Gularte was waiting at the beach unit when I arrived at the city parking lot, my Volkswagen’s engine knocking a bit, which had me worried, but not unduly so. The thing was still under warranty, although I had no replacement if it might be in the dealership shop for any lengthy period of time. I knew there was no way the cheap new dealership up along the Pacific Coast Highway in Capistrano Beach was going to give out loaners.

I let Gularte remain in the driver’s seat as I climbed with all my junk into the passenger side, sliding a canvas sack with my weaponized flare pistol hidden inside and the kid’s guitar case that held my sawed off Mossberg 500 pump shotgun, since the Bronco wasn’t equipped with one because it wasn’t actually a San Clemente Police-owned vehicle, even if the decals on both doors indicated that it was.

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