Turbulence: Book One in The Renegades Saga

by E. M. Whittaker

She tried dragging Rutherford’s limp body for cover, but only managed to rise to one knee before a bullet embedded in her left thigh. Seconds later, Clouse Rutherford’s head exploded and brain matter splattered against the porcelain tile.

  Blood coated the Poisoner, but pain grounded her as the air pistol pointed at her aggressor.

  Aviere's chest heaved as she delivered a high-pitched roar, wiping brains and blood from her face. The glasses shielded her eyes, but hindered her sight as her shifter instincts triggered. Even channeling her donna persona became an endeavor as dismay and shock surfaced.

  Cerulean eyes locked on the assassin as Aviere removed her glasses. Muscles rippled and adrenaline flooded Aviere's lithe frame. Her head swam as copper assaulted her nose, crooning her to turn predator.

  No. Even as a shifter, I’m not immune to bullets. If I regenerated, it wouldn’t be an issue. Travis may become a victim if he realizes my true form, and the massacre’s being recorded as evidence.

  Her mind fixated on logic while emotions tried forcing her body to its appropriate form. She dodged two more rounds as she scrambled inside the bathtub, using it for cover. As her pulse thudded in her ears, Aviere concentrated on the curses Travis spewed while rattling the door.

  Aviere held her breath, listening for the assassin’s footsteps across the tiled floor.

  He’s used four bullets, and a revolver should contain six. Bluff him so he uses the last two, Vi.

  She peeked her head from the bathtub and discovered him cackling over Rutherford’s lifeless body, draping the corpse over his shoulder. The Poisoner’s hand steadied as she used both hands, firing poisoned needles at her target.

  The barbs embedded into the door’s wooden frame as the assassin sidestepped, grunting in disapproval. Then he adjusted and fired as Aviere ducked back into the bathtub.

  After ten seconds, Aviere raised her head, nodding as he tried reloading one handed.

  Thought so. Time to stop the assassin.

  Aviere repositioned herself and waited for an opening. The dead body covering her assailant’s shoulder left Aviere at a disadvantage. When he dropped the magazine, his black trench coat dipped, exposing creamy flesh.

  Without hesitation, Aviere fired, congratulating herself after hearing the assassin’s maddened cries.

  When Aviere glimpsed at his neck, she grinned. Twelve tiny needles were embedded in the hitman's neck.

  She propped herself up and gasped, shoving her hand against her thigh. A cool sweat coated Aviere’s skin, but she limped from the bathtub, faltering when her adversary dropped the revolver from numbed fingers. Then he crumpled to the floor, buffed by Rutherford’s limp form.

  Desecration of a corpse, Aviere thought, applying more pressure to her thigh. Clouse, you deserve better, my friend.

  As an anguished sob escaped her prey, the bathroom door smacked against the wall. Aviere twisted, biting her lip as she faced Travis before pointing to the fallen assassin. Her finger glided to Rutherford’s form, then gestured to her leg.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Mye! I turn my back for five seconds and you get yourself shot!”

  “If you caught the goddamn assassin and performed your job, I wouldn’t be injured,” she retorted, cracking her shoulder as she applied more pressure against her thigh. “When I mentioned checking the bedrooms, I meant with your energy, not trampling through the corridor like an elephant.”

  “You weren’t specific.” Travis’ gun waved at Aviere’s body. “Please tell me—”

  “Rutherford’s, not mine.”

  “Motherfucking Christ!! I told you to quit touching evidence, Mye!!”

  “Continue to yell and the ammunition will wear off,” Aviere warned. “But I’ll mention your grievances to my superiors, Travis. Clouse Rutherford issued a contract before his death and I wasn’t denying Rutherford his last request.”

  “If Rutherford was an ally, why assist with a breaking and entering?”

  “Nothing’s guaranteed in the Underground.”

  The bewildered look almost made Aviere seethe, but she gazed at the assassin, instead.

  “Besides, you’re with me. An Underboss avoids the cops unless necessary.” She knelt to the assassin and studied his facial features, gasping when she recognized the shiny blond hair, pointed nose, and muddy brown eyes. “I never liked you, Harrow Aravice. Imagine Darren’s surprise when he learns about your night job.”

  “Same goes for you, bitch,” Harrow interjected, grunting under his breath. “What the fuck’s in your piece?!”

