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

jumping over a rainbow—on the drive in.
    â€œDon’t get into any trouble on your way back,” Carlisle said. Then he sat back down, apparently satisfied.
    Randy kept on at him. “What do you do here?”
    Carlisle sighed loudly. The other men at his table were chuckling. Pitying him for having to suffer such a fool.
    â€œWe’re tagging steelhead. We monitor their numbers. See where they migrate. How they behave.”
    A pause.
    Then Tinny spoke. “Oh?” He laughed and winked at Randy. “You hear that? Tagging steelhead . . .”
    Randy glared at him.
    The wardens were at attention now.
    Randy laughed exaggeratedly. “You drunk fuck,” he yelled loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. Just two old pals yanking each other’s chains.
    He then turned to the wardens. “You gentlemen have a great evening,” Randy said. He nodded at Tinny, threw down cash for the beers, and left.
    Inside the shed next to the cabin, Esma had again tried to free herself. It was no use. It only bloodied her wrists and ankles. The restraints allowed her some movement, but the ten-foot shackles were a tease—all she could do was pace and walk in circles. Like a dog on a chain.
    Gravel crunched. An engine sighed its final grumble and then died. The uneven cadence of their steps told Esma they were drunk. Their voices were muffled by the cedar planks and insulation of the shed, but she got most of it. Girl. Shed. No one . . . find out. Ever.
    â€œ ¡ Gilipollas !” she blurted out. They heard her. Went silent. Then snickered.
    Esma whispered it this time. “ ¡ Gilipollas !” Not that these idiots would understand. Now she yelled as loud as she could, her anger burning hotter than the desert sand.
    â€œAssholes! Fools! Bastardos! I’ll kill you!” Esma started to weep.
    Her tone disarmed Tinny. “Maybe not tonight; she sounds like she might bite your dick off.”
    â€œShut up and get the condoms; I don’t wanna get the clap.”
    This Esma heard clearly. She looked toward the heavens, obstructed by her wooden prison, and crossed herself. Her chains clanged to the rhythm of the gesture.

11
    WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 18. 7:30 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
    A day-old Washington Post was tucked between the backseats of the car. Divya was busy on her phone, so Jake skimmed the paper, looking for something interesting. They were headed to another chichi restaurant after another day’s work.
    â€œOverpopulation Viruses” in Slums
    Alarm African Officials
    Nairobi, Kenya—Local health authorities are reporting a dramatic uptick in mortality rates from transmittable diseases among the poor. The outbreaks are attributed to crowded living conditions and lack of clean water.
    Oyhed Ausim, chief physician at the nonprofit Kenyan Children’s Clinic, called these new health statistics disturbing. “As the population continues to grow, wewill reach a critical mass, if we haven’t already. From that point on, viruses will spread and mutate at an alarming rate, a rate that no nation in the world is prepared to cope with, especially Kenya. It’s horrifying, really.”
    In Asia, where several nations are battling population-fueled disease outbreaks, government officials have convened to consider various proposals to stem the problem.
    On Maryland Avenue, the driver stopped and opened the door for Jake, who walked around to the other side and opened Divya’s. She was still sitting, waiting for him to do so. The driver was savvy, allowing Jake the opportunity to be gentlemanly.
    You’re not helping! Jake wanted to say.
    â€œThank you.” Divya got out of the backseat.
    â€œSo what’s this place all about?” Jake asked, referring to the restaurant.
    â€œYou’ll have to wait and see.” She winked. Flirty again.
    Jake handed the driver a tip, likely not a very good one in this town.
    Inside, cool-blue neon