Drift: The Renegades Saga: Book Two

by E. M. Whittaker

  “Well, she’s not comatose, Peters. Small wonders never cease. Doubt she ate, though. Cover up the cappuccino before she dives after it or something.”

  How do I land in these situations? My morning was shitty enough without running into the man I detest. I guess it’s unreasonable to ask for a few hours of sleep or time to decompress. Christ, you would think—

  She jumped when a hand brushed a section of hair from her face, exposing her to a warm hazelnut smell mixed with pungent aftershave.

  “I don’t have to read your mind to know your thoughts are racing, Mye. Breathe, for God’s sake.”

  “Back away,” she croaked. “Please. I’m—”

  Sound suctioned through a straw and sent high-pitched vibrations through the feline’s ears. Each set of slurping made her eye tic. After her twitching left eye squinted shut, Aviere cast a darkened glare at the specialist hunting for any liquid inside his plastic cup.

  “Damn, I ran out of cappuccino.”

  “Go get another one!” Aviere said, covering up her ear. “The suction hurts my eardrums.”

  “Peters, don’t listen to her. You’re hyped up enough on caffeine.” Alcohol stung her nostrils while more hair was brushed behind her ear. “Don’t die, vomit, pass out, or hyperventilate… at least, until I’ve finished my three chocolate donuts and sausage biscuit. I’ll hunt for more coffee in a few minutes after I find Peters’s cappuccino machine.”

  They’re both addicted to caffeine. Aviere sighed before gagging from hazelnut, chocolate icing, and spicy hot breath. Between fast food and coffee, I’m surprised they’re not donut cops.

  Travis’s aftershave put her nose in overdrive as nausea awakened her empty stomach once more. She hugged her abdomen and licked her cracked lips, imploring her partner to give her space, but the words wouldn’t come. They hovered, but her racing thoughts prevented her from speaking in clear, full sentences.

  Her lips felt pasty as she attempted again, but trembled when Peters knelt beside her once Travis had backed away.

  As the specialist pressed his palm against her bluish fingertips, she roared, snapped her canines and released a supersonic wail.

  Hot flesh slapped across Aviere’s cheek twice before she glared at Peters, who held his reddened hand while swearing at her. She held one set of fingers inside her other hand, blinking at the bluish-purple surrounding her nails to her knuckles.

  “Well, there are other side effects to your disease, Mye.”

  Aviere grunted and slid one hand underneath her armpit.

  “Bloody hell, I’m tired of this. I’m used to Keith’s bullshit, not yours. You’re the firecracker. Act like it. Put some excitement back into my life so I’m not hunting for drama shows on Netflix.”

  Aviere’s cheeks brightened with color as she clutched her stinging cheek. “Slapping me wasn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, it was. It was therapeutic.”

  Claws surfaced where her fingernails had once rested. Her voice squeaked while she held in a painful breath. “Consider the slap your freebie.”

  “Relax. Just checking to see if your inner bitch would surface.”

  “She needs rest.”

  “You need meds. I’m not watching you turn into a frozen Popsicle, Mye.”

  Aviere’s cerulean eyes took on a gloomy haze as she hugged her knees close to her chest. “I’ve had no privacy the last few days. Everyone is stalking me like I’m on suicide watch, so I can’t go over anything. I’m on my last few vials of medicine and I’m trying to conserve them. I lost the ability to make anything and—”

  “I get Dalara’s situation leaves you on edge, but stop whining about life. It’s shitty, but it’s worse when Sanderson’s goons scare off every delivery guy within a ten-mile radius.”

  Her eyes warmed at Peters’s criticism, despite her stinging cheek. “Try escaping. It works wonders.”

  “I can’t order pizza anymore since they shot out the driver’s tires when he parked. I begged the sub guy to deliver, and Randolph scared him when I ordered a foot-long the other day. To top it off, Randolph ate my goddamn food while complaining about the onions. Then his merry band of thieves stalked away once he mentioned sobriety.”

