by Ty Patterson
Contents
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Acknowledgments
Dedications
Quote
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
More Books
Bonus Chapter from Hangfire, the next Cutter Grogan Thriller
Author’s Message
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Also by Ty Patterson
Most recent first
Cutter Grogan Series (Zeb Carter Universe)
Two books in the series and counting
Zeb Carter Series
Eight books in the series and counting
Zeb Carter Short Stories
Three books and counting
Warriors Series (Zeb Carter Universe)
Twelve books in the series
Gemini Series (Zeb Carter Universe)
Four thrillers in the series
* * *
Warriors Series Shorts (Zeb Carter Universe)
Six novellas in the series
Cade Stryker Series
Two military sci-fi thrillers
Copyright ©2020 by Ty Patterson, Three Aces Publishing Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
They say it takes a village to produce a book. In my case, many continents have been involved. Sure, an author’s job is a solitary one, but writing is just one part of putting out a book.
My beta readers, who are around the world, are my first responders. I owe a debt of gratitude to them for putting into shape all the words I write.
They are:
Dori Barrett, Laura Rachwalik, Jobins MJ, Simon Alphonso, Maria Stine, Steve Panza, Ann Finn, Don Waterman, Kimber Krahn, Robin Eide Steffensen, Blanca Nichols, Loz Yeung, Charlie Carrick, Martin Pingere, Terrill Carpenter, Kathryn Defranc, Dave Davis, Mike Duncan, Donna Young Hartridge, Shadine Mccallen, Shell Levy, Wanona Koeppler, Marion McNulty Hulse, Gerry Kenny, Rob Fox, Dan Gherasim, Toni Osborne, Theresa Ann Kari, JoAnn Cates Lewis, Cathie M Jones, Debbie McNally, Sylvia Foster, Beth Perry, Mike Davis, Pat Barling, Mary Kauffman, John Spiller, Dave Campbell, Mark Campbell, Cathy Silveira, Franca Parente, Jan Fisher, Nancy Schmit, Claire Forgacs, Pete Bennett, Eric Blackburn, Margaret Harvey, Jim Lambert, Jimmy Smith, Suzanne Mickelson, Brad Werths, Allan Coulton, Paula Artlip, Pat Ellis, Linda Collins, Tricia Cullerton, Alun Humphreys, Jennifer Anderson, Manie Kilian, Larry Kahhan, Tania Reed, Debbie McNally, Heather Tudgey, Gary Bristol, Lyn Fox. Hannah Lewis and Gary Rounds.
Donna Rich, my proofreader, and Doreen Martens, my editor, have been invaluable in polishing the book.
Lastly, a special thanks to Debbie Gallant, Tom Gallant, Michelle Rose Dunn and Cheri Gerhardt, who have supported me since the beginning.
Dedications
To my wife and son for their sacrifices in supporting me
Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.
― Frank Lloyd Wright
1
‘That’s far enough,’ the bearded man snapped.
Cutter stopped in the clearing and raised his hands as wide as he could.
‘I’m alone.’
‘Do you have the money?’
‘What do you think I’m carrying in this?’ he retorted. He dropped the heavy gym bag to his feet and massaged his fingers.
‘Piotr, count it.’
‘Not so fast,’ Cutter warned the gangbanger. ‘Where’s the girl?’
The thug nodded at another heavy, who disappeared into the darkness and returned with a teenage girl. Her eyes were wide with fright, her mouth taped, and her hands bound behind her.
‘Amy?’ Cutter recognized her from her photographs. ‘This will be over soon. I’ll take you to your mom and dad.’
She nodded rapidly and sobbed in relief.
‘Count it,’ he told the leader of the kidnapping gang, at whose shoulder jerk two gunmen came forward with counting machines. They opened the bag and placed the bundles of used notes on their trays. For long moments, there was nothing but the sound of the whirring devices and the girl’s dry heaves.
‘Three million,’ one shooter announced.
‘Just as we agreed. Let the girl go.’
‘I think not,’ the leader smirked. ‘We have the money, the girl. You’re alone. We’ll kill you here.’ He hefted his AR-15. ‘It’s a remote part of
the Catskills. No one will hear a few shots. It’ll take days or weeks for your body to be discovered.’
‘You think you’ll get away?’
‘We know we’ll escape. It’s not the first time we’ve taken the money and run off with the girls. Who’ll stop us?’
Cutter clamped his lips tight as his rage flared.
* * *
Abraham Zinov, a Russian gangster, had made a successful business of kidnapping the children of millionaires and escaping with the ransom money. In most instances, the victims weren’t seen again.
He was wanted by the FBI and by every law enforcement agency in the country, yet he had evaded capture.
Amy Sorkin was his latest victim. He had grabbed the eighteen-year-old as she was emerging from her upscale private school in Brooklyn Heights. He had sent the ransom demand to her father, Travis Sorkin, a multimillionaire hedge-fund owner, and Sorkin had contacted Cutter.
‘No cops,’ the distraught father had insisted. ‘I know how it’s gone down before. More than half of the kids are still missing.’
‘You need to trust the FBI and the NYPD. I’m by myself. I’ll—’
‘No!’ the dad had yelled. ‘I’ll pay. Three million is nothing. I would give away thirty, everything I have, to get back Amy. Take it to them and get my daughter back.’
Cutter tried his best to convince the parent, but his arguments fell on deaf ears.
‘You cannot go to the cops either,’ Sorkin told him. ‘You’ve got to promise.’
Cutter had given his word and agreed to go to the drop-off in the Catskills.
* * *
‘You think I’m alone?’
