Turbulence: Book One in The Renegades Saga

by E. M. Whittaker

  Travis fumbled through the parking garage, stopping at a dark cherry Corvette parked next to a dingy black Dodge Charger and a puke green Ford Escort. Bright light shined on the parking spot, brightening the vehicles against the dark. A wiry man leaned against the front of the Corvette, wiping his hands on oversized, greasy overalls. The greasy fingerprints continued on his white t-shirt and the faded purple Ravens sports cap.

  This guy seems normal. But then again—

  “You're on time,” the unknown mechanic greeted him. “Good. Getting late.”

  Travis’ shoulders tightened, and he rolled his body inward. “I don’t recall mentioning my appearance on the phone.”

  “Boss said you’re easy to spot in a crowd.” Stained, greasy fingers gestured to Travis’ outfit. “What moron wears a trench coat through Charm City?”

  “My wife got it for me and she’s dead,” Travis spat. “I’m aware it’s hotter than hell, thanks.”

  The wiry stranger waved his hands before moving to the side. “Whoa, my bad.”

  Travis held out his hand. “Keys, please.”

  “Stop worrying, agent man.” The keys thudded against Travis’ palm. “This beaut will match Mye’s high-power Ferrari.”

  Did the car need to be red? Travis asked himself, thumbing through the keys. And why do I have four keys?

  “Ah… don’t you have something more low key?”

  “No.” His contact scratched the back of his neck before pushing a ginger braid off his shoulder. “Pulled strings to soup the Corvette for you. It’s not as good as Mye’s, though—mechanic’s hooked her with top-of-the-line equipment. You got any problems, call the number. Ask for Ritcher. I’ll try to fix it up, depending on your issue.”

  “How’s she able to afford custom work?”

  “Her mechanic is good. I know him.” Ritcher scratched his chin, raking dirty fingers through his dark boxy beard. “He knows what he's doing and offers her good prices. Course, she feeds his habit, so…”

  So the werewolf fixes the car, huh? I thought one crony worked on it, but it makes sense. Mye’s too invested in the Ferrari.

  “I guess it’s a tradeoff.” Travis admired the cherry-colored Corvette in the dim light. “Just don’t like sneaking around with the Corvette.”

  “Yeah, I understand.” Richter rubbed a hand against the Corvette’s hood. “Racing is illegal since the war ‘cause the government can’t regulate the sport like football or baseball. Personally, I think it’s the underground connections. The gangs sanction it to line their pockets.”

  “I see. So how’s Mye involved, other than participation?”

  “Mye places in the top three at these events. She’s a role model. Everyone needs a hero—an idol, if you will.”

  “Sounds like you’re one of her fans.”

  “I am,” Richter answered, tugging on his loose t-shirt. “She's turned down quite a few offers from shady folk. But then, there’s good offers Mye’s cut loose. Not sure why, though.”

  The mechanic’s talkative, but his information’s useful.

  The watch beeped and Travis tensed, seeing a four-mile difference from them. “Ritcher, did Mye turn down any substantial ones?”

  Ritcher shrugged a shoulder. “She signed with a broad—think her name’s Eisen. The others asking were Irving in East Baltimore, and Lil’ Vinny. God, I hate that prick.”

  “Any last name for Vinny?”

  “Nah. Just goes by Lil’ Vinny. Guy’s a douche, with a new woman every time you turn around. But I can’t see Mye latching onto him. There’s a bright future in her career.”

  Travis fingered the key in his palm. “You think?”

  “Kid’s been racing since high school, mirroring her mama. Her mechanic’s one of the best and she’s earned respect from us car junkies. I don’t believe the word on the street about her killing people. Mye’s too sweet to kill anyone.”

  “Have you met Mye?” Travis said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Nah, but word travels. Woman’s temperamental, but her mama was sick a long time. Took over the family business after she died. Even when her mama died, she made sure everyone received their medication. But I’m getting off topic.” Richter waved Travis in his direction. “Before you leave, I’ll show you ‘round the beaut.”

  Travis almost gagged from pungent body odor and grease, but cradled his wrist against his hand, eyes flitting around at each vibration from the watch.

