The speed limit box passed from wine red to pitch black and Travis swore the machine croaked.
Bright overhanging street lamps, traffic signals and brake lights flashed into Travis’ eyes as he referred to the scenery instead of Aviere’s erratic pace. His ears pounded from harsh metal music blasting through Aviere’s speakers. The warbled singing seemed halfhearted compared to Aviere’s crazed driving, and the speedometer topped out at 120 miles per hour.
Travis wondered how fast the Ferrari traveled but remained silent, studying Aviere’s tightened lips and flickering cerulean eyes. She fumbled through lyrics and choked on a verse, discharging an unsteady breath before conducting an abrupt right turn.
The agent squeezed his eyes and clung to the leather seat, but couldn’t stop his body from smacking against the door. Tires squealed against the asphalt before a rough gasp escaped Aviere.
“Mye, slow the fuck down!” Travis yelled, straightening as he rubbed his throbbing shoulder. “Jesus, we can’t investigate Rutherford’s house if the Ferrari’s totaled!”
“Cool your jets,” Aviere snapped. “The GPS says we’re in Rutherford’s development.”
As she slowed the Ferrari, Travis reached for Aviere’s arm. A hand hovered over flushed flesh, reluctant to comfort after Aviere’s warning inside the townhouse. The stony expression across Aviere’s grim face made Travis’ stomach churn.
Screw it. Mye’s not clawing me—Jesus, her younger brother took two bullets. Anyone with a heart would worry. Perhaps she’s not a cold-blooded killer, Lyssa.
When she shuddered and blinked away tears, Travis patted his fingers across her arm.
A deep growl resounded in Aviere’s throat before Travis retracted his hand.
“I advised you against touching me, Travis.”
Travis shrugged, pointing to her blinking Bluetooth as they entered clean suburbia. “Get rid of the Bluetooth, Mye.”
The Poisoner responded with a brusque tone, chilling Travis with her certainty. “No.”
“You can’t call Dalara if you’re dead, Mye,” Travis said, staring at the two-story homes and wide driveways. “Besides, hospital stuff is tedious. Dalara’s either stuffed in a waiting room, trying to block out a single mom screaming at bratty kids, arguing with Rodriguez, or filling out heaps of paperwork. Waiting rooms—”
“Sistine Medical doesn’t tolerate bullshit.” A meager smile settled on Aviere’s lips. “Raymond’s aware of Jemina and Limere’s feud—considering Ray’s his father.”
The Ferrari stopped outside a massive three-story house as Travis’ eyes widened at Aviere’s explanation. “W—Wait, I thought—”
“Limere’s my older brother, but we’re connected through Ma, not Da.”
“Your family dynamics are complicated, Mye.”
“I thought Agent Neuro told you. He’s great at online research, you said.” The momentary comradery lifted when Aviere parked the automobile and reached for a slim silver gun resting in a holster on her waist. “Raymond will keep Lim busy, but let’s concentrate on Rutherford. The sooner we finish, the quicker I arrive at Sistine Medical. I may have skipped a doctor’s appointment and Raymond’s heated over my lackadaisical behavior.”
Travis opened his door, studying Aviere’s clumsy movements as she locked the Ferrari. The pistol hung beside her instead of cupped with both hands positioned in a slant. He slapped a palm across his forehead and fetched the Desert Eagle, flinging the door as he rushed behind Aviere.
Shuffling his feet as he crouched in position, Travis sighed when Aviere struggled with the safety of her pistol.
“Damn thing’s jammed.”
No, Keith. Let Mye go. Observing’s the only way you’ll fix her shortcomings.
In Travis’ ear, Peters chortled. “You’re leaving your life to an untrained hellcat, Travis.”
The edge of Travis’ mouth twitched as Aviere fumbled, bare finger sliding the safety on again. It happened a few times and Travis’ finger slid over the trigger of his weapon, hooking on the button each time Aviere failed. After the fifth try, Travis’ eye pulsated as he rocked in place, scouring the perimeter for any trespassers.
Thirty seconds later, he identified three targets—one with a waning life force, a brilliant burning aura and one veiled in darkness. Two bright auras chased each other inside the residence, one struggling to elude the other.
