Drift: The Renegades Saga: Book Two

by E. M. Whittaker

  “Homicide work didn’t require a tablet or computer every second of the day,” Travis pointed out, reaching for the briefcase. “Have you heard from Mye today?”

  “No. It’s strange.” Sunlight reflected off Peters’s sunglasses as he moved his leather briefcase beside his feet, then adjusted himself as he straightened his dress pants. “She’s at the compound now, though. She stayed home most of the day, avoiding her family and watching cartoons. Guess the blood analysis finished, but she hasn’t reached out or anything.”

  “Yesterday upset her,” Travis reminded Peters. “I mean, she didn’t stay at her event last night. She blocked everyone out, ignored her phone, and blasted music until we got back to the city.”

  “Yeah… I believe my comment about Louis Armandi and Greene got under her skin.”

  Travis tilted his head toward Peters as concern laced his voice. “When do you care about Mye, Shawn?”

  “Mye and silence means trouble, or a pissed hellcat roaming the streets. Neither scenario’s favorable.”

  While Travis agreed with Peters’s sentiment, he scrunched his brow while peering at his partner as he grunted. He suppressed a chuckle at Peters’s attempt to grab his laptop bag and shook his head after multiple attempts. Only when Peters sat up did Travis glare at his metal mug with his lips pressed together, stealing glances at Peters while he plugged in the laptop charger.

  Every other time Mye ran off, Peters was relieved. So what’s forcing him to worry now?

  Travis longed for another cup of coffee, but remained seated, snorting once Peters shifted the laptop in a comfortable position on his lap. When Peters found the appropriate position, he continued, lowering his voice as he spoke again.

  “For a cat with nine lives, Mye’s luck is dreadful. She can’t shoot a handgun and we can’t afford to waste time with another hospital stay. One more inpatient visit and I’ll use my last bullet to end her suffering.”

  Hazel eyes took on a perplexed expression at Peters’s statement. “I’m not sure how to take your concern, Shawn.”

  “I… maybe I adapted to the death threats and arguing.” Keys clanked as Peters opened the laptop and typed his password. “I can’t bicker with stupid people. Everyone at the office hates me, the family’s distanced themselves because I turned bitter when Lyssa died, and you—well.”

  “She didn’t say a word the entire drive home. But then, consider the shitty afternoon we had.” The tinted blue and yellow aura surrounding Peters served as a reminder of the trials Travis faced. “I can’t imagine how her family feels, considering they’re dealing with something no human being should wield.”

  “You do,” Peters murmured. “But something deranged happened to Dalara—almost inhuman, Keith. Like… he wasn’t himself anymore.”

  “Yeah, and I have to train with him.”

  The cold reality of Travis’s sentence made both agents stare hard each other as silence ensued. Once again, Travis recognized the barrier putting distance between them, making it impossible to broach the subject.

  Just once, I’d like to discuss this without your brother avoiding me, Lyssa. However, if it hasn’t happened in five years, it’ll never happen.

  Travis watched Peters hook the wireless mouse into the USB port while perusing through files on the computer. Angry clicks accompanied the neurotic inner monologue Travis heard reverberating through his mind. However, Travis’s focus blurred between the distorted auras and piercing inner voice inside Peters’s head.

  After thirty seconds of hearing whiny commentary, the agent averted his gaze and placed the travel mug on top a wooden coaster.

  “I wish people sounded different when I listen to their thoughts,” Travis said, glancing down the apartment corridor. “Even your inner monologue—”

  “Yeah, I can’t help my voice. Tired of people bitching about it.”

  “You know, I don’t understand you.” After a small chuckle, Travis laced his fingers together as he folded them in a steeple. “Just as I’m convinced leaving you with Mye’s a death wish, you become concerned for her well-being.”

  “The woman’s remained silent for almost twenty-four hours, Keith. No smart remarks, no fighting… it’s unusual, for God’s sake.” A hand waved toward the kitchen. “I forgot to bring something to drink. You have something else… other than coffee?”

  “I’ll check the closet. Maybe there’s a two-liter or a six-pack of Pepsi from your last visit.”

