Turbulence: Book One in The Renegades Saga

by E. M. Whittaker

“All right. I’ll contact you later, Peters.”

  Travis grinned and tilted his head to block the sunlight from his eyes. His stomach growled, protesting at being hungry for hours at a time. A hand rubbed his stomach and Travis glanced around, growling at his limited options for lunch. The memory of hazelnut creamer triggered the agent’s longing for coffee, but Travis brushed it aside, heading back to the townhouse he left ninety minutes earlier.

  Dalara, Lyssa. For the compassion he shows Mye, something’s amiss with her brother. However, I need to understand what everyone means by sponsorship. Is it about Mye’s night job or another position with her beloved Underground?

  As Travis hunched forward, rolling his shoulders and pressing his arms close, he detested Mye’s ability to question his logic. Hot, sweaty and hungry, Travis shuffled to his destination, eager to buy lunch on the way.

  His stomach growled once more, and the agent thought of mashed potatoes and meatloaf. The simple reminder of a home-cooked meal reminded Travis to put in for vacation time as soon as their assignment ended.

  Whether he’d receive clearance or not, one day to prep a week’s worth of lunches would be worth Sanderson’s complaints while saving money from his paycheck.

  When Travis rounded the corner, clicking keys serenaded his ear. Peters’ fast typing kept Travis focused and the memory of food faded, focusing on his assignment instead.

  Chapter Eleven

  I forgot to ask Lim about his meeting before he wandered off.

  Aviere sped faster, expecting the muggy breeze to purge the marijuana in the family vehicle. She maintained a tolerable speed but grimaced when she halted for a red light, the smell wafting through her nostrils. Wrinkling her nose, Aviere checked her gloves and her billowy sky blue sleeves, making sure her hidden weapon remained concealed.

  The touch of cool metal reassured the Poisoner as she turned through the intersection. After driving a few miles, she gagged, bombarded by the stench of rotting eggs and flatulence. As she parked outside a sewage plant, Aviere cracked her neck, gawking at two golden eggs beside the building.

  Shit, Darren. Every time we meet at the Golden Eggs, the sewage permeates my clothing. This better be serious, or you’re paying for another set of clothes.

  The hairs on her neck rose and butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she exited the Accord. Aviere slipped a hand in her pocket, comforted by the hidden blowgun. She brandished her keys in her fist, balling it as extra weight if she required punching someone. Once she headed underneath the treatment plant, Aviere crept through the trickling tunnel, blanching at the rancid water and floating untreated sewage.

  Christ, Darren—next time, I’m choosing where to meet you. If I ruin my spare outfit—

  Clomping sounded against the walkway of the tunnel, then stopped seconds afterward.

  Great, more surprises, Vi.

  One hand clenched into a fist at her side. The other retrieved the blowgun, masking it against a strong fist. She flickered her eyes around, snarling when the harsh scent of the sewage and treatment chemicals concealed the pursuer. Unwashed brunette hair surrounded her face before she jerked her head at another loud noise.

  Another series of clomps continued, inching closer toward Aviere.

  The Poisoner headed to the pathway on the right, then pressed her back against the wall, quieting her breathing. Her hammering heartbeat pounded in her ears and throat, muscles twitching as she shuffled forward. Aviere squeezed her fists, deliberating which weapon to use against her adversary.

  Blowgun, Vi. Keys only injure, blowgun will paralyze.

  Aviere spun at another set of heavy footsteps, but the tunnel remained empty. Her blouse stuck to her skin, slick with sweat. Strands of hair clung to her neck and face as she pushed forward.

  Christ, Lim and I didn’t disclose our location. Travis wouldn’t act so clumsy. Peters—Neuro—he’s on house arrest from Sanderson. Is this one of Sanderson’s men, or Lil’ Vinny’s?

  Aviere stared at the murky water until it rippled nearby. When the ripples widened, Aviere slipped her keys in her side pocket. She feigned ignorance as a faint jasmine scent deepened through the putrid stench.

  Movements whistled through her delicate ears and the aggressor’s odor intensified. Aviere lifted her hand and connected with a solid object before they backed off, leaving fuchsia cotton dangling on a claw.

