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“From California,” she said as she poured.

“That obvious?” asked Rick.

“Your buddy’s shirt,” she said, tipping her head in Mike’s direction.

Rick hadn’t noticed that Mike was wearing one of his favorite surf shirts. It featured a Californian bear carrying a longboard. “Good pickup,” he said, paying for the beers and leaving a healthy tip. He and Rick took a seat at one of the tables and gave the rest of the clientele the once-over.

There were a dozen rough-looking characters spread between the bar and a side room that housed a full-size pool table. The men in the bar looked like truckers, while the guys playing pool, dressed in leather, were bikies.

They’d been seated less than two minutes before two of the men playing pool broke away from the table and strode toward them.

“Here we go,” said Rick.

“You fuckers look like cops,” said the larger of the men. They were both barrel-chested, bearded, and dressed in what bikies called ‘cuts’, the classic leather vest that bore their colors and insignia.

Mike laughed. “Not cops. We’re sailors from down south. We’re looking for an old teammate of ours. Word is, he drinks at this bar.”

“No cops drink at this bar,” snapped the big guy’s partner.

Rick ignored the comment. “His name is Gavin Kane.”

Neither SEAL missed the glance the bikers exchanged.

“Never heard of him,” replied the big guy. “Now, get the fuck out of our bar.”

“After we finish our beers?” said Rick, meeting the man’s gaze over the rim of his drink as he sipped from it.

“Guys, they’re not doing any harm,” said the barmaid. “Let them finish their drinks.”

“Shut up, Lucy, this doesn’t concern you,” snapped the shorter bikie.

“Hey, that’s a little harsh,” said Rick.

“Oh, you haven’t seen harsh,” snapped the man.

Rick took a long sip from his beer and rose from the table. He stood a good inch taller than the bigger of the men and had arms at least as big, with none of the paunch of the bikies.

“God damn it,” murmured Mike. He pushed his stool back, stood, and grasped Rick by the shoulder. “Gentlemen, we were just leaving.”

“Fuck yeah, you are,” said the big bikie.

Rick let out a sigh, grabbed his backpack, and followed Mike out of the bar. “You could have let me hurt them, just a little.”

“There’s a time and place for that. Are we still in range in the parking lot?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem.” Rick opened the driver’s door, sat inside, and took a slim laptop from his backpack. “We got eight phone numbers,” he announced. “I’ll send them through to TJ, and he can get Deb to run them.” Rick had deployed a portable SIGINT device that replicated a mobile phone tower. It attracted devices to connect with it, then logged their details.

“Good stuff, hopefully one of them will have contacted Kane,” said Mike.

“Those two dick heads definitely know him.”

“Yeah, pretty shit poker faces.”

As Rick finished transferring the numbers to his phone, the front door to the bar swung open, and their new bikie mates swaggered out. “Looks like Tweedle dip shit and Tweedle dick head have brought friends,” he observed.

“Hey, I thought we told you to fuck off,” yelled the bigger man. He and his sidekick had brought another two of their comrades to back them up.

“We were just going,” said Mike.