In Enemy Hands Read online

  DEDICATION:

  —or Theresa Gaus, a friend indeed.

  Published 2006 by Medallion Press,

  Inc. 225 Seabreeze Ave.

  Palm Beach, FL 33480

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2006 by Michelle Perry

  Cover Models: Anna Ward, William Hainsworth

  Cover Illustration by James Tampa

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Perry, Michelle.

  In enemy hands / Michelle Perry.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-932815-47-3 (pbk.)

  1. Bounty hunters–Fiction. 2. Kidnapping victims–Fiction. 3. Children of the rich–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.E7935I5 2006

  813’.6–dc22

  2005037119

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  My deepest thanks to:

  Rebecca Miller, Barb Hughes, Diane Miley, Diana White,

  the WWCG gang, Cat Walker, Charlina & Mavis Adams,

  Tammy Layne, Beverly Campbell, Gina Baskin,

  Tiffany Anderson, Debbie Walker

  My family — Quinton, Chase & Selena,

  Patricia Myers & the Yarworth clan, the Scissoms,

  the Perrys, Kathy & Larry, Krystal Bean, Treva & Robert.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  Monday August 1

  6:02 p.m.

  Gary Vandergriff paused with his hand on the doorknob, trying to compose his expression into a mask of pleasant neutrality. It would not do for Father to read the wrong thing in his expression. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to the darkened bedchamber.

  The room reeked of pine cleanser; it made his eyes water when he crossed the threshold and approached his father’s bed. Perhaps the maid had made an overzealous attempt to mask the second, more subtle scent in the room.

  Death.

  It lingered in the periphery like a spectator in a boxing arena, awaiting the results of the bout between the crusty old diplomat and the pancreatic cancer that had slowly decimated his body for the past six months.

  The old man had put up a good fight, but now the cancer had him on the ropes. The doctors said he wouldn’t live out the week.

  Gary approached the bed. “Father?”

  The old man lay still against the pillows, and for an instant, Gary thought he was already gone. Then his rheumy blue eyes fluttered open. He shot Gary a startled, faintly accusing look.

  Gary swiped at his burning eyes, then was horrorstruck at the idea that the old man might think that he was crying. Franklin Vandergriff would not appreciate any tears on his behalf.

  “Father, I wasn’t … I didn’t …”

  His father rapped his stomach with a gnarled hand. For the first time, Gary noticed the manila folder that blended with the beige sheets. He spotted his name on the tab and felt the first fluttering of fear.

  “You’re a liar,” the old man growled. “A thief! “

  “Father,” he gasped. “What do you …?”

  His words stuck in his throat as the old man’s palsied fingers opened the cover. Gary knew what it was in an instant. Ice water filled his veins and pooled in the pit of his stomach.

  Andreakos.

  Andreakos had learned of the old man’s condition. This was an eleventh hour attempt to take everything Gary had fought for, everything that he would be rightfully entitled to his when his father died.

  “My lawyer’s coming,” the old man wheezed. “You will be … disinherited.”

  Will be.

  The words gave Gary hope. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  Moving quickly, Gary seized a pillow from the ottoman and pressed it to the old man’s face.

  His father’s birdlike hands beat at his arms, but Gary was surprised by how ineffectual his blows were. How easy it all was.

  In a moment, it was over. Gary removed the pillow and stared down at the old man.

  Finally, he let the smile that had been twitching his lips surface. He giggled, pressing his face into the pillow to mute the sound.

  The old bastard was finally dead.

  The sly Andreakos had almost beaten him at his own game. After blackmailing him for years, he’d tried to turn the tables at the last moment. But now Gary feared nothing. All the years groveling at his father’s feet had paid off. He would possess the money and power he craved.

  And at last, he would annihilate Andreakos and his family.

  Gary leaned over to check his father’s pulse one last time, and shook his head in disbelief when he found the old man was still dead. It seemed impossible that a flimsy little thing like a throw pillow had brought down such a creature. He’d half-suspected it’d take a silver bullet.

  He giggled again.

  Gary arranged the pillow back on the ottoman with the others, then held his eyes open with his thumbs and forefingers. The pungent fumes of the cleaner stung his retinas, and when tears streaked down his cheeks, Gary ran to the door.

  “My father!” he shouted into the hallway. “He’s not breathing.”

  Wednesday, August 3

  5:28 p.m.

  Somehow, Gary made it through the funeral without laughing out loud. The situation was so delicious though, that he’d had to take a couple of nerve pills before the service to mute his glee and achieve a look of slack-faced bereavement.

  Back at the house, he had somehow tolerated the barrage of condolences from his father’s friends, but one by one, they’d drifted away after eating and drinking their fill at the wake. Only one guest remained, and although Gary hated all his father’s cronies, he took a certain perverse pleasure in speaking with this one.