  “Make Mye chase you into the grocery store and freak her out with steak and chicken. How a cat is a vegetarian, I’ll never know.”

  Whirling sounds from the laptop made Travis raise his eyebrow. When he rose from the recliner, he sighed in relief after his neck and back popped. Then he covered his eyes at the double aura emanating from his partner.

  “Jesus, Keith. You’re still wonky?”

  “Yeah.” Travis glanced around the room and pointed to Peters’s sunglasses. “Let me borrow your sunglasses. I need something to block the double aura I see around people.”

  The specialist cradled his laptop close. “You’re not breaking my Ray-Bans.”

  “Mye borrowed my sunglasses when she couldn’t control her shifting. She can’t explain feline eyes to humans, you know.”

  “I spent a fortune modifying my glasses!”

  Travis recoiled at Peters’s shrill pitch when it cracked at the last word. After he stopped complaining, Travis thrust an open palm in his direction. “Peters, I can’t work if I’m seeing double all the time. Hand me the glasses before I stumble over the coffee table.”

  The notion of wearing sunglasses constantly reminded Travis of sci-fi movies on television. One movie came to mind, but the metal frame of the sunglasses against his skin broke his concentration.

  “If these break, you’re paying $700 for a new pair. I needed a specialized permit from the director to have their techies modify them.”

  Travis inspected the sunglasses, squinting when he tested their vision. “Then demand another pair. I’m sure Roland will agree, if you mention that it’s for me.”

  “Travis, he won’t—”

  “You’re the specialist behind the desk. I’m the agent protecting his daughter from lunatics.”

  The world returned to normal after Travis slipped on Peters’s sunglasses. He let out a delighted sigh when Peters’s aura returned to navy blue, identical to the shade of a police uniform. The dimmed light around his living room caused his muscles to twitch, but after several adjustments to a tiny knob on the side, the lighting improved.

  So, to remain normal, I’ll need a set of sunglasses. Great. Now I’ll really give the special agent impression.

  “Are you sure the director will approve, Keith?”

  “Oh yeah.” A broad grin crossed the agent’s lips once he stood behind Peters. “You’re not getting these back. Wearing these fixed my headache and my vision problems.”

  A mournful cry escaped the specialist’s lips. “Goddammit, I saw magic through those lenses. I didn’t want to rely on you whenever we faced mages and vampires.”

  “We’ll get another pair. Stop worrying.”

  “Before you leave, we need to decide how to handle Mye.”

  “Peters, forget about it.” Travis walked to the closet and pulled a large two-liter of Pepsi out from underneath his hung-up trench coat. “The situation’s complicated and her home life’s not any easier. In fact, it became worse yesterday. Dalara’s avoiding her like the plague.”

  Travis sat the two-liter next to Peters’s feet before moving back to the sideboard, glaring at all twelve half-filled mugs of coffee. With a wide selection, Travis debated which cup to wash for his next drink.

  None seemed appealing and his eyes traveled to the metal tumbler resting on the coffee table.

  “I heard her conversation last night. Sounded rough, living on half-ass answers.”

  “Well, it’s the same as us, really.”

  “No. You know… no, we are aware of who killed Lys
sa. You can’t go after the bitch because we can’t find Soulstealer. There’s the difference.” The laptop slammed against the titanium. “Mye’s the reason we’re stuck, Keith. We can’t attack that mage without—”

  “We’re not strong enough, Shawn!”

  Coffee and ceramic cracked against the floor as Travis shoved his arm against the sideboard connecting to the kitchen. Cold liquid stained his socks while broken ceramic lay at his feet. He noted the prized mugs destroyed in his outburst, grunting at one or two he bought before getting married.

  Great. I swear, if Peters wasn’t related, I’d strangle his ass, Lyssa. I can’t replace these, and now I’m down to three coffee mugs. At least the one you made for me is safe inside the dishwasher.

  Rose-colored ceramic shined throughout the beige and black pieces. When Travis held a piece and discovered parts of a rose, the side of his lip twitched.

  “You finally broke that tacky-looking mug Lyssa made at her pottery class, Keith.”

