Gularte was there when I arrived. Ideas about how to do what I now felt compelled to do circulated around my brain, my tiredness from having not slept well at National Airport or being able to settle down once I got back as if I had never been there. Gularte and I were both on the schedule for beach patrol that night, which I could change but he recommended against it once he listened to my half-baked plan. The beach patrol would be great cover, as long as no one encountered the hidden Bronco or called us on the radio while we were ‘away’ doing what I intended to do. A few things had to break right, to make it work, however.

“Where the hell were you?” Gularte asked, catching me off guard.

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