  “Please, General Birdsong, won’t you step into the study for a drink?”

  He spoke loudly, deliberately, turning to allow the old man to read his lips. The steely-eyed general was deaf as a post, but far too proud to admit it.

  The general shuffled into the study and slumped into one of the overstuffed chairs. “I’m sorry for your loss, son,” he said. “There will never be another Franklin Vandergriff.”

  “Thank God you’re right about that. I’ve suffered enough because of him,” Gary said pleasantly. He crossed over to the bar and poured two shots of bourbon.

  “I—beg your pardon?” the general said, and Gary smiled.

  He turned and handed a glass to his guest. “I said, God knows you’re right about that, but he’d suffered enough because of this.”
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  The general nodded. “Cancer is a relentless old bitch. So quick.”

  “So quick,” Gary agreed, and took a sip of his drink. Behind his glass, he said, “But I was quicker.”

  Someone rapped sharply on the study door. When it swung open, an irritated Gary looked up to see who was spoiling his game.

  “Sir—” the butler said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but a Mr. Giovanni is here to see you. I told him about the wake, but he said you called this morning and requested—”

  “Yes, yes.” Gary quickly drained the rest of his drink. “Show him to my office, make sure he’s comfortable, and tell him I’llbe right with him. I have to go upstairs to get a file.” He turned to his guest. “General, if you’ll excuse me, this is very important.”

  “You’re doing business on the day you bury your father?” the general asked, using the chair arm to push himself to his feet.

  Gary flinched at the reproach in his voice. He was through answering to old men like him. He was through answering to anyone.

  “No— of course not,” he said tightly. “I’m meeting with Mr. Giovanni on a personal matter. Not that it’s any of your business.” This time, he made sure the general heard. Gary snapped his fingers at the butler. “Theo, will you please show the general out?”

  The old man grunted when he pushed himself out of the chair. He cast Gary another disapproving glance over his shoulder while he shuffled to the door, but Gary dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He had more important things to worry about, like the performance he was about to give.

  He needed Giovanni’s help for the first stage of his plan to destroy Andreakos, or Branson, or whatever it was he called himself these days.

  Kill the head and the body will die.

  If he pulled off this plan, Andreakos would be on his knees.

  “Mr. Vandergriff will be with you in a moment,” the butler said. “He told me to make sure you were comfortable.”

  Dante lifted an eyebrow. Fat chance of that.

  Places like this made Dante nervous. He followed the butler into an opulent, oak-paneled office.

  “Would you like something to drink, sir?”

  “No. I’m fine, thanks,” Dante said, wondering what could be so important that a man would summon him here on the day of his father’s funeral.

  The butler slipped out, his feet making no sound on the lush blue carpet. Dante frowned and took a seat in a peach silk-covered chair across from the huge oak desk.

  The chair was not built for a man of Dante’s size. It groaned in protest when he shifted and, fearful that it was about to splinter apart, he stood. The thing probably cost more than he made in a week. Maybe a month. He had no desire to find out—

  Dante jingled the change in his pocket and studied an abstract painting on the wall. No matter how hard he looked at it, he didn’t get it. It looked like two peach circles with a division slash between them. What was so special about that?

  The study door swung open and a dark-haired man in a gray Armani suit stepped inside. He extended a manicured hand to Dante.

  “Mr. Giovanni,” he said. “I appreciate your coming on such short notice.”

  Dante grasped the hand he offered and nodded awkwardly. “I’m sorry about your father …”

  A sad smile creased Vandergriff’ face. “Yes, me too, but at least he’s not in pain anymore.” His blue eyes—stared at something over Dante’s shoulder. “Cancer,” he said absently. Suddenly, his gaze snapped back to Dante’s face. “I’m sorry. Forgive my lack of manners. Please, have a seat.”

  Dante bypassed the fragile chair by the desk and took a seat on the leather bench beyond it.

  Vandergriff started toward the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He paused, nodded, and walked back to his desk. Vandergriff stretched across it and withdrew a manila folder from the top drawer. He handed it to Dante, then perched on the edge of his desk to watch Dante open it.

  “That’s Nadia.” Vandergriff pointed. “I want you to bring her to me.”

  Idly, Dante thumbed through the surveillance photos. The poor quality of the black and whites couldn’t disguise the girl’s beauty. Dante guessed her to be a little younger than himself, probably in her early twenties, with a lithe, athletic body she obviously liked to show off. In all the photos, she wore tank tops and short skirts.

  But to be fair, it was summer, and a brutal one at that.

  She had light eyes of some indeterminate color that were somehow shocking when framed against her dark hair. In short, she looked nothing like his usual quarry.

  Dante closed the folder and held it out to Vandergriff. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m a bounty hunter, not a procurer of mail order brides, Mr. Vandergriff.”

