In Enemy Hands

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.

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

G
ary 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.”

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.”

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?”