In Enemy Hands

by Michelle Perry

  “My father paid her father twenty thousand dollars in cash for her silence. He and her brothers were to leave that night, and never darken our doorstep again. Maria would be a Vandergriff, lost to them forever. So, once again, her father sold her to me. She was only fifteen, such a pretty little toy, and to be honest, I looked forward to taming her.” He winked and brushed his hand in Nadia’s hair. “Much the same as I look forward to taming you. I forgot how fierce those green eyes could look.”

  Nadia looked down. The barely restrained glee in his face was more than she could stand.

  “Effective immediately, Maria was moved into the main house.” Vandergriff leered at her. “Would you like to know what my father did to your grandfather and uncles?”

  “No,” Nadia said.

  Vandergriff propped his feet on the coffee table. Lacing his hands behind his head, he smiled at Nadia. “Come now, don’t be a spoilsport. I’m going to tell you anyway. They all lived in the same camper. You know, one of those little round silver things. That night, my father and I watched his men surround it. One of them padlocked the door, the only way out. A dog couldn’t have fit through those tiny windows. They poured gasoline under it and struck a match. Whoosh!” Vandergriff spread his fingers wide. “You should’ve heard them screaming. I always wondered what it must have felt like inside that thing. Did you ever see any of those old fashioned popcorn cookers, the kind people used before microwaves? I used to love to do those on the wood stove. The little covered aluminum pan with a handle that you shook over the stove until its top popped out like, well, a pregnant woman’s belly.” Vandergriff laughed at his own joke. “I figured it might’ve felt like that, or maybe a can of sardines with a blowtorch beneath it.”

  “The baby,” Nadia asked softly, trying to rid her mind of the horrible visual images of death and suffering he invoked. “What happened to the baby?”

  Vandergriff shrugged. “Your mother’s sweet little teenage body was made for a lot of things, but apparently childbirth wasn’t one of them. Our son died. She nearly died. She labored for over fifteen hours. I can still hear her screams. I think it did something to her, mentally. Stole the fire right out of her. She was never quite the same after that.”

  How had her mother survived it? Nadia wondered. The scars on her face were nothing compared to the scars she must carry on her soul. How very strong she must be. He hadn’t broken her. He hadn’t destroyed her. But it must’ve been so hard for her. How could you survive such things, and still have the ability to love? How strong the bond between her parents had to be, to withstand so much trauma.

  Nadia remembered one time when her mother was sick with the flu. She’d cried and begged and screamed in her delirium. Her father had never left her side. He’d held her hand, mopped her forehead with a cool washcloth and whispered reassurances in her ear.

  Nadia’s heart swelled with a new love and respect for her parents. For them, she would not let Vandergriff defeat her.

  He reached for her again.

  Someone coughed behind them and Vandergriff drew back his hand.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir—”

  “What is it, Theo?” Vandergriff snapped without turning around, without looking away from her face.

  “It’s Andreakos. His men are on the move. We think … Peterson thinks they might be heading this way. If they are, they could be here in a couple of hours.”

  Vandergriff flinched.

  “There’s no way he could know about this place,” he said, but Nadia caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes. “Have you talked to Underwood?”

  “No, sir.”

  For a moment, hope surged within her. Her father was coming to rescue her.

  Then Vandergriff said, “Tell Peterson to get the plane ready. He’s going to accompany the girl back to California. The compound is more secure. There’s no way they’ll be able to get to her there.”

  The butler paused. “You’re not going, sir?”

  Vandergriff sighed. “I wish I were. I’m so sick of this godforsaken place.” He wrinkled his nose at Nadia and smiled. “But if I leave, who will be here to greet our guests?”

  The ride back across the river seemed endless. The churning waves only increased the churning in Dante’s stomach. He kept picturing the look on Nadia’s face. The pain in her eyes.

  Would she ever forgive him? He would never be able to forgive himself if anything happened to her.

  “Here we are.” Vandergriff’s man grabbed hold of the dock and pulled the boat close so Dante could jump off.

  Dante glanced across the parking lot. It was empty except for Waynie’s truck. The sight of that battered little pickup made his throat ache.

  Dante stood and slowly unfastened his lifejacket. Dropping it into his empty seat, he moved toward the tow. The boat lurched and he leaned forward to keep his balance.

  Vandergriff’s man never saw Dante’s punch coming. Without so much as a grunt, he crumpled to the bottom of the boat.

  Dante moved quickly, sawing through the straps of the lifejacket with his pocketknife. Using them, he secured the man’s hands and feet. He pushed his burden onto the creaking wooden dock, pausing only to strip the man of his cap and walkie talkie. He pulled the cap snugly on his head and clipped the walkie talkie to his waistband.

  Swinging the boat around, Dante opened up the throttle and headed back the way he’d come.

  He had known something was wrong as soon as he’d stepped out of that study and seen the pain in her eyes. Nadia had told the truth when she said she wasn’t a liar. No matter what she’d said back there, or how calmly she’d said it, she couldn’t hide the desperation in her eyes. Her terror was raw, palpable, and grotesquely disproportionate to the situation. When he’d held her, he’d caught the scent of ozone … the smell of burnt flesh … and he had known.