  Aviere closed her eyes, riding out the wave of pain pulsating from her thigh. “Same shit I always use, Harrow. I assumed you’d know, considering this is the third time.”

  “I should’ve iced you at the fucking apartment, Mye—but those goddamn brothers of yours killed my men. One dis—”

  “You raided my apartment,” Aviere interrupted, shoving Harrow’s face into the tiles. “You hired men to destroy my Accord. Afterward, you shot my brother and slaughtered countless innocents, Harrow. The rules of the Underground apply to everyone, not a select few.”

  A resounding crack revealed she broke Harrow’s nose as she bashed his head into the floor again. Blood poured from Harrow’s nostrils as he spit blood on the floor. “Vinny’ll give you a proper thrashing—hell, might use you to replace the hooker he frightened off. He’s got a sick obsession with you, Mye. Hell, I’d tap you. For a conniving bitch, you’re sexy as hell.”

  The Poisoner’s eyes turned stony. “Did you just admit you wanted sexual relations, Harrow?”

  “After Vinny’s done—if he’s willing, cunt. Consent’s an overrated thing. Every woman submits once the body realizes how great sex feels.”

  Aviere tensed, before turning pallid. Fresh, cold sweat beaded her brow and she willed herself to block images threatening to surface. She gripped her necklace again, banishing memories and the inhibiting fear.

  I’m stronger now. I don’t need Limere or Gunther to defend me from some perverted assassin. Harrow signed his death warrant, and I’ll defend my position when the Underboss demands justification.

  A sinister smile passed over Aviere's lips as she regarded Travis’ stunned expression and stopped the recording. “You know what, Harrow? Screw talking to the Underboss first.” She slipped a hand down her knee-high boot and retrieved a vial filled with transparent liquid. “Pedophiles and rapists are the worst scum God created, and I won’t hire felons linked to those atrocities.”

  “You’ve got some questionable characters, Mye,” Travis muttered under his breath. “Dalara, for example.”

  “Lim’s only problem is drugs, not raping innocent women. Celene’s the perfect example—into older men, like her goddamn mother.” Aviere’s expression hardened when she grasped Harrow’s throat, burrowing her fingers into his floppy neck. “Under normal circumstances, I’d let the Underbosses decide your death. But you shot Maurice, and he’s not associated with the Underground, Harrow. You delivered a personal message to establish I’d find Clouse Rutherford’s corpse. I think Armandi will forgive me for honoring Clouse’s request, considering you tried bolting with his carcass after performing the assassination.”

  The vial pierced his jugular vein, and she jammed the trigger, letting the liquid enter Harrow’s bloodstream. As soon as the vial emptied, she dropped Harrow’s heavy form, stumbling against Travis for support. Cerulean eyes hardened as Harrow croaked before suffocating, his paralyzed body convulsing uncontrollably.

  “You overlooked one important detail, Harrow—I’ve completed contracts for almost fifteen years. Assassins like you aren’t complicated to eliminate once your ammunition’s gone.”

  A sick satisfaction played in Aviere's eyes as she watched Harrow’s desperate struggle. Twenty seconds passed before Harrow’s eyes rolled backward. He panted as his face tinted violet and lips turned blue. One final strangled croak left Harrow’s lips before going limp, eyes half open when his heart stopped.

  She squeezed Travis’
shoulder. “Frisk Harrow. I’m sure there’s poison on him.”

  “Mye, what the hell—”

  “Simple paralysis agent, Travis. The gun contained paralysis liquid. The syringe? Something more advanced for the creepy bastard. Mimics a heart attack. The only evidence the coroner will find is elevated levels, not any traces of chemicals.” Lightheadness gave Aviere tunnel vision, and she scrutinized the blood leaking from her thigh. “Shit. Missed the artery—but hurts like hell.”

  “I can’t believe you killed the assassin while gushing blood, Mye.”

  “Emergency room,” she mumbled, clutching Travis’ arm. “Teleport me there.”

  A tender hand touched her clammy forehead. “Your Ferrari—we can’t leave it behind.”

  She fished the keys out of her pocket, dropping them in Travis’ hand. “Drive.”

  “Either I’m teleporting you—and you vomit on me—or I drive, and you bleed to death.”