  “You’ll like some of the toys inside.” Ritcher opened the door and shined a tiny flashlight at the center console. “One’s a modified GPS system the cops would itch to get their hands on. The Corvette can fit through underground tunnels, so use it to get around Charm City. Sure you can figure out how to operate it.”

  Travis sat inside the Corvette, butt squeaking against fresh leather seats. Then he gazed at the wide GPS screen, flashing to life. “You got a place to stash the Corvette when I'm not using it?”

  “I don’t know all that. I just fix stuff.”

  The GPS finished booting, interrupting Travis’ beginning statement with its mechanical voice. “Tell me your destination.”

  Travis pressed a few buttons, looking for a way to pair the watch with the advanced GPS system. “Ritcher, can the GPS pair with this? I’m tracking her live.”

  “One second. This one’s more advanced; so let me fiddle with it a minute.”

  The body odor was laced with garlic and cheap cologne. Travis held his breath, breathing slow as he leaned back in the seat. The mechanic’s precise movements reminded him of old sci-fi shows and advanced computers, but stopped when the screen blinked and the watched beeped multiple times. A few seconds later, it focused on Aviere’s location.

  Holy cow. It’s a bigger version of the watch, only I can see the map. Kind of cool it points out the exact distance and coordinates at the bottom, too.

  The foul stench stopped permeating Travis’ air when Ritcher moved to lean against the green Ford Escort.

  Thank god. Maybe I’ll be nicer when Mye talks about smelling people. Shit, I—

  “Pairing complete,” the machine dictated. “Press start to proceed to the chosen route.”

  “Great, the GPS talks,” Travis said, starting the car. “This isn’t Knight Rider, for christ's sake.”

  “You can turn it off,” Ritcher called. “Manual’s in the glovebox.”

  Travis slammed the car door and hurried out of the garage, speeding past the ticket clerk screaming about paying the parking toll.

  Chapter Nine

  The chilly breeze from the open car window rejuvenated Aviere as she sped down the interstate, reflecting on her encounter with Limere a few hours before. The news Limere reported seemed grave, contrasting the hopeful thoughts she bore. Loud metal music and blaring guitar solos from her speakers didn’t quell the bleak thoughts or lighten Aviere's mood, but fed her concern while she flew down the interstate.

  Oranges and reds blended in the dying set, setting a majestic tone to the intense drive. It conflicted with the multiple cars flipping her off as she dodged and weaved into traffic, thriving off the thrill. As Aviere’s speed rose, she turned up the volume and sang to the lyrics, driving in tempo with the fast song. But even with her bravado, Aviere’s movements seemed clumsy as her pulse pounded—unlike the night before, where she raced to stop from behind apprehended.

  Without danger or competition to compete against, no challenge presented itself.

  The broad grin morphed to a pout at the epiphany, and her thoughts shifted to Vinny McSeeten, struggling to thrust them aside.

  Aviere slammed the accelerator and her breath escaped her, rounding a sharp left in time to avoid colliding with the automobile in front of her. Then she struggled to control the Ferrari, sweating and panting with a hand on her breast after straightening.

  Yet Aviere edged on impatience, yearning for someone to compete against to soothe her apprehension.

  Joseph’s right. I’m not on point tonight and racing badly is
unacceptable. McSeeten’s antics need stopping before—wait.

  Aviere watched a black car move behind her in the same lane, flashing its headlights at her three times. After the third time, Aviere associated the headlights with a familiar car and hissed.

  Joseph! I thought Limere dropped off his delivery! Where’s the Mustang? Joseph’s driving the—oh, shit.

  Headlights flashed again and Aviere’s excitement diminished, grunting at Joe’s hand signaling to take the nearest exit. Shoulders slumped after scrutinizing the green exit sign toward BWI Airport. She flipped her wrist and peered down at the bracelet’s screen, choking at the wide division between Travis and herself.

  Before she cursed, the deafening alarm rang from the bracelet.

  Aviere squeezed her eyes and pulled over, body locking in place as she battled the sharp shrill pitch blaring her ears. She pressed her arm against her breast and wrapped a palm around the bracelet, hoping to suppress the noise. The alarm continued and Aviere held her breath, settling for gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

  Vi, decide. Either go backwards or pray Travis catches up with you.