‘That trick won’t work,’ Zinov boasted. ‘We followed you when you entered the forest. We’ve searched you. No phone, no tracker. You’re surrounded by thirteen men. Yeah, I think you’re alone. You’re bluffing, and you’ll die.’
Amy screamed when he raised his gun.
Her shriek turned to a startled gasp when the gangbanger holding her fell to the ground as his head exploded.
Cutter dived to his left and grabbed his left shoe as the rattle of guns burst the silence.
‘POLICE. GIVE YOURSELF UP,’ a loud-hailer announced.
Zinov grabbed the girl and fired wildly into the dark.
Cutter scrambled away as the kidnapper turned on him. He tore the bottom of his shoe away and removed the composite-made, 3D-printed gun and took aim.
He didn’t flinch when a bullet smacked into the ground next to his face, spraying him with dirt and leaves.
‘I’LL SHOOT HER,’ Zinov yelled as his men disappeared into the woods. He crouched behind Amy, holding her hostage.
Cutter could see the side of his face, was aware of voices and shouts as cops captured the escaping gang, and then he saw nothing but the gangbanger’s forehead beyond the sight of his gun.
‘No, you won’t,’ he whispered and fired.
* * *
‘I told you, no cops,’ Travis Sorkin said as he hugged his daughter tight.
They were at the FBI’s perimeter half a mile from the scene of the drop-off. The father’s face was streaked with tears and lines of worry.
‘I gave you an order,’ he bellowed.
‘I didn’t go to the cops, sir,’ Cutter replied.
He hadn’t. He had confided in Zeb, who had alerted the Feds, who had worked with him to set up the trap. An ingestible GPS tracker, which he had swallowed, had enabled the federal agents to track him down. The ceramic gun was his own improvisation.
‘How did they know?’
‘Dad!’ his daughter caught his lapels and shook him. ‘I’m safe. Alive. Mr. Grogan got me out. Isn’t that the important thing?’
Her father burst into sobs at that and blindly reached out and squeezed Cutter’s shoulder.
* * *
‘You didn’t have to shoot him,’ Peyton Quindica, FBI Special Agent in Charge, chided, frowning at him.
‘I didn’t have to,’ he agreed sarcastically. ‘I could have let him shoot Amy and me.’
‘We would have taken him down.’
‘I couldn’t risk it.’
‘I told you not to be a hero.’
‘I was trying to stay alive and keep Amy safe.’
She grinned wryly as she shook her head. ‘We’ll need that.’ She gestured at his gun. ‘That escapes the detectors?’
‘Yeah, it’s made of a composite material that the NSA is testing. I wouldn’t be alive otherwise.’
‘You’ll keep that to yourself?’
He searched her eyes under the glare of spotlights and nodded. If that gets out, every terrorist and criminal in the country will be printing guns.
He grinned as his eyes searched the area over her shoulder. ‘I’m half-expecting to see Difiore.’
Gina Difiore, Detective First Grade with the NYPD, the FBI agent’s partner. He had come across them in a previous assignment, and the initial antagonistic relationship had turned into a kind of friendship.
Sort of, he told himself.
Cutter called himself a Fixer, someone who helped those whom the system couldn’t. The detective considered him to be a vigilante and treated him with disdain.
‘This is an FBI operation,’ Quindica said, smiling. ‘We aren’t joined at the hip.’
‘She knows I was involved in this?’
‘Yeah. She said the world would be a better place if I let you get shot.’
‘Sounds like her.’ He high-fived Quindica and went to his SUV.
Leaned back wearily when his phone rang.
‘Yeah?’ he asked. That’s a West Coast number.
‘Is this Cutter Grogan?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Mr. Grogan, I’m Diego Cruz, detective with the LAPD.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘I’ve got bad news. Arnedra Jones and her sister were killed in a gang shooting.’
2
The five-and-a-half-hour flight from JFK to LAX the next day passed in a blur.
Cutter had wrapped the takedown with Quindica the previous night and had driven numbly to his apartment on Lafayette Avenue in the city. He had packed, booked a flight to Los Angeles, then gone to his office to tidy it up and close it down for the time he would be away.
* * *
Arnedra and he ran the Fixing business—which is what they called it—as equal business partners. They were close friends, as well.
They helped people whom the system couldn’t or wouldn’t help. Kidnap cases the cops had effectively given up on. Kids who had fallen in with gangs.
People often came to them instead of going to the law because of the reputation they had earned. The police, and Feds too, referred their cold cases to Cutter and Arnedra.
They had become known nationwide when Cutter took down a white supremacist gang that was looking to influence the presidential elections.
He was the field operative; she managed the business—a distribution of work that took best advantage of their skills.
Cutter was a former Delta Forces operative whose military file was filled with redactions. Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Europe, Croatia, Iran, Pakistan, Indonesia—he had been to hotspots all over the world, in covert operations that would never be known to the wider world. He had spent a few years as a mercenary as well, at a time when he had lost himself.
Arnedra had run a PI business with her husband and was in the process of winding it down following his death when Cutter rescued her from a mugging in Central Park. That brought the two of them together.
The soldier-for-hire business had been very lucrative. Those earnings and smart investments had left him flush with funds.
He convinced her to restart the business but with a different focus—helping those in need—and bought into half of it.
* * *
She helped me heal after Riley’s death, he thought bitterly as he looked out the window of the aircraft while it cut through blue skies and fleecy clouds. Riley Grogan, his
wife, who had died in Turkey when his past resurfaced.
The traveler next to him tried to make small talk. Gave up when Cutter’s monosyllabic answers and negative vibe let him know conversation wasn’t welcome. An air hostess tried to flirt with him. His six-foot-one frame, dark, styled hair and intense green eyes caught the eye of many women, but he wasn’t interested.