He concentrated on the tan wicker patio set and the polished swing moving from the breeze. A sea-green tricycle and turquoise bicycle remained chained next to the deck’s railing. On the stairs, Travis spotted broken shards, some stained with blood.
Mye’s got lock picks, Keith. Let her break inside Rutherford’s home.
The agent drew a heavy breath before approaching Aviere, redirecting her hands. Travis positioned the pistol and observed Aviere’s astonished eyes. “Hold it, then aim. Unhook the safety before shooting.”
Instead of subtle sniffing, Aviere’s nostrils sounded clogged. “I'm aware, but I mentioned the pistol’s jammed, Travis.”
The agent nudged his head toward the shattered glass. “Find a way inside while I fix your firearm.”
“You’ll shoot me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mye!” Travis objected, snatching the pistol from her relaxed grip. “Rutherford’s inside and so’s the goddamn assassin!”
Some fire gleamed in Aviere’s cerulean eyes, but Travis furrowed his eyebrows when she continued sniffing the air. “Fine.” The Poisoner handed the silver air pistol to Travis. “But copper’s strong near the entrance. Rushing inside without a plan’s risky.”
“You’re going to the shooting range,” Travis continued, inspecting her weapon. “If you’re carrying a piece, Sanderson will expect proper marksmanship.”
“Sanderson?” The Poisoner knelt next to the wooden steps before sliding on another set of gloves. “Asshole throws knives.” She pulled two tools from her boot before clicking ensued. “Besides, I’ve other weapons.”
“Stop bitching and hurry, Mye. If the neighbors catch us—”
“Worry about the cleaner instead of innocent neighbors too naïve to comprehend Rutherford’s involvement.”
They met each other’s eyes and Travis backed down when Aviere raised an eyebrow. Huffing under his breath, Travis returned to Aviere’s modified air pistol, pairing her in the same category as Peters regarding field training.
To Travis, Aviere Mye possessed many talents, but shooting guns and loading ammunition didn’t reach the top of his list.
He decided to begin firearms training the minute their assignment ended—if they survived the assassin waiting inside Rutherford’s three-story home.
The gun proved problematic, but Travis appreciated Aviere’s ingenuity, intrigued by its design and lightweight handling.
While lightweight, the ammunition proved sufficient. As Travis removed the magazine, he located a series of needles with minute traces of liquid inside the middle. He wiggled the safety and groaned, finding Aviere’s issue within seconds.
Jesus, Mye—have you ever cleaned the firearm? Even I clean the Eagle, and she operates well.
Travis wished for some gun cleaner but drew his eyebrows together, examining the auras occupying the dwelling. As he wiggled the safety, one aura snuffed out. The agent shivered as he reassembled Aviere’s pistol, ignoring his tingling fingers as the front door finally opened.
“Took forever,” Aviere muttered, shoving her lock picks back inside her boot. “I’m working with old tools, but we’re inside.”
Travis nodded before thrusting the pistol in Aviere’s direction. “Good.”
Joints cracked as the Poisoner rose and reclaimed her weapon, but Travis’ throat seized when her eyes shifted before him. Irises turned to slits and cerulean changed to a sky-blue tint. The transformation excited the agent, but played on primal fears, recalling Peters’ animosity toward his co-workers.
Before Travis stomach knotted further, an unsteady finger pointed to Aviere’s face. “M
ye—”
“Sorry.” She closed her eyes before snarling. “Hunting instinct. Pungent blood awakens primal urges sometimes. Either way, there’s a deceased man inside.”
Travis steeled his body at Aviere’s foreboding tone as he brandished his handgun and motioned Aviere to follow.
From the corner of his eye, Travis glimpsed Aviere’s movements, different from the stance he chose. While he shuffled his feet and crouched halfway, she stood ramrod straight, sauntering with purpose and a commanding demeanor. Every few strides, she drew a shallow breath, exhaling after discovering something lurking in the air. Sometimes, Travis caught Aviere shaking her head, uttering possible guesses about the assassin's identity.
However, the one-handed stance she used while carrying the pistol made Travis grind his teeth. His neck muscles locked as his jaw throbbed from the distressed position.
“Travis.”
The agent paused, counting to five before discharging a stormy breath. “Mye.”
A scuffed, ripped pointer finger pointed to the staircase above them. “Pungent.”