  When Travis voiced both possibilities, Aviere answered with a gentle laugh. She leaned into the agent as her legs buckled. “Come back for Jet, Travis. Sistine Memorial Hospital. Teleport me alone, if nothing else.”

  “Out of radius, Mye. Not an opt—well, screw it, Peters feels nice. He’ll call Rodriguez to pick up the damn Ferrari.”

  “Mina—fuck, I hate owing her favors.” The words seemed hollow as she took shallow gasps. “Supposed—to handle this on my own, goddammit.”

  Warm arms wrapped around her slim frame before vertigo sent Aviere’s dizziness up a notch. “You’re good, Mye. But drop the bravado and let me help, or we’ll die in a few minutes.”

  Aviere struggled to remain awake as Travis cradled her, but the vertigo from the teleportation spell taxed the last of her reserves. As the whirring sound followed her into darkness, Aviere’s last thought bordered on fabricating an acceptable excuse about her missed appointment. After realizing Travis’ presence would explain everything, the Poisoner gave up, too exhausted to direct Travis further.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pandemonium encompassed Travis for the next twenty-four hours as he continued on high alert inside Sistine Memorial Hospital.

  He paced across the halls, avoiding Aviere’s family. The anguished glares Limere cast didn’t ease Travis’ guilt, despite Aviere’s insistence on acting alone. The frantic calls from Peters, berating calls from Sanderson, and emails from the director added to Travis’ fraying nerves. Stale coffee from the cafeteria did nothing for his increasing fatigue or paranoia. Undercooked french fries and warm lunch meat on pita wraps were unbearable.

  Travis longed for home, leftover meatloaf and homemade mashed potatoes, but remained trapped in the hospital until Aviere recovered.

  The image of more bland hospital food turned Travis’ stomach, until he remembered Aviere ate the same tasteless meals.

  Despite finding amusement at their shared hardship, Travis’ mind wandered. At every passing individual, the agent rested a dry hand over the Desert Eagle. Some nurses gasped and scuttled away while other patrons complained to the receptionist in the waiting room. After the fifth complaint and an explanation to a supervisor, Travis stormed off, wishing he could alleviate his pent-up irritation.

  Annapolis Junction returned to Travis’ thoughts, and the night replayed like a silent movie inside his mind.

  Each flashback invoked powerful emotions and Travis closed his eyes, pausing mid-stride down the bleak corridor. The memory of the shootings tightened Travis’ throat until pain radiated from his Adam's apple. Rutherford’s deceased children brought tears to the corners of Travis’ hazel eyes, but the images continued in an unending loop.

  As Travis’ memories rewound, he attempted to understand what had prompted Aviere to kill Harrow, despite angering the Underground and operating without permission.

  Travis recalled the events at Rutherford’s residence and grounded his teeth at Harrow’s threat to send her to Vinny McSeeten. The notion of the older man violating the lithe Poisoner stirred unbidden feelings in Travis’ heart. He rubbed the top of his handgun and surprised the nurse strolling through the hallway.

  I shouldn’t become attached, Lyssa! If I’m eliminating Mye—

  “Sir, you’re not supposed to carry firearms in the building.”

  The nurse’s harsh tone made Travis snap in her direction. “My partner’s in the intensive care unit. Jesus, I’m tired of every freaking person trying to assassinate her.”

  “I don’t care what your reasons are. No weapons inside the hospital.”

  Travis narrowed his eyes and flashed his federal badge. “I said, my partner’s in the intensive care unit and I’m protecting her!”

  “Then stand at her door instead of pacing through the lobby, sir. You’re startling the other patients.”

  “Her family’s confrontational.”

  “You’re talking about Aviere Mye?” A slight smirk crossed the nurse’s glossy lips. “Yeah, I agree. They’re a handful, but they’ll stop bickering once she’s stabilized. Lots of complexities, you know. Least hubby isn’t here. I don’t think Doctor Lemont likes replacing doors or damaged equipment.”

  Travis adjusted his earpiece and dropped the handgun back in its holster. “I never met Mye’s husband.”

  “Temperamental man. Mr. Gunther threw a breathing machine at me once when I first started.”

  The agent gaped. “And you didn’t quit?”