  The splashing strengthened in intensity and Aviere removed her glasses, willing her eyes to shift in the dim tunnel. The silver blowgun touched her lips after identifying an unknown figure in a red trench coat.

  Bloody Red Coat Society.

  Loud sloshing diverted her attention away from the original intruder. Gracefully, the feline spun and aimed her blowgun, pausing at the sight of khakis and a fuchsia button-down shirt. The bright shirt helped Aviere focus on the complete figure and scowled at the electronic taser. “Darren…”

  “Donna, lower the blowgun,” Darren pleaded, pointing to her weapon.

  The silver blowgun lowered, but Aviere darted an eye to the side, growling when the mysterious pursuer wearing the fuchsia trench coat disappeared.

  What’s the Red Coat Society chasing me for? Christ, Travis—you pissed off the wrong organization…

  “I noticed you’re prepared, Avi dear,” the man declared, creeping toward her. “Mother of God, you almost iced me.”

  Icy blue eyes glowered, then closed until normal vision returned. “Darren Wisenthal, you deserved it. After learning about my predicament, you stalk me. Why?”

  The rugged man chuckled, tugging on his ripped sleeve. “You’re getting serious, Avi dear. Vinny McSeeten sent the Red Coat Society after you because of the company you’re keeping. And meeting in the tunnels isn’t peculiar, considering I’m a pusher most of the time.”

  “Sweet Christ,” the Poisoner swore. “I hate dealing with those bastards, Darren.” Slim fingers clasped the blowgun until her fingertips turned white. “We hid when Limere—”

  “Yes, I recall.” Darren’s head moved like a typewriter, creeping slowly from side to side. “But they’re hunting the rogue mage, not Limere.”

  Aviere thrust her wrist at Darren, ribs aching from holding her breath. She hid her face when Darren backed away, wide-eyed. “Darren, Travis is protected by the Renegades, like me. Wait, rephrase. With me.”

  “How the hell—”

  “They wanted Vinny’s death, so they appointed me his executioner.”

  “Avi, dear—you’re a lucky feline.”

  “Depends on your definition.” She covered her bracelet, tugging on the glove until the leather tightened on her fingers. “However, my apartment is destroyed. I’m forced into this situation, and my partner’s determined to assassinate me for Eisen’s demise.” After mentioning Travis, she slipped the glove down, peering at the miniature screen to check his position. “Anyway, report.”

  “You’re closer to locating our don, donna.”

  “No.” Aviere clenched her jaw. “I’m no longer with the mafia. I’m a Renegade now.”

  “Aviere, you’re the rightful donna of Central Baltimore, not these new players without experience. We’ve worked together for eleven years and you’re generous to the community. After you retired, I moved to South Baltimore. Made good money as a runner, but your medical supplies are half my business.”

  “Get to the point, Darren.”

  “I consulted the new don about your situation.”

  “Did he assign the contract?”

  “No.” Darren’s eyes gleamed with life. “But he’s aware of Lil’ Vinny’s plans. We’ve followed his operations for years, donna.”

  “Lil’ Vinny murdered Eisen and Trenabour. I was shown Edith’s photo in interrogation and a close source told me about Trenabour.”

  “Hector Irving got iced at the Hilton Hotel,” Darren told her, voice glum. “It’s a matter of time before their factions run to Vinny.”

  “Clouse Rutherford’s alive.” Aviere recalled the stocky crime lord
, constantly joking with the higher ups to relieve tension between the dons and donnas. She teared at the notion of Vinny murdering a dear colleague. “Vinny will regret framing me.”

  “Donna, there’s another player.” Darren retrieved a flowery booklet and flipped through it. “One second—he slipped me a card for you.”

  The Poisoner lowered her silver-rimmed spectacles, fingers gently holding the long handle of the blowpipe. “I’m listening.”

  “Louis Armandi was Hector Irving’s right hand man. He’s famous, so he’s not around often. But he’s the next contender for South Baltimore. Perfect man, considering he handles finances and operations under the premise of multiple businesses.”

  She picked at her lip, furrowing her eyebrows. “His name’s familiar, but can’t place the face.”

  “Armandi’s never at meetings—more behind the scenes. Irving believed in giving Armandi free rein instead of micromanaging him.”