  It had nearly killed him to walk out that door, but if they were going to have any chance at all, he had to catch Vandergriff and his men by surprise.

  As he zipped along the black water, the walkie talkie crackled to life.

  “Base to North.”

  Dante hesitated. They were calling for his escort.

  He’d listened to their radio conversation as they’d made the first trip across, but he didn’t feel confident enough to impersonate the man.

  “Base to North. Come in.”

  He had no choice.

  Keying the device, Dante counted on the crashing water to muffle his voice.

  “This is North. Over.”

  “Drop off your package, North?”

  “Affirmative. On my way in.”

  “What?”

  “Affirmative,” Dante repeated.

  “Go to Cahill when you get back to get an update. We’ve got company coming tonight, 10-4?”

  “10-4.”

  The radio was quiet after that and Dante could only hope he didn’t have an ambush waiting for him.

  No doubt who the company was. Dante only prayed Vandergriff’s men weren’t already on red alert.

  No one was waiting on him when he arrived back at the dock. He secured the boat next to the others and hopped off. Tugging his cap lower, he skipped up the wooden steps, heading back to the main house.

  Hoping the guys who were monitoring the cameras weren’t paying too much attention, Dante headed toward the men’s barracks adjacent to the house. It struck him how similar the set-up was to Branson’s.

  A distraction. He needed a distraction.

  Then he spotted it.

  A red lawnmower sat next to the front steps. Beside it was a can of gasoline.

  Whistling, Dante grabbed the can and liberally doused the back of the barracks. The fumes made his eyes tear when he flicked his silver lighter and tossed it into the pooling gasoline. With a loud whoosh, the weathered wood burst into flames.

  Dante ran down the front porch of the building, rapping on doors and shouting, “Fire! Fire!”

  Men emptied out of the building in various stages o
f undress. They came from around the house. Inside the house. An alarm began to blare.

  Dante took advantage of the pandemonium and burst through the back door of the main house, startling the cook. The tiny Mexican woman dropped the pan of rolls she was pulling from the oven.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  “El fuego. La casa es se quemar,” Dante said quickly. His Spanish was rusty, but the woman seemed to understand. She shut her mouth, nodded at him and ran out through the back door.

  Dante checked the clip in his gun and pushed his way through the swinging doors into a deserted dining room. He had almost reached the other door when he heard the loud voices outside it. He scurried under the low-hanging tablecloth a moment before the doors burst open.

  “I want to know what’s going on, and I want to know right now.”

  Vandergriff sounded furious. He stopped right beside Dante’s hiding place. If he’d wanted to, Dante could’ve touched his black loafers. Sweat beaded on Dante’s forehead and he struggled to control his rapid breathing.

  “Stewart, go upstairs with the girl until I call you down. Blow a hole through anyone who tries to open the door. Theo, you come with me.”

  Dante waited until he heard the soft whish of the swinging doors before he took off after Stewart.

  He was starting up the stairs. Dante rushed him. At the last moment, the big man turned and stared at Dante with huge, shocked eyes.

  Stewart reached for his gun.

  Dante never slowed. He crashed into him, driving Stewart backward into the steps. The wind left the fat man’s body in a rush and he heard a sickening crunch.

  Shoving his gun under the man’s chin, Dante said, “The girl. Tell me where he’s got the girl.”

  “Mister …” the man wheezed. “I can’t. I’d be better off … with you pulling the trigger …”

  Knowing he was running out of time, Dante slammed Stewart’s head against a step, knocking him unconscious. He crawled over the man’s bulky body and sprinted up the stairs.

  Four identical doors greeted him. Dante started at the closest one and began trying them all.

  The third was locked. Dante launched himself at it, kept launching himself at it until it splintered beneath his shoulder. He stumbled through the doorway and found himself staring into Nadia’s stunned face.

  She was tied to the headboard of a huge oak bed.

  Dante clamored up on the bed and whipped out his pocketknife. He began sawing through the ropes.

  “You came back for me,” she said.

  She looked so glad to see him that Dante felt his guts knot. This was all his fault. He had done this to her.

  A faint, purple bruise darkened her cheek. “What did he do to you?” he demanded.

  Her frantic eyes searched over his shoulder. “It’s nothing. Please, just hurry. We have to get out of here.”

  Dante ran to the balcony doors and flung them open, searching for another escape route. The house was built on the edge of a cliff and Dante found himself staring into the black, swirling waters of the river below.

  At the very least, it was a fifty foot drop.

  When Dante heard the angry shouts outside the bedroom door, he realized he was too late. Gary Vandergriff and one of his gunmen exploded through the doorway.

  “Execute him!” Vandergriff shouted.

  Dante’s brain cataloged the next few seconds in slow motion.

  A burst of gunfire.

  Nadia’s scream.

  The impact of the bullet slamming him against the railing.

  The wood splintered, and he pitched backward into nothing.

  CHAPTER 6

  Get in position.

  Dante’s military training took over before his mind could adjust to what was happening. With some effort, he straightened his body against the force of the freefall while the wind whistled around him.