  “Ah, to be fair—I gave her the wrong medication.” The nurse’s uncomfortable expression dropped as she escorted him down the corridor. “Look, Aviere’s family means well, but they’re stressed people. They’re all peculiar. But the visitor list is growing. There’s people I don’t recognize, but Doctor Lemont said to allow them inside Aviere’s room when she wakes.”

  Travis pressed two fingers against the earpiece. “One second, miss.” He dipped his head and talked in a flat tone. “Peters, what the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m en route to the hospital, Travis. Like, I’m literally leaving my house and driving there.”

  So much for inside information, Travis thought, inspecting the lobby.

  “I didn’t get your name, agent.”

  “Travis.” He noticed Joe’s gigantic form power walking toward him. “I'd consider leaving, miss. Might turn hairy.”

  The aqua-haired nurse meeped when she saw Joe’s form, but stayed by Travis’ side, brandishing her pen at the werewolf. “Mr. Randolph, stop chasing people in the ward.”

  “Listen to the good agent, Samantha. I’m not looking to fight.”

  “I’m working overtime!” she said, nibbling on her pen. “Jesus, if it’s not Limere, it’s you or Miss Rodriguez scaring the patients! At least Maurice—”

  “Samantha. Leave, now.”

  Travis noted Joe’s darkening sienna eyes and elbowed the overzealous nurse. “Listen to Randolph. Go have lunch or check other patients. You can’t be solely for Mye.”

  Samantha bit a fingernail, but fled when Joe growled and stepped toward her.

  “Did you have to scare her, Randolph?”

  “Sometimes, humans have good intentions, but are nosy creatures—like you, for instance.” The mechanic pressed a foot against the wall and cracked his knuckles. “I heard about Rutherford and her brash behavior. The whole weekend’s shot to hell and Vi’s happily recounting her ‘funnest’ adventure with her Debbie Downer rent-a-agent.”

  Travis snorted, then coughed before responding. “I see. High on narcotics, then?”

  “My girlfriend’s handling the damage control between the Underground and the Renegades, not to mention the race gangs. Poor Limere’s close to snorting coke if someone doesn’t give that bastard good news. Hell, I’m pretty sure Smirnoff Ice and my daughter’s sexual escapades won’t lower that boy’s blood pressure.”

  “Glad to see where your priorities lie, Randolph.” Travis stared at his bloody trench coat, praying a dry cleaner could eliminate the gory stains. “Meanwhile, your crew’s safe from a severed head if Mye dies.�
��

  “I’m not here to criticize, agent. I’m aware of Vi’s reckless behavior.” The werewolf retrieved a sealed bottle of amber beer from his back pocket. “I warned Vi against racing yesterday evening. Fact, I suggested she skip it—but you see how that went. Headstrong and cock-eyed, Vi strutted in, expecting life would be normal for three hours.”

  “I don’t think Mye expected Maurice to turn into a target, Randolph. She admitted it to Harrow Aravice before she poisoned him.”

  The statement was worth watching Joe spitting beer on the wall. “Wait—she caught the hitman!?”

  “We did. But I said to pick the locks, not chase Aravice inside a closed room. I’m not certain how he snuck inside a bathroom, but Mye held her own until shock kicked in.” Travis wet his lips and straightened his hat, observing the scuffling hospital staff to avoid looking at smoldering sienna eyes. “Every time I’m about to write Mye off—”

  “I’d avoid that subject; the Underboss arrived twenty minutes ago.”

  The agent slowly faced Joe, riding out the spasms from his right hand. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Louis Armandi’s in the lobby with the rest of the dons and donnas. Quite a few people showed up to thank Vi for killing Vinny’s assassin and avenging their previous bosses. But there’s another reason I’m here.”

  A tense silence lingered as Travis gazed at the disappearing amber brew, questioning how Joe hid liquor inside a hospital. Bloodshot hazel eyes pinched shut, seeking to moisten his eyes against the sterilized air. Travis scratched his neck and overlooked his rumbling stomach, jumping when Joe tossed the glass bottle into a metal trash can.

  “Travis, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I wanted to thank you.”

  Travis stumbled backward before cupping his ear. “Come again?”

  “Look—Aviere’s a demanding bitch. Sometimes, she needs help. Other times, she’s fine on her own. I don’t support Aviere getting hurt, but you didn’t interfere with her decisions. She’s got to learn somehow, otherwise she’ll never survive Jem’s antics or Sanderson’s ruthless operations.”