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out Arianna Huffington.”
    He thought about telling the kid where he could shove it . He also considered telling him about the offer from Milo Osbourne, but why waste his breath on some know-it-all wanker?
    “So, is the invitation still open? ”
    Drawn back to the phone conversation, he squinted in confusion. “And what invitation is that, then?”
    “ Well,” she said coyly, “I was thinking of driving down for the weekend.”
    H e swallowed hard. He vaguely recalled giving her his card and saying something, purely out of politeness, about looking him up if she was ever in town, but he’d hardly classify it as an invitation . She’d given him tawdry looks all evening and he’d tried to let her down easy to avoid the inevitable failure with which younger women were utterly unprepared to cope.
    While he searched f or the words to brush her off again, another call started beeping in. Seeing an out, he said hurriedly, “Sorry, Mackenzie, there’s a call coming in, and I really need to take it.”
    “Will you call me later?”
    He grunted non-committedly before switching over.
    “I saw what happened on the news,” said a man on the other end. The voice—American with a slight southern drawl—was unfamiliar. “I’m sorry about your staff, but glad you’re okay.”
    Buchanan knitted his brows, gaze sweeping the street. “Who’s this?”
    “My identity is unimportant.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Let’s just say there are things going on in this country,” the man said, “things involving powerful people that would make your skin crawl.”
    Buchanan’s skin was already crawling. “Such as?”
    “Things that could destroy the constitutional freedoms we all enjoy,” the caller replied.
    The Scot rolled his eyes. “What’s this about?”
    There was a long , uncomfortable pause before the caller said, “Find Frank Aslan.”
    Frank Aslan? Buchanan felt gob-smacked. Frank Aslan was a professor of journalism at Columbia University who, twenty years ago, wrote a book warning about the dangers of runaway media monopolies.
    “ Aslan? What the hell does he have to do with this?”
    “He’s got the proof,” the man said. “And you need to get your hands on it before they do.”
    As he listened, Buchanan visually patrolled the street for any sign of the gunmen, but found nothing out of the ordinary. He was approaching home and feeling more apprehensive with every step. What if they were waiting for him outside? Or worse, inside the apartment?
    “Who are you? At least give me a name.”
    “Call me Lapdog.”
    Buchanan recognized the alias as one used by a frequent commenter, meaning this guy, whoever he was, read the Voice with some regularity. The editor searched his brain for anything the man had posted, but couldn’t seem to retrieve it.
    “Why don’t you find Aslan yourself?”
    “I have my reasons,” Lapdog replied. “Besides, he’s gone into hiding.”
    Buchanan , still scanning, let out a disgruntled scoff. “If he’s in hiding, how the hell do you expect me to find him?”
    “ Try asking his granddaughter.”
    Even in the cold, Buchanan could feel the heat of blood rising in his face. “And what makes you think this granddaughter of his, whoever she may be, would tell me a goddamned thing?”
    “ She likes you.”
    He checked his mental list of female acquaintances. Mackenzie, Helene, Kelsey. He flinched at the last one, recalling how brutally she’d been crossed off the list, which had been depressingly short to begin with.
    “Who?”
    “Thea Hamilton.”
    Bloody hell. Ms. Ball Buster 2008 was Aslan’s granddaughter? Of all the bleeding luck.
    “Find Aslan and find out what he knows.” Lapdog hesitated. “And Buchanan—watch your back.”
    There was a click and he was gone. The next moment, Buchanan felt something whizz past his ear. He crouched down and drew his gun, but held his fire. He could not see where the shot had come from. And there were too many people around to