The quiet, accented word sent shivers down Travis’ spine. Goosebumps followed as he followed Aviere up the cream carpeted stairs, rolling his eyes at her reckless behavior.
Lyssa, she’s used to delegating, not field work. Christ, I bet Mye could extradite Rutherford’s body and hire her own assassins. She knows contacts, yet she’s determined to continue by herself.
The stairway proved short-lived, but Travis studied the family portrait greeting them at the stairwell. The beige walls proved haunting, especially with a lifeless victim lying face down on the carpeted walkway. He hesitated when Aviere crouched, leaning over the carcass.
Travis cringed when Aviere brushed jet-black strands off the woman's neck.
“Mye!” Travis hissed, yanking back Aviere’s arm. “Don’t disturb the evidence!”
“Christ, how else do we determine cause and time of death? There’s no coroner here.”
“Travis, you got your hands full,” Peters admonished, sounding amused. “Backup’s on the way—coroner and paramedics included. Just capture the bloody assassin and hightail it from Rutherford’s place.”
Travis responded, but Aviere held up a hand. “Oh, Neuro—what would Travis do without you? Almost like Batman and Robin, really.”
“You and Dalara can be Bonnie and Clyde, then.”
“Hard to accomplish with nine lives, Neuro. Besides, we’ve lasted longer than those desperadoes.”
Fuck’s sake, Lyssa—Peters had to retort when Mye baited him. Give me patience, sweetheart.
Travis jerked Aviere toward him, whispering harshly in her ear. He sneered when Aviere winced, identifying chives from his heated breath. “Stop fucking with Peters and focus. We’re on limited time.”
“Then release me. I was studying the victim.”
“Do it without disturbing her,” Travis suggested, releasing Aviere. “You got that fancy iPhone. Snap pictures, if nothing else.”
“We don’t have time for pictures, Travis.”
Travis’ heart lightened before releasing a delighted sigh. “See, Peters? She’s not a yuppy like you.” He backed away two steps, spotting splattered blood on the wooden railing. “Take at least one photograph, Mye. It’ll make Peters—”
“Seven,” Peters interrupted. “I need seven. Placement photos, too.”
The sea-green and sooty-cased iPhone landed in Travis’ palm, accompanied by Aviere’s condescending stare. “You collect them. Code’s unlocked, so don’t leave my phone idle. Tell Agent Neuro to stop distracting us—we got enough on our plates. In fact, turn off the damn earpiece so you can scout around.”
Travis expected a rebuttal from the nasally agent, but blinked at blissful silence.
“Travis, you’re lucky I respect you. Now, open the damn camera app and snap some pictures before the iPhone locks.”
The agent fiddled with the iPhone and followed Aviere’s directions, wondering how she took command over their present situation. After accessing the application, Travis grinned, turning the phone to show Aviere the message on her screen.
She knew, Travis thought when Aviere pocketed her phone. Clever woman.
“Peters, Mye’s iPhone is full.”
Ceramic shattered on Peters’ line and cursing ceased when the line terminated.
“If Neuro knows you teleport everywhere, he forgets you’ve got a photographic memory, Travis.” The gradual revelation accompanied Aviere’s shaking head. “That’s useful—more than placement photos.”
Travis nodded, positioning his handgun at the gray matter splattered across the railing and carpeting. Blood trickled from the victim’s skull. “Least you understand, Mye. But the feds and other factions want photographic evidence.”
“Keep track of Rutherford. Copper’s wafting down the hallway. I suspect Rutherford’s children received the same treatment his wife did. Go check the bedrooms while I cover the other rooms.”
Travis’ words died from parted lips as Aviere stalked away, brushing brunette strands from her right shoulder.
As he rushed behind her, the last brilliant life force dimmed, then stopped at the other end of the corridor.
He licked parched lips and called for Aviere, but clenched his fist as he spun toward her retreating form. She thrust him aside and bolted toward the auras, gun thudding against her thigh. Seconds later, Travis grunted, rolling his eyes as she twisted a locked doorknob.
Lyssa—sweetheart—God help me. Mye’s on a collision course and the train wreck’s gaining momentum.
“Travis, check the bedrooms! We might save Rutherford if I unlock the goddamn door!”
