Cutter was in Los Angeles, at a crematorium on Santa Monica Boulevard, when the freak thunderstorm struck.
It was the death of two friends, killed in gang violence, that had brought him to the city. On arrival, he had discovered they were victims of a deep-rooted conspiracy. His hunt for the perpetrators had brought him up against vicious gangs and traitors.
I barely survived. He looked up at the grey sky, streaked with flashes of lightning, as people took cover from the sudden downpour. It’s over, finally.
He had taken shelter under a palm tree, but its fronds offered little cover from the rain, which dripped on his head and face. He inched closer to its trunk.
His friends’ last rites had been performed at the crematorium, and he had returned now, on the eve of his departure for home, for some time alone.
Its grounds were an oasis of green in the city, offering calm and solitude to those seeking it. The deluge of rain and dark sky suited his somber mood.
He blinked raindrops from his eyelids and chuckled at departing mourners fleeing for the shelter of their cars. Angelinos, he scoffed inwardly. They can’t handle a few drops of rain.
He patted his pocket when his phone buzzed. Brought it out and frowned. Who could that be? Only a handful of trusted friends had his number.
‘Yeah,’ he barked.
‘Cutter Grogan?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He straightened instinctively in response to the refined, elderly voice.
‘I got your number from Zeb Carter.’
‘He’s a good friend, ma’am.’
‘He was recommended to me by someone I know … but when I approached him, he mentioned your name. He said you were more suited …’
Suited for what, he wondered when she trailed off. There was no background noise at her end. No other voices, no sirens, car honks. Just a deep silence.
‘You’ve had some issues with the LAPD, Mr. Grogan.’
He blinked at that, wiped his face and rubbed his wet palm against his jeans. She’s done her research on me.
‘I’m not a criminal, ma’am,’ he replied automatically.
‘I know. I wouldn’t have called you if you were.’
Why did you call me? Who are you?
‘Forgive my manners, Mr. Grogan.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I’m Amy Breland.’
Why’s that name familiar?
Breland? Amy Breland? Her?
‘You’re the—’
‘Yes, Mr. Grogan.’ There was a smile in her reply. ‘Some people know me as the Speaker of the House.’
I bet it was President Morgan who recommended Zeb to her.
‘Mr. Grogan, are you there?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He swallowed. It was not as if he often got calls from one of the most recognized and powerful people in the country. ‘I respond better to Cutter, ma’am.’
‘Cutter? That’s an unusual name.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re called the Fixer, in New York.’
He shuffled his feet in embarrassment. It was a title he had given himself when he had acquired a degree of fame. The name had stuck and gotten him several new clients.
She’s gauging my responses, assessing me … that’s why she’s drawing this out.
‘Yes, ma’am; it sounds good on TV.’
‘I’m not judging you, Cutter.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have a problem. I’m wondering if you can help me with it.’
‘What’s that, ma’am?’
‘It’s my grand-daughter. Lauren Breland.’
The same name as her?
‘Long story,’ she read his silence correctly. ‘My daughter and son-in-law died in a car accident. She was their only child. I took on caring for her and she took my last name. She’s a freelance journalist, well-regarded. She’s missing.’
‘The cops—’
‘She was investigating a sex-trafficking ring in DC when she disappeared about a week ago.’
‘You should go to the cops, ma’am. They can help better than me.’
‘I can’t. They’re involved in that ring.’