  Aviere noticed Darren’s eyes continuing to flit back and forth while expressing respect about the don he followed. She sniffed, but no scent registered. While Darren continued, Aviere thought, struggling to remember Louis Armandi’s face.

  Armandi built an empire selling perfume and cologne, but something else nags me. Why can’t I recall his other businesses? They were significant, too.

  “Darren—if Rutherford dies, which don controls Charm City?”

  “Armandi, Avi dear. He’d hire the Vulture as his new Underboss."

  Great, Aviere thought, masking her trepidation. The one who probably started the contract. I’m screwed.

  The cloudy water reflected her dejected thoughts as her chin touched her chest. The pounding heartbeat slowed to a painful throb and hope waned, replaced with numbed emptiness. She shuffled her foot, examining the ripples and splashing water while thoughts tumbled inside her mind.

  “The Vulture never ordered the contract, Avi dear.”

  Aviere snapped her head back up, her eyes on Darren. “What?”

  “Your close connection with the Black Widow saved you. She insisted on your innocence.” Darren winked before scratching his arm. “She also declared she’s waited years for the opportunity to murder you.”

  Aviere covered her mouth and chuckled, wiping tears from her left eye. Tense breath escaped her heavy chest, brightened by the revelation. “That’s her, charming everyone. I hate owing Jemina favors.”

  “I understand, donna. She mentioned you’d loathe her involvement. But the Vulture declined protecting you from Vinny, stating you’ll have to prove your innocence.”

  The Poisoner stepped back, snarling. “How the hell—”

  “That information wasn’t presented, donna.”

  Of course not. Knots formed in Aviere’s belly as she fingered her pocket. That’s not a definite order, either. So maybe I can interpret it as an approved contract. However, if I’m wrong—

  “Donna, if I may?”

  Aviere waved Darren off. “You’re dismissed, Darren. Call Lim about Armandi.”

  “I presume the Vulture meant to eliminate Vinny McSeeten. The Underground’s stumped finding him. We lost him days ago—actually, when Black Widow visited her relative.”

  “Jemina doesn’t entrust me with anything,” Aviere retorted, squeezing her neck. “She’s the freakish one. Strong enough to lift an eighteen-wheeler. But me? I’m—”

  “Aviere Mye, you’re the Poisoner of Charm City. The Renegades hired you to eliminate Lil’ Vinny.” Her colleague gripped her shoulders and Aviere inhaled cinnamon mixed with jasmine, delightful in the dank tunnel. “The Underground were worried when you filled Gunther's shoes, resulting in various assassination attempts. When Gunther fended them off—”

  “What do you know about him, Darren?” she whispered. “He disappeared.”

  “Someone made him, Aviere. We’ve discussed this and plotted a way to restore your family’s tarnished reputation.” Darren slipped a business card inside her rear pocket, cupping her face against smooth fingers. “The Renegades hiring you ensures valuable protection.”

  “You’re a fool,” Aviere said, devoid of emotion. “The Renegades use people.”

  “Armandi understands your doubts, Aviere—even with their organization. He ordered me to initiate today’s meeting. Your hobby intrigued him, considering he managed other street racers in the past. Armandi mentioned you by name—said you might remember him if I disclosed that detail.”

  Her eyes widened before glancing to the water. “Briefly. He financed my mother.”

  “Anyway, donna—Armandi’s number is written behind the card. Schedule a meeting, determine your options.”

  The mask crumbled, but she hardened her features before losing control. Straightening her back, Aviere jutted her chin, lowering Darren’s hands. “I’m supposed to handle business alone, Darren.”

  “You have, donna.” Darren straightened the collar of his buttoned shirt as his hazel eyes twinkled. “Always. Now, we’re helping you. Martinez, Marco, and I aren’t thrilled about the new don of Central Baltimore. Definition of gangster mafia, down to the pin-stripped suit and fedora.”

  “Copying Maurice’s style,” Aviere murmured. “But I’ll finish—”

  “Donna, please.” Darren knelt to one knee, lowering his head. “I sent Harrow to look into your mage’s background while initiating contact with Limere about future orders. I’m leaving Maryland to fulfill supply orders—including yours. I’ll return when your assignment’s completed.”