  Head back. Feet down. Arms crossed.

  His shoulder felt funny, numb almost. The pain would come a little later, he had no doubt.

  It’s only a jump, he told himself when he glanced at the rushing black water beneath him. All he could do was hope there were no surprises beneath the rippling surface. No hidden rocks to crush his legs or snap his spine. Adrenaline raced through his veins, telling him that he was alive.

  Invincible.

  Hopefully, that would hold true once he hit the water. He braced himself for the shock. Running water was always cold, even in the heat of summer. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  The water closed around him like a cold, wet fist and Dante resisted the shock of it, the almost overwhelming urge to expel his breath.

  He sliced through the water neatly. Expertly. Exactly like he’d been trained to do. The pressure squeezed his body, but after that initial jolt he was able to adjust to the temperature.

  When Dante fought his way back to the surface, he discovered his true struggle would be against the current. For a moment, he let the choppy water carry him while he surveyed his surroundings. Then he began to swim, fighting his way to the rocky shore. His left arm hung uselessly, lacking the strength to be effective against the pressure, but he knew the bullet hadn’t done that much damage. He could still flex his fingers.

  Besides, he didn’t have time to die. He had to rescue Nadia.

  Still, Dante was beginning to wonder if sheer stubbornness was going to be enough this time. The rocky shore seemed like an optical illusion. The harder he swam toward it, the further away it appeared.

  Finally, his fingers skimmed the surface of a huge rock. He clutched at it, hugging himself to it while he fought against the water that threatened to peel him away. With a lunge, Dante hoisted himself atop the rock and lay there for a moment, thankful to be breathing, even though he was having to work at it.

  In basic, he’d learned to ignore the pain. To lock it behind a wall and move beyond it. Right now, he was even grateful for the sadistic SOB he’d trained under.

  The few. The proud. The tortured.

  He could remember his sergeant’s favorite saying.

  Pain is just weakness leaving your body.

  Dante had always thought it was a stupid saying, but right now he couldn’t get the words out of his head. After flopping onto his stomach, he rose to his knees, then to his feet. He stared with resignation at the steep, rocky incline and rubbed his hands against his thighs before he began the slow climb to the top. Slick, sharp shale dug into his palms and tore through the knees of his pants.

  Slow and steady. He had to take it slow and steady.

  He had to adjust for his injured arm, making sure his feet were set in before he moved upward. Instead of sounding further away, the roar of the river increased the higher he climbed.

  Just when Dante began to establish a steady pace, the rock he was using for leverage crumbled away under his palm.

  Dante skidded down the rock face, clawing desperately for a handhold. Something caught him at the waist, and ripped a gash through the skin all the way to the top of his ribs. He gasped, making a gurgling cry of pain while he scrambled for something to hold on to.

  Dante hooked his hand around a root. His body swung hard into the rock face of the cliff, banging his injured shoulder into the wall. A bright red splash of pain exploded behind his eyes, and for a moment Dante could see nothing. He dangled helplessly for a second before he found a crack to jam his boot into.

  He glanced down at the raging river below, glanced down at his battered body. Blood soaked through his shirt and dripped down his pant leg from the cut on his torturously stinging side. The scrape hurt worse than the bullet hole.

  His good arm began to tremble when he reached for the next hold and Dante was forced to rest. He crouched on a narrow ledge and laid his face against a smooth, cold rock and gasped for breath.

  Again, the moonlight-filled river drew his eyes. It was some eighty feet below, and although he’d never feared heights, he couldn’t help but feel insignificant when he stared into its vas
tness.

  For an instant, Dante was almost hypnotized by the dull roar and the sheer beauty of it, the white, frothy caps atop the swirling blackness. He was so exhausted. It would be so easy to just close his eyes … but then he remembered Nadia’s bruised face. Her stunned, elated expression when he’d burst through that bedroom door.

  Gritting his teeth, Dante resumed the climb. Sweat trickled down his face, down his chest. He had to pause sporadically to wipe damp palms on his pants.

  Then, suddenly, he was at the top. He peered over the rock overhang and saw a gray ribbon of highway a few yards away.

  With a grunt, Dante shoved off with his boot and launched his upper body over the top. For a few seconds, he simply hung there, lacking enough energy to pull the rest of his body over. Then Dante dug his fingers into the soft earth and clawed his way out.

  He might’ve passed out. He wasn’t sure. One minute he was pressing his face into the cool, soft grass, and the next someone was nudging him over with their boot.

  Lights shone in his face, blinding him. Pushing off on his elbows, Dante sat up and shielded his eyes.

  Had Vandergriff’s men somehow found him already?

  His tension melted away when a familiar face shoved its way into the light.

  “Ronnie!” he said.

  The punch caught him in the jaw, knocking him back onto the grass.

  Everything went black.

  August 7

  1:55 a.m.

  “He’s dead.” The gunman shoved his weapon back into the holster and turned to his boss.

  “Are you sure?” Vandergriff peered over the balcony. “Because I couldn’t tell where you hit him. I thought I saw him bobbing in the water, but I can’t see anything now.”

  “I’m sure. I hit him in the chest.”

  Nadia couldn’t move.