Hazel eyes studied the door, confirming Aviere’s comment. The pale light grew duller, seeking to regain its shine. Then another aura slithered toward them, bouncing locations. Travis jerked his head to the side before adopting a defensive stance, handgun pointed down the hallway.
“Mye, your yelling attracted the assassin! Move away from the door!”
“Rutherford—”
“He’s dying, Mye! It’s us or him!”
Travis darted down the hallway, using his senses to investigate the other rooms. One scene captivated him as the killer inside himself activated. Crimson-covered bright yellow bedsheets, a cream comforter, the beige wall and the tiny wooden nightstand. A young girl’s horror-filled eyes remained glued to the ceiling, clouding over as rigor mortis set in. Travis spotted a solid thin line across the girl’s neck and blood congealed where she bled to death.
Minutes before, Travis would have shown sympathy.
Instead, he aimed the gun, sneaking behind the bedroom door. He twisted the knob, opening slowly so the hinges didn’t squeak. By the time Travis inched inside, the aura faded, leaving him alone inside the bedroom.
Seconds later, the bathroom door opened, then banged shut without protest.
Damn it, Mye—that assassin’s mine.
The cleaner stalked down the hallway, but withdrew into another bedroom when gunfire echoed through the house. As he dived into another bloody bedroom, Travis scanned the aura. A diabolical smile crept on his lips at the prospect of killing another unjust criminal.
Protecting the Poisoner dissipated in importance as Travis focused on his target, waiting for an opportune moment to eradicate him.
The gunshots chilled Aviere as she pressed her back against the bathroom door, one hand clutching her peridot necklace. The other grasped the silver air pistol, shaky as she gasped at the crimson stains around the immaculate bathroom floor. The porcelain-tiled floor accented the blood pooling around the victim and the splotchy hand prints against the matching tub and sink.
As she studied the large hand prints, a gurgled croak diverted her attention. When Aviere turned her head, she blinked as Clouse Rutherford’s ashen hand reached toward her. The thudding heartbeat hammered as she peered into cloudy, emerald eyes.
Goddammit, Travis. The least I can do is promise Clouse vengeance.
Quickly, Aviere flipped through her iPhone and deleted gaming applications, clearing space to record Rutherford’s last conversation. Once she started the recording, she stashed the phone in her blouse and took Rutherford’s hand. “Clouse.”
“Bastards,” he croaked, blinking over and over at Aviere. “Lil—Vinny—”
“Yeah, I know.”
Aviere spoke in a gentle voice as she propped Rutherford against her lap, gripping his icy hand. Cerulean eyes checked Rutherford’s injuries and spotted an entry wound through the aorta. Blood gushed over his pressed tan Polo and Aviere met Rutherford’s dimming eyes, noting the blood trickling from his forehead.
Damn, Travis. Called it, didn’t you?
“Mye.”
She almost missed Rutherford’s bubbling whisper, but recoiled as blood dribbled from his lips. “Yeah?”
“Get—ice the bastard.” Rutherford coughed and blood landed on Aviere’s blouse. “Get Vinny—for Eisen—Irving—me. We suppo—supported you, Mye. Rest—Louis—they’ll follow.”
The painful sigh made Aviere tear up, and she clasped the dying man. “You’ve been like family, Clouse. Eased the rivalry between factions—hired good attorneys when Gunther and Lim were incarcerated—funded the research for my medicines. I thought—shit, what can I do? I can’t even defend my goddamn family.”
“Use Sande—Sanderson.” Rutherford gasped and groped for Aviere’s face. She guided the cold hand to her tense neck and her pulse throbbed against clammy flesh. “Trust your partners, Mye. Louis—he’ll—he’ll take care—of you.”
“I prefer to do this by myself,” she murmured, lips quivering as she fumbled out words. “Clouse—no one cares about Gunther but me, not anymore.”
“Forced silence, Aviere.”
She pulled away from Rutherford, and sniffed, eyes locking on the shadows creeping from the bathroom window. “So it’s true.”
“Louis—Sanderson—use them. Get Vinny. Promise me, Aviere.”
Before she answered his heartfelt plea, Aviere spotted the assassin entering the bathroom window.
Turbulence: Book One in The Renegades Saga Page 22