  Beneath the impenetrable mask, Aviere questioned Darren’s sentence, narrowing cerulean eyes. Her breath quickened as she stared down the tunnel’s entryway, pressing her eyebrows together at two shadows illuminated through the light from the drainage vent. Muffled voices carried before rapid gunfire rang through the tunnel.

  “Darren, run!” Aviere ordered, shoving him aside. “Don’t protect me—just escape.”

  Aviere bolted past the horrified pusher, relying on feline prowlness to elude the bullets tailing behind her.

  The Poisoner stumbled when she exited the tunnel, dismayed by the bloody bodies littering the parking lot. Copper permeated the air, nullifying the scent of the sewage. Crimson stained the blacktop, oozing from entry wounds and mortal blows. Heavy fire diminished and silence punctuated the severity of her situation.

  Upon closer inspection, Aviere noticed the full black bodysuits, and a cracked gas mask on one faceless victim.

  They killed innocent workers—men and women with children. Christ, Vinny—when did bounty hunting entertain you?

  Her back pocket vibrated as gunfire echoed again.

  Aviere seized the cell phone and swiped her screen to answer, cramming the device in between her cleavage. The shots continued when she opened the Accord’s door and dived into the front seat. Quickly, she fumbled for her keys and started the car, yelping when a black car appeared in her rearview mirror.

  She squinted, examining the vehicle’s design. After twenty seconds, she shifted in reverse, almost striking a light pole at her panicked speed. Aviere shifted into drive and banged on the accelerator, shouting into the phone when a gunshot zinged off the Accord’s metal frame.

  “Limere, the assassin’s shooting the fucking Accord!”

  Aviere understood Limere’s voice, but the rapid gunfire muffled his response. She locked onto the black car again, recognizing the model as a Porsche. The passenger slid out of the seat and perched on the window, positioning a machine gun at the Accord with a diabolical grin.

  The crimson trench coat made Aviere turn ashen, and she pumped on the accelerator, banging her fist against the steering wheel when the Accord barely broke 100 miles per hour.

  Another round of bullets shot from the magazine, but every bullet missed the automobile.

  Aviere turned to the right, fighting to breathe properly. Her throat hurt, begging for fresh air. Fingers clutched the leather-gripped steering wheel and another muffled response yelled through her iPhone. After pumping the gas and overlookin
g a painful cramp, Aviere risked putting the call on speakerphone.

  Aviere turned to the right, fighting to breathe properly. Her throat stung, begging for air. Fingers clutched the steering wheel and another muffled response yelled through her iPhone. After pumping the gas and overlooking an excruciating cramp, Aviere risked placing the call on speakerphone.

  “Limere, teleport to the Golden Eggs! The wastewater plant! Someone’s firing at the car!”

  The Poisoner hurried before the gun fired again, gaining some distance from the Porsche. The shooter remained poised on the window frame, reloading their magazine. Aviere’s gaze wandered to the driver, but tinted windows prevented her from identifying them.

  If the assassins drove Mercedes, I’d understand. The Marauders harbor a vendetta against us, but Dom’s crew never used guns. Lil’ Vinny’s itching to execute me if he’s using professional racers and the Red Coat Society to track my movements.

  Another round fired and the back window shattered.

  Adrenaline and instinct guided the Poisoner as eerie calm relaxed her. Limere’s voice rambled on the other line and instructed her to retreat. She cracked her neck, timing the rhythm of the bullets.

  Forty-five seconds later, the gun paused, and the operator reloaded.

  Aviere spun left at the incoming intersection, zigzagging through cars before racing toward the Porsche. Muggy wind caused hair to intercept her vision, but Aviere pursued, jamming the Accord into the front of the Porsche. The thunderous heartbeat continued until she swore her heart leapt from her chest.

  At the last second, delicate hairs raised on the back of her neck and forearms and she sobbed in relief as her form dissipated.

  Aviere’s driver’s seat phased through her as she hovered in the air. Her body propelled backward and motion sickness effected the Poisoner, down to dizziness and nausea from the vertigo. The last scene Aviere witnessed comprised of colliding metal, a projected body sailing down the highway, and bullets passing through her before she disappeared from view.

  Bile threatened to pour from Aviere’s mouth when she opened her cerulean eyes, staring at Limere’s ashen face and stiff-lipped expression.