  “I know who you are.” Vandergriff gave him a thin smile. He raked a hand through his brown hair and it fell perfectly back in place. “I know you’re the best and I need the best for this job. I’m prepared to offer you half a million dollars, plus expenses, if you can bring her to me unharmed.”

  Dante blinked. With that much cash, he could set up the private investigation firm he’d be—n dreaming of and get out of the bounty hunting business for good. But Dante wasn’t the type of man to jump into something like this without knowing all the facts, a trait which had probably saved his life a time or two—

  Vandergriff made no effort to accept the file Dante was trying to hand him, so Dante dropped it back in his lap. “I’m not sure I understand … why can’t your men handle this? I saw them outside. They look capable enough. Surely this one girl can’t be that hard to bring in.”

  Vandergriff shook his head. “You’d be surprised. The man who’s threatening her did try a couple of months ago. Two of his men died. Nick Branson employs some very adept bodyguards.”

  “Who is she, and what do you want with her?” Dante was curious now, could already feel his blood pumping. His adrenaline addiction was going to get him killed one of these days.

  Vandergriff sighed. “She’s my daughter, and her life is in danger.” He stared at the folder on Dante’s lap and cleared his throat. “I haven’t seen Nadia since she was a baby, but I can’t sit by and let her die because someone wants to get back at Nick Branson.”

  “Who is Nick Branson?”

  “When Nadia was a baby, my wife ran off with Branson.” He gave Dante a cynical smile. “He was my chief of security here. What is it they say about the fox guarding the hen house?”

  Dante ignored that, lost in his own thoughts. “You’re a powerful man, Mr. Vandergriff. Why didn’t you fight for your daughter?”

  “Things were different then. The business was just starting out, and I didn’t have the resources I have now. I was foolish enough to think it was simply a fling, that Maria would come back if I only let her have her space. She didn’t, and they disappeared. By the time I finally tracked them down to that little hole-in-the wall in Tennessee, I’d lost my daughter.”

  Vandergriff’s face was expressionless, but when he spoke next, his voice trembled with frustration. “For all I know, she thinks Branson is her father. She has his name. You don’t knowwhat it’s like, to have your only child stolen from you, to have another man strip every trace of you from her life and not even let her keep your name.”

  Dante stiffened.

  Was this some kind of game? Did this man know about Lara?

  Vandergriff looked oblivious.

  “Nick Branson has a lucrative business shipping illegal aliens from Mexico to work on area tobacco farms, and recently he’s branched out into the drug business. Mexican meth, they call it. My sources say that he’s involved in a turf war with a drug lord named Diego Cortez. Cortez has specifically threatened the lives of Nadia and my ex-wife if Branson doesn’t close shop immediately.”

  Dante flexed his fingers. “You don’t think Branson can handle the situation?”

  Vandergriff met his gaze. “I’m more afraid f
or Nadia in his hands than in the drug lord’s.” He walked around his desk and pulled out a silver framed photo. He handed it to Dante and said, “Our wedding picture.”

  Dante looked it over. Vandergriff’s ex-wife was lovely. Her daughter resembled her a great deal. But Dante didn’t see what that had to do with anything.

  Then Vandergriff handed him another photo from his desk drawer.

  Involuntarily, Dante withdrew. It was hard to reconcile the fact that he was looking at the same face from the wedding photo. Thick, ropy burn scars marred one side of the woman’s face, leaving a countenance that was both strikingly beautiful and tragic.

  Vandergriff studied Dante with bright blue eyes. “Branson did that to her, just a few years after they married. I heard that she was trying to leave him. He threw acid in her face. I can’t trust a man like him to protect a child that isn’t even his.”

  Dante stared at the photo for a long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I need a couple of days to check out—your story. I’m very selective about the jobs I take,” Dante said, but he knew already that he would do it if he found no discrepancies in Vandergriff’s story.

  It was a case that struck close to home.

  “Don’t take too long, Mr. Giovanni,” Gary Vandergriff said quietly. “My daughter’s life depends on you.”

  Back at the office, Dante sat behind his scarred desk, flipped open the folder Vandergriff had insisted he take with him, and studied the pictures of his beautiful target. Extracting the top one, a body shot, he propped his boots on the desk and leaned back in his chair to examine it. The longer he stared at her, the longer he wanted to. He found himself wishing the photos were in color, just so he could tell if her eyes were green like her mother’s, or blue like Vandergriff’s.

  He typically favored tall, curvy blondes. This girl wasn’t any of those things, but there was something about her that mesmerized him. Her body was tanned, toned, and athletic. She looked good in a mini-skirt, and he was willing to bet she looked even better in nothing at all. Although he knew he could never take it that far—never mix business and pleasure—he wanted to see her face to face. Wanted to see if the mischief in her eyes was real or just for show.