Free River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) by David Riley Bertsch Page A

precipitation out.
    Their ragtag look turned some heads as the men walked through the dining room and back to the bar. Randy mean-mugged the other patrons in return, but Tinny, oblivious to their judgment, gave a goofy smile, revealing his tinged teeth.
    â€œWhat can I get you boys?” The female bartender’s warm smile betrayed no such judgment. She set down two cardboard coasters.
    â€œA microbrew,” Tinny answered eagerly, feeling all high-class.
    â€œNo, idiot, it’s not like that. They got different kinds.” Randy gave the bartender an apologetic smile.
    â€œI’ll give you a minute.”
    They buried their heads in the fold-over pamphlet that described the brews.
    â€œLookey, they got a nut-sac beer!”
    Randy looked where his comrade was pointing. There was a blend of the Hazelnut Ale and the Sacajawea Stout for six bucks. He didn’t laugh. “Something cheaper. You won’t be able to appreciate that anyway.”
    The bartender returned. Tinny stuttered ordering his pale ale—he found the waitress rather endearing—and then he giggled when Randy asked for the nut-sac.
    â€œGreat. You’ll like it.” She smiled and turned to fill two mugs.
    â€œFuck is that ’posed to mean?” he mumbled when she was out of earshot.
    Tinny just shrugged.
    A cold blast accompanied the squeaking of the back door andthree armed men walked in wearing uniforms. It wasn’t a kit that Tinny recognized, dark green and brown color scheme. Wool. Expensive. Like from a Barbour catalogue. They walked right by the bottling bucket and fermenters. Sat only ten feet away.
    â€œCops?” Tinny whispered.
    â€œShut it.”
    One of the men adjusted his sidearm as he sat down, nodding hello at the criminals. Randy’s face turned red and that held the man’s look for a second longer than usual.
    â€œâ€™Scuse me.” Randy got up like a rocket and went to the bathroom. Shit! He’d been to jail once and never wanted to go back. He splashed cold water on his face and tried to relax. It’s fine, we’ll just have a beer and get out of here.
    He pushed the hollow bathroom door open too hard and it banged against the pictures of other breweries on the wall. The men with guns stared, but their server finally distracted them with tonight’s specials.
    Randy sat back down and took a big swig of his beer. It was probably good, but he couldn’t taste it.
    After their first brew, Randy felt more comfortable. The high alcohol content of the microbrew finally gave him the buzz he was looking for. Tinny was watching SportsCenter and asking silly questions about sports rules.
    â€œHaven’t you never been exposed to nothing ?”
    â€œWhat, like nut-sac?”
    Tinny was drunk too, and the men roared at the joke. The officers next to them stared, looking displeased.
    â€œSorry, fellas,” Randy hollered with exaggerated sarcasm. The men nodded and went back to their food.
    â€œSay, what is it you boys do?” Randy was pointing at one of the men’s sidearm.
    â€œIFG,” a sturdy dark-haired man replied. He was trying to avoid a conversation.
    Tinny and Randy laughed. “What the hell is that? Like CIA?” Randy backhanded Tinny on the shoulder as he spoke: Get a load of these guys!
    â€œIdaho Fish and Game.” The dark-haired man turned his broad shoulders to Randy. He pointed to the state IFG crest. Below it, a name tag: Agent Carlisle.
    â€œAgent?” Randy asked. “Really?”
    Carlisle stood and fully revealed his mountainous frame. He was clean shaven. Short hair. “Are you men driving anywhere tonight?”
    â€œHell no!” Randy finished his remaining half a beer. “Staying just down the street.”
    â€œWhere at?”
    â€œHell if I know. Some shithole.”
    â€œRiverside.” Tinny spoke up. “Called Riverside.” He remembered the sign’s artwork—a trout