crack the Renegades’ database, Travis.”

  “Peters, I’m heading home before Mye’s race. Maurice punched through Rodriguez’s door and I hear her bitch enough. He’ll stick around Mye, and I can cook meatloaf and taters at the apartment.”