  She breathed in the cool air before settling her gaze on Travis, who shot her a clueless look and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Does he always prattle on when people steal his carry-out?” Aviere asked. “Cause talking about subs makes me hungry. Might cure my nausea if you cover up the aftershave. I’ll experiment and make something else when I get another workshop.”

  “I bitch when your friends steal my meal and don’t pay.”

  “And?”

  “You owe me eight dollars and fifty cents since he never paid and drank my Cherry Coke. Randolph claimed it was retaliation for staying sober for a day and a half. I expect a chicken, bacon, and ranch sub next paycheck.”

  “Yeah… no.”

  “By the way, I figured out a solution to your shooting problem.”

  She growled when Peters reached for her hands again, then balled them into fists when defending them with her chin.

  “Calm down. Bloody hell, I’m not in the market for feral hellcats.”

  “Why am I in your office?” Aviere snapped, releasing a breathy hiss when Peters tried helping her off the ground. “I ran from something, but I’m not sure what it was. And what about my fingers? Why mention those?”

  “Poor circulation and cold fingers won’t allow you to pull the trigger. It’s a good thing I ordered those heated gloves. They should arrive in an hour or two.”

  “I didn’t ask for any gloves.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Travis answered mid-bite. “I said Peters felt gracious while you tried racing, remember?”

  The scent of microwaved eggs and sausage caused her stomach to release a whiny growl. Hunger changed to cringing when Aviere caught Travis licking icing off his fingers.

  “I said I was eating my donuts, Mye.”

  “Hurry and eat your sugary heart attack, Travis. Both of you need processed sugar and caffeine to get through the day. However, I have shit to do, so either finish quickly or move along and follow me.”

  She brushed her palms across her thighs, whistling at the friction between her fingers and denim material. After the jolt of pain passed, Aviere shook her head, tapping her foot while regarding the two bewildered gentlemen before her.

  When I delegate tasks, they hold an intervention and a heart-to-heart. Great, add dealing with Neuro to the never-ending list of ways to start my morning wrong. My blood pressure will plummet if I don’t take my medicine soon. I’ve reached my limit when my fingers look frostbitten.

  “Seems you two have something to say, gentlemen,” Aviere started. “So, out with it. I suppose we should discuss last night’s findings.”

  “The data can wait,” Travis said, splitting part of his chocolate donut. “It’s you we’re worried about, Mye.”

  She rose up onto her wobbling knees and used the door to support herself, curbing the urge to yank the donut from Travis’s hand. “We’re all sucking and I’m sorry my domestic problems bled into this investigation. However, you guys—”

  “Mopey Mye sucks,” Peters declared from the floor, his voice turning into a whine at the last word. “She’s the killjoy everyone wants to strangle.”

  Aviere raised an eyebrow while dropping her head toward the kneeling specialist. “You took your Prozac, right?”

  “I expected bloodshed and howling while wolfing down a tasteless breakfast sandwich and listening to Sanderson drone on during my conference call. When I realized Cray kept all his limbs with no injuries, the conference call didn’t matter. The only thing I thought about was how off your game you were, and I hate worrying about someone I can’t stand.”

  “No one asked for your concern!”

  “You’ve killed for less, your timing sucked, and you’re always on point when someone’s snarky, even while being injured by psychos.”

 
; He makes several good points, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  Aviere grabbed her handbag and missed Peters’s kneeling form, flicking her head to the side with a huff. From her peripheral vision, she found Travis waving a piece of his donut before Peters stood, bouncing in place when both feet landed flat.

  That asshole. He’s enjoying my discomfort while packing calories and stealing everyone else’s food.

  “Here’s a rarity, Keith. The hellcat is speechless.”

  “If you’re going to complain, then do it somewhere else,” she quipped, going to Peters’s metal and marble desk. “I need to find a lab. There’s valuable data inside my duffel bag.”

  “Mye, if I brought up the Holy Mother—”

  “Mock my mother again, and I will plant your last bullet between your eyes, Neuro.” She dropped the duffel bag next to Peters’s beat-up sneakers. “Cray stepped out of line, but I’m not stronger than him. Besides, I got him back.”