  She had just shifted in reverse when the alarm ceased. Blood pounded Aviere’s ears and neck as she stopped. Her back ached when she slouched, beating on her heart to relax. Then her back pocket vibrated as her friend honked the horn behind her.

  Christ, this bracelet’s a hindrance. Perfect weapon for Sanderson to keep us compliant.

  The vibration against her butt stopped, then started again ten seconds later.

  Aviere yawned and brushed a hand on the back of her neck, burrowing her fingers hard to work out tight muscles. She straightened her back, overlooking the dull throb and tension in her neck. After one last honk, Aviere shifted the car back in drive and headed down the ramp, jamming the radio to its highest volume until drivers yelled at her through their car windows.

  In the darkness, Aviere caught a glimmer of crimson through the passenger’s side mirror and a hint of coconut mixed with flowers against the windy drive.

  Joseph, why did you bring Jemina with you?!

  The Poisoner broke a hundred miles an hour as she exited the highway and drove onto the road headed toward the airport, baffled about her best friend’s insanity. The thought of explaining her position to her detested rival made Aviere’s face flush, despite the cool breeze blasting her brightened cheeks. Tense muscles threatened to seize and Aviere spotted a deserted shopping center, slammed her brakes, and turned inside when she slowed down.

  As soon as she parked, Aviere pulled the phone from her pocket and squinted at the text message. She nibbled on the end of her glasses, noting the time as she powered down the car. Keys clutched in hand, Aviere slammed her foot into the accelerator, fighting against the twinge in her leg and the knot in her gut.

  The notion of contracting Jemina Rodriguez chilled her and Aviere wondered who to trust, gnawing her lip as she stepped out of the car. The Poisoner leaned against the Ferrari and played with an app on her smart phone, smirking when loud clipped demands bellowed from the sleek Mako Shark parked a few feet away from her.

  Twenty minutes later and during Aviere’s fourth stage of her candy puzzle game, a door banged, finishing her friend’s argument. When another door opened, the knot in her belly hardened. She raised her head gradually, casting suspicious glances to the two figures storming toward her. After a few seconds, cerulean eyes rested on the small Puerto Rican sauntering in her direction.

  Why did Joe bring Jemina Rodriguez, knowing I despise her? Christ—she’s still in hooker clothes and chain smoking at every opportunity.

  Aviere coughed when the smoke drifted to her, checking out the cigarette lingering between Jemina’s manicured, chubby fingers. Her rival brushed ebony tresses from her shoulders and sighed when she puffed out her enormous chest. Ruby lips snugly grasped the butt as Jemina smoked and Aviere shook her head, lowering her glasses to consider Joe.

  “Joseph, you violated my trust,” Aviere declared, sliding the phone in her rear pocket. “I would’ve reached Jemina tomorrow if—”

  “I’m not in the mood, Vi.” Joe rounded on Jemina, snatching the cigarette out of her hand. “And you—I allowed two while driving. Be considerate of Aviere’s allergies.”

  Broken English spilled from the Puerto Rican’s pouty lips. “Stressed, I say. Sí. Difficult thwarting others from targeting partner.” Then Jemina thrust her finger at Aviere. “Besides, I working on important case before boss—”

  “I’m not surprised, Jemina,” Aviere interrupted, grinding her teeth. “You’re always working, considering you’re dressed like a hustler. But stop smoking. I’ve experienced enough of Joseph’s temper today.”

  “Hmph.” The woman scowled as Joe dropped her cigarette to the asphalt and ground it out. “He deal. Needed meeting with you.”

  Aviere lowered her glasses and pointed at Jemina’s ruby cocktail dress. “In a short cocktail dress, Jemina?”

  A plump hand splayed across Jem’s chest. “Working, I say. Clothing work well undercover, Aviere.”

  “Unless you’re—”

  Aviere stopped when a fist banged into the side of Jet’s frame.

  “Vi, Jem—stop. I need a six pack before listening to another argument today.” Joe leaned against the metallic cerulean Ferrari, grasping his temples with his hand. “You demanded this meeting with Aviere, Jem. Talk, not bitch.”

  The Poisoner clamped her hands on her hips, leaning forward and scowling at the grizzly werewolf. “JJ, I didn’t want—”

  “Listen to you, puta.” Broken English fell from the Latina’s lips, replaced with a smooth, sweet tone. “You work for Sanderson. Word travels, you know—especially news about new recruits. Hell, people praised your attempt to kill rogue agent—me included. But you forget my specialty.”

