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

couldn’t stop his mind from wandering down that road. The bow-tie wearing, musty tobacco–smelling old law professor had scolded him in front of the whole class. “Weak!” the curmudgeon had shouted, spit flying and pen pointing. “Every decision in the history of man could lead to unforeseen results. You slippery-slopers would hog-tie our decision makers if you had your way.”
    So Jake Trent, the attorney, never uttered the perfunctory phrase in a courtroom, and he was well prepared to argue against it.
    * * *
    The hot shower left him wanting more. The humidity stuck to his body, even in the air-conditioned town house. He yearned for crisp, thin air. For immaculate white snow and effervescent mountain creeks. It would all rush in when he stepped off the jet and walked down the stairs, where the Tetons stood behind him. To the west.
    Maybe give Noelle a ring. Tell her he had been afraid. That he had panicked when things got serious, convinced by his past that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. And he would confess to her, tell her how he really felt. That he loved her.
    His confidence was coming back. The call from J.P. had put him squarely back in his element. He thought about Esma and how he would find her. That was his first priority.
    He hoped J.P. was wrong and that Esma was simply incommunicado, but he knew it was a mistake to treat the situation as such before he could evaluate it. He had to be prepared for the worst.
    After last summer’s events, he had taken his Glock 30 Mariner Edition out of storage and cleaned it. The 110-lumen Streamlight TLR flashlight and aiming laser was dusty but spot-on. He’d tested it in a canyon a mile from the bed-and-breakfast. Put a cluster of three in a soda can from thirty-five yards. Not bad for being out of practice.
    The Mariner had been a gift from a Mossad agent in the Philippines. It was waterproof and fired with deadly force after full submersion. He’d verified that. On its barrel was the acronym OSI. The Office of Special Investigations.
    In the bathroom, Jake put on deodorant and did thirty quick push-ups to flush the adrenaline that was flowing through him. He hopped to his feet and wrapped a towel around his waist, whichhad seemingly become rounder in only a few days in DC. Then he took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom to face the music.
    * * *
    â€œAre you fucking kidding me? Is this because of last night?”
    Not a very good start. “No. My friend is in trouble.”
    â€œThe whole country is in trouble, Jake!”
    â€œNot like this.” He was packing his bags.
    A quick hug and he was out the door. The luxury rental had a parking ticket on its windshield. $170. Parked too far from the curb.
    * * *
    At the airport, Jake found a café kiosk and ordered a large coffee. He was beginning to feel normal again, although the acidic brew made his stomach turn. It hadn’t seemed to recover from his first-day hangover.
    By the time he reached the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, Jake was staggering, too sick to consider boarding his connecting flight. He checked into the airport Hyatt and dialed a doctor. The stomach cramps and nausea made it difficult for him to stand, so he lay in a crumpled ball on top of the bedding. Lights and TV off, he mulled the emergency room. No sleep. There was a physician’s office close by, but they couldn’t see him until the morning.
    The night lasted an eternity. It was hellacious. Every object offended Jake: the blinking colon between the alarm’s numbers, the surface of the bedspread. Even the small crack of light shining under the door from the hallway.
    In the morning, he mustered up the strength to get into theshower and brush his teeth so that the doctor wouldn’t have to deal with the smell.
    Downstairs, he hailed a cabbie, who told him he didn’t look so hot.
    No shit. Pick up the pace.
    The nurse didn’t