  Travis threw the broken piece at the stone wall and cracked the mirror hanging above the three-seater couch. As Peters ducked and bolted for cover, Travis narrowed his eyes and stopped the dark power circulating through his body.

  “If we go after her in my condition, none of us will survive. As deplorable as the situation is, maybe training with Dalara’s not so bad. Stealing my power is problematic, but the demon inside him longs for power. He’s fighting her, but it’s taking everything Dalara has—which his family doesn’t understand.”

  Despite his own remarks, Travis shuddered, then pulled his head back while rolling his shoulders forward. “Why are we involved in Mye’s relationship problems, Peters? At least in the precinct, we kept personal problems private.”

  “Because we’re part of a bigger conspiracy.”

  “Here you go with conspiracy theories again, Shawn. Last time, you went on about Area 51.”

  “We’re dealing with mages and shifters… shit humans aren’t supposed to deal with. But I’m not afraid of battling mages.” Peters picked glass out of his hair and his button-down forest-green shirt. “Mye’s my greatest concern.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s undisciplined, unpredictable and more dangerous than you,” Peters confessed. “That woman’s scary. However, against Soulstealer, Mye can’t win with poison, shifting, or that stupid air gun of hers. Being a shifter makes her more vulnerable than you or I.”

  She’s not the culprit, Travis reminded himself while gathering up pieces of broken mugs. There’s other possibilities, other possible perps… and one suspicion never left my mind.

  “Her vulnerability’s noticeable, Keith. For once, she’s not the person we worked with. It’s there in glimpses, like when she returned to work, but last night she was prepared to sacrifice her own brother for you. Even I’m not that cruel.”

  “No, you only arrested and put me on trial,” Travis reminded him. “But you’re not that heartless.”

  “But Mye knows nothing of Soulstealer, who lured you out by attacking Lyssa. What if the Society’s using Soulstealer’s ruse to target Dalara and Mye?”

  Travis’s foot stretched out on the coffee table as he considered Peters’s theory. “Perhaps. However, it doesn’t explain why Chelsea Nichols would use the Red Coat Society for protection.”

  “Dalara. That bastard’s powerful and not afraid to show it when he’s angry. If they dated, like Mye said, she’s aware of his ability and overprotective streak. Decent older brothers are like that with younger sisters.”

  No. That’s not the right answer. Something’s missing, and Mye knows the pieces, Lyssa. But she’s not talking, so I assume she’s connected.

  “You know what, Keith? I’ve reached a decision,” Peters continued.

  “Is it any different than conspiracy theories and bitching about our situation?”

  “While you’re with Dalara, I’ll take Mye to the shooting range. If she’s running through Charm City and working out her own shit, the least she can do is learn how to shoot a handgun. A real piece, not some bullshit modified air pistol. I wanted to choke someone when I heard about the modification.”

  “But you’re fine with technology in other situations,” Travis murmured, almost in disbelief. “Double standard.” After the second statement, the reality of his partner’s words hit the agent. “Did I understand you right, Peters?”

  “Yes, and it’s not a double standard. Every person should learn to shoot, except psychopaths.”

  Several bangs against the coffee table moved Travis’s gaze from Peters’s irritated face to the mouse moving back and forth. He studied Peters’s shaky hand as the mouse continued without a precise destination. After a few seconds, the specialist stopped, reaching past his briefcase for the soda bottle next to him.

  “Even now, I’m wondering if Mye’s a psycho, or just got dealt a bad hand.”

  Travis noticed Peters’s trembling hands continued when he took the two-liter and opened it, gulping soda down one handed. Some dribbled from his lips before the specialist stopped, closed the container, and set it next to his feet again.

  Well, at least I’m not the only afraid for her safety. But it’s hard to determine if it’s genuine or not, Lyssa.

  “Still, it’d be nice you and Mye stopped fighting every chance we talk.”

  “You misunderstand me. I still don’t like Mye.”

  And like that, my goal for no team-building exercises is short-lived.

  “However, I can’t handle both of you acting weird on me.” Coffee-colored eyes settled on Travis with a darkened scowl. “Brooding is normal for you. Bitching about having magic and hiding your abilities is a daily complaint. Talking with Lyssa, even if she doesn’t answer, is typical. Listening to my dead sister’s voice on your cell phone is also normal for you.”