  Aviere directed her hostile glare toward Jemina. “What do you need, Jemina?”

  “Talk.” Jemina wiggled pudgy fingers around before tightening them. “Sanderson assigned you my case. Better suited, though. You’re the Poisoner of Charm City.”

  “You’re required to cooperate,” Aviere said, striding toward the tiny, muscled woman. “You despise my line of work, Jemina, but you’re hankering for information.”

  “Am I?”

  “Jemina, you’re speaking proper English—only used for manipulation.”

  The tanned woman snickered. “Perhaps.”

  “Maybe Sanderson’s tamed the Black Widow, hm?”

  Manicured nails scratched tanned flesh before twirling an ebony curl. “Aviere—I hear rumor about you. Sanderson’s livid—hear you racing tomorrow.”

  Aviere shook her head, tweaking the bridge of her nose. “I considered, but Joseph’s against the idea.”

  Bitter laughter resounded in Aviere’s ears. “When you listen to Joseph, Aviere? You horrid liar.”

  “I’m not participating,” Aviere repeated, voice soft.

  “You full of shit, Aviere.” Jemina rubbed her exposed chest, plunging a hand in between her cleavage. “Never known—”

  Another fist banged against the Ferrari, almost denting the frame. Muscles ripped from Joe’s arm and sienna eyes boiled in irritation. “I swear to God, Jem—”

  “God, you asshole when sober, Joe,” Jemina muttered, rooting through the large matching purse on her shoulder. “Cigarette—yes. Need another smoke.”

  Aviere wrapped her hands around her shoulders. “Sorry, JJ.”

  “At least you’re sorry, Aviere,” Joe replied, holding up a hand before walking away. “Settle your bitchfest and exchange information. I’m hitting the bottle.”

  Sorrowful blue eyes trailed to the asphalt, following Joe as he strode back to the Mako Shark. He snatched a bottle out of the front seat, kicked the door shut, and popped open the container. After devouring the bottle, the werewolf set the glass on the trunk and wandered off, grumbling under his breath.

  Well, at least Limere did something right, Aviere thought, reaching
a hand toward her friend. But—

  Strong fingers seized Aviere’s wrist before lowering her arm. “He tense. Let Joseph go.”

  “Fine.”

  Aviere’s gaze remained on Joseph’s long strides, pacing back and forth from the end of the abandoned supermarket to the Ferrari. She furrowed her eyebrows when Joe jammed both hands inside his pockets and fabric ripped.

  Jemina upset him, but—

  “Great, another set of pants ruined,” the Latina spat. “See what happen when—”

  “Hector Irving got iced at North Monroe Street this morning,” Aviere stated. “Reese mentioned you told him.”

  “Oh, sí, sí.” Jemina’s ruby red lips pursed together in understanding. “Irving and associates shot to death. Two shot in face. Shame—I’m out about few hundred bucks. Couple quick blowjobs for tip and—”

  “Jem!” Joe’s objection carried against the chilly air, but Aviere sensed his resentment. “All you love is money, woman. Jesus Christ, I’d hoped you stopped prostituting.” The werewolf’s raging eyes intensified when Aviere met his gaze before shifting to Jemina. He returned to the chunky woman’s side, wrapping his arms around her plump stomach. “I make enough money for our family, Jem. I didn’t agree to your job, but now—”

  Aviere cleared her throat before another dispute broke out, grasping her bicep. “Settle your arguments at home, when I’m not uncomfortable watching cutesy moments.”

  “Cutesy?” Jemina stepped out of her partner’s embrace, trudging to Aviere. “Please. Just because you alone not mean others suffer. World still move on, Aviere.”

  The Poisoner dug her fingers into her collarbone, clutched the flesh, and exhaled hard. “Sorry, guys. Sanderson reveled in my emotional suffering at our meeting—but he agreed to help me find Gunther. I’m testy after talking about him.”

  For a fleeing moment, Aviere understood Jemina’s muttered protests, almost inaudible to human ears. She glimpsed the bruiser’s quivering form and unsteady hands. Jemina combed a hand through her hair twice, shaking her head in disbelief. “You what?”