I walked on the cooling sand toward the Trestles railroad bridge, my mind clearing the web of fear the faux Claymore had brought down upon me. My thoughts were drawn back to a lesser fear. Richard. If Richard was the operative who had disposed of the troublesome Marines it meant that he was an analytically driven killer, and that made him dangerous to anyone who might be considered a threat. So far, in having Kennedy assassination evidence dumped in my lap I’d already become a bit jaded in my former belief that the U.S. government didn’t involve itself in directed assassinations, and if it did then certainly not back home within the confines of the USA. Richard might just be the kind of efficient and terminal tool who could be directed against me or any of the people I loved or cared about if I made a wrong move. My leadership in the A Shau brutally taught me that I have plenty of capability to make wrong moves that could have tragic effects.

I walked back to the Bronco. Gularte stood at the driver’s door, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the dull light radiating out from the lone window located under the triangle of white stucco up near the very peak of the home. Everyone working at the compound knew about that window and how light burned out from it many hours of the night, almost every night. It was the room that the president used to do his writing, and he wrote a lot.

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