  “Stop looking though my cell phone,” Travis retorted. “I’m allowed something to stop the insanity, for fuck’s sake. I can’t see a therapist like you. They’ll lock me up if I mention certain aspects of my life.”

  “Fair enough,” Peters agreed. “You use healthy coping mechanisms, given your circumstances. However, I’m not used to this mousy side of Aviere Mye. Fighting with her made Sanderson and this job tolerable. Without the squabbling, I want to gag myself with these stupid conference calls and meetings I’m forced to attend.”

  Color came to Travis’s face at Peters’s revelation. As his cheeks brightened, lightheadedness followed. After holding his breath for several seconds, Travis laughed, pounding a hand on his chest after tearing up from the sudden euphoria.

  When he settled down, he chortled at Peters’s pursed lips as they tightened together.

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, Peters. But I’m warning you, this shooting range idea won’t end with appreciation. She’ll discover some way to extract her revenge.”

  Several ideas appeared in Travis’s mind, which widened the smirk across his lips.

  “Mye’s trying to determine if I’m worth working with. I’m attempting to convince myself she’s not a psychopath. You two have vices to work out your frustration and think about your problems. Stop criticizing me for shooting bullets at shit when I’m flustered.”

  “A hundred bucks says she shoots you, Peters.”

  “I’ll eat her poisoned ground beef if it means making this unit and our dickhead boss bearable again.”

  Still chuckling under his breath, Travis turned back to the closet and snatched his trench coat and hat, slipping them over his comfortable cotton t-shirt and blue jeans. “I’ll hold off asking about your remark, but I’m heading out. If I don’t catch Mye before she leaves—”

  “Normal people call their partners.”

  “She’s not picking up the phone.” Travis grabbed his Desert Eagle from a drawer underneath the end table. “I called three times, and it went straight to voicemail.”

  “Fine. Wear the earpiece. It’ll cut out when you arrive at the compound, though.”

  Travis du
g through his pocket, rolled his eyes, and lifted the charged earpiece from the same drawer he retrieved his weapon. “There’s no point in wearing it, then.”

  “If you leave, will the report get to Sanderson by tomorrow morning?”

  “Depends if Mye gallivants through the city or not.”

  Three raps on the door diverted Travis’s attention as he laced his dark steel-toe combat boots. After tying them, he pointed the gun at the door, jamming it in the direction of the hallway as he opened the metallic metal door.

  Once he saw the visitor, Travis let out an exasperated growl and slammed the door shut behind him, glaring at the burly man with sienna-colored eyes and alcohol lacing his breath.

  The dim reflective lenses blocked his ability to sense auras and Travis cursed, pressing his anxious body against the door after identifying the strange visitor. His trigger finger itched to slip over the trigger, but Travis held back, debating how blood would clash with the towering man’s jean vest and greasy cotton t-shirt.

  You can’t kill the werewolf, Keith. Stop your bloodlust and focus, dammit.

  Behind the windswept man sporting a trimmed salt and pepper goatee, a Latina woman who eerily resembled Jemina brushed curly tresses from her shoulder, huffing underneath her breath. Next to her, with his scrawny arm around her shoulder, stood Limere, lifting an eyebrow at Travis’s gun pointing at the six-foot, nine-inch werewolf.

  Damn it. Better guard the doorway before Peters shoots someone.

  Travis locked his legs in a defensive stance and leaned against the metal door. He kept the gun pointed at Joe, then scanned for the closest exit in case he needed to escape.

  “No wonder you never remarried,” Joe greeted. “Every visitor gets greeted with a bullet to the face. I can’t imagine you get second dates often.”

  “I didn’t mention where I lived to any of you, Wolfman.” Travis’s eyes regarded the skinny Latina standing with Limere. “If I hadn’t seen her before, I’d swear Rodriguez got liposuction.”

  “Papa, no woman dates a man who insults women.” The Latina shoved Limere’s hand off her shoulders before standing beside Joe. “But then, if he works with Mama…”