  “If we’re rating your comebacks, you’ve lost your touch,” Peters remarked in a distorted voice as he followed her. “Some of your one-liners are classic, but they’ve sucked since you’ve come back to work.”

  She jammed a pinky in her ear and squinted when Peters’s voice rose in pitch.

  “Look, join me at the shooting range, Aviere. You won’t get anything accomplished if you’re wound up tighter than a spring.”

  Loud chewing continued from the office door, followed by a tight gulp. “Shawn, you’re determined to meet death. Mye’s running on a shorter fuse than usual.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s admirable, but wait till I’ve had more coffee and finished my breakfast before starting your suicide mission.”

  “You know where the machine is. Take a K-Cup, add water, and let it brew.”

  “The ideal time for coffee was while Mye catnapped.”

  They’re making plans like I’m not here! I’m emotional, not senile!

  “Gentlemen, please. I’ve got data to analyze, so if you’re done—”

  “Shawn bet me a hundred bucks you suck at shooting.”

  Aviere wished for her missing glasses as she shoved her index finger along the bridge of her nose. “He might win today. I don’t handle firearms well anymore.”

  “Don’t be a killjoy. Just a few rounds before I return to the black market and search through boring real estate auctions for your new research facility. I saw one or two others practicing at the range earlier, but—”

  “If I go, will you stop pretending to be nice?” Aviere interrupted. “You’re an empty suit, not a decent man. Picturing you as a rabid weasel is easier.”

  “Sure, once your inner bitch comes back. Your disappearing acts and constant bickering makes my job tolerable.”

  Her hand sank to her peridot as she seized it, ignoring her freezing fingertips until they changed colors from the warmth. The dizziness she fought off returned as her thoughts cycled through stressful key events. Memories of her brothers surfaced, but Travis’s heavy voice interrupted the impending flashback.

  “Her weapons haven’t been cleaned since she fell into the pier, Peters.”

  “Why not?”

  “They were waterlogged.” Disdain laced Travis’s voice. “I needed them to dry. The Beretta is a bastard child, so Mye can handle her piece. The Smith and Wesson is another story.”

  “Then show her how to clean them. They’re locked inside my desk for safekeeping.”

  The words stabbed through her chaotic thoughts and dispelled the unwanted memories. Once they fully registered, Aviere dived toward the desk drawers as Travis retrieved a long metal key and turned the lock.

  “You didn’t clean them, did you?” Aviere asked, blinking while forcing her voice to stop shaking. “The Beretta—”

  “God, no. I’m being nice, not generous. I wouldn’t touch a molested Beretta if you paid me. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to break your piece. It’s blasphemy to modify such a beautiful weapon.”

  “Skillset,” Aviere whispered she dragged a hand to the concealed gun on her hip. “I couldn’t accept someone else’s weapons, so I altered these for my skillset.”

  “I’ll give you two hours to clean your weapons. No rainchecks or excuses. It gives you enough time to compose yourself and eat breakfast. You’re not winning on beginner’s luck, so we’ll determine the winner after three rounds.”

  She nodded, giving a half-hearted smile as scorn returned to her rival’s voice.

  “I want the competitive woman, not the scatterbrained, emotional one,” Peters went on, unlocking a bottom drawer. “If you suck, that’s fine. I don’t expect miracles, but a little effort wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The drawer slammed shut before Peters locked it and dangled the key in Aviere’s face. “Before you leave my office, let Keith finish his coffee. I’m eager to collect my winnings, not earn a bullet in the ass because he’s pissy.”

  She lunged for his key, then snarled when the specialist sidestepped and snatched his ragged sneakers. “You’re confident for an empty suit, Neuro.”

  “Yeah… for a specialist. I’ve placed first in the bureau for three years running. I hope you can keep up.”

  That little shithead. Her annoyed gaze remained on the short man striding out of the contemporary decorated office. He’s teasing me on purpose.

  Another growl vibrated in her throat, deepening the longer she dwelled on Shawn Peters. When her upper lip curved in a sneer, one canine gleamed from the lighting above his pristine desk.

  “I’ll be damned, Shawn ignited something. Your aura’s darkening again.”

  “Do you have ammo?” Aviere hunted through the unlocked drawers, scouring for magazines and stray bullets. “I’ll make him regret calling my Beretta—”

  “Inside the bag, Mye. You have enough for five rounds. We can practice with the first two after we clean and inspect your weapons. However, you should have one decent weapon… something solid, in case you jam the Beretta again.”

  She unzipped the bulky duffel bag and rummaged through it, nostrils flaring as she exhaled. “I converted the Beretta because it suited my style, not for fun. Part of not hiding behind people is not using their equipment. I’m using a backup, and under normal circumstances, I’d never consider holding my husband’s handgun. It feels like cheating.”

  “There’s a difference between asking for help, accepting help, and using people like pawns whenever the situation suits you,” Travis said, rattling the K-Cup in his hand. “Same goes for firearms or weaponry. If they’re available, it’s fair game.”

  “Right now, I want my morning to slow down, but Peters announced this shooting match forgetting Sanderson taps my bracelet to eavesdrop on us.”

  “He’ll come beforehand and rile Peters up, then disappear before I show up. It’s how Sanderson works.”

  “If it were anyone else, I’d agree.” Aviere retrieved her concealed handgun and pointed it at the opened door. “However, Sanderson loves riling me. If he really has it out for me, he’ll announce the event, especially since Peters is public enemy number one inside the compound. However, an audience doesn’t bother me.”

  “Something does.”

  “No one found Karyn last night, so I stayed here to avoid seeing Jemina. I don’t need her or Q meeting me and demanding answers.”

  “Someone delivered a picture of Greene to you this morning, addressed with your name and with a ransom note inside. We’re analyzing the fingerprints to track down the culprit, but we suspect Chelsea is hiding at another hidden warehouse facility. It’ll be three or four hours before forensics comes back with results, so get comfortable waiting.”

  “Already on it. Luckily the note came in before I had to deal with Cray. When we are done, I’ll give you the address. It’s better to strike at night, anyway. No use going to the Government District in broad daylight and attracting attention.”

  “You’re right.”

 
“You two planned this,” she accused, straightening her aim. “This entire exercise, I mean.”

  “Nah. I warned Peters against the idea, but he’s arrogant. Still, he’s not kidding about his shooting. He’s won the national competition for three years now. In fact, he’s better than me.”

  “Then why is he a pencil pusher while you’re the cleaner afraid of his own shadow?”

  “The hospital incident wasn’t the first time Peters tried shooting a civilian. His temper and PTSD got him barred from field duty. He blames us for his demotion, but Peters forgets about those instances… or the times he lost his badge and gun on suspension.”

  “High-profile civilian?”

  “Besides our lead detective at the BCPD? Yeah, if you count the director.”

  Mirth twinkled in Aviere’s eyes. “I see.”

  “Peters disagreed with his performance review and popped a few bullets when he got passed over for promotion as a lead investigator. He’s good at his job, but prefers to work as a criminal profiler. When he got reassigned here…”

  “Yeah. The Renegades are a one-stop shop to fuckville.” She peeked at the organized desk before discovering a collection of photographs in a collage frame. “I’ll consider meeting with the director to lift Peters’s restriction if he’s as good as you claim.”

  “The director promised—”

  “Keith, a potential profiler is an asset. He’ll understand if I explain why.”

  “His medical history disqualifies him. There’s no way you can lift the decision. We tried appealing.”

  Aviere waggled her eyebrows as she stole the Beretta from Travis’s hands. “Roland used his medical history as an excuse. He plays everyone. I’m familiar with this game.” She ran a hand over her precious needle gun. “That’s why I’ll head down to the FBI’s headquarters and have a nice discussion while pissing off his secretary again. I don’t like Peters, but shooting Da earned some brownie points.”

  “You can’t tell Peters, Mye. He’ll feel indebted.”

  “That’s the point.” She went down on one knee and searched through the duffel bag for another magazine. “I’ll have him in my pocket. He’s honor-bound, a flaw if you follow the rules.”