After helping her to the couch, Peter ran to make the tea. Mike paused, then pulled up one of the hidden planks of wood, reaching in and pulling out Peter’s twin blades. Davy walked over to him. “So that’s where they went,” he said sotto voce.
“Yep,” Mike said, carefully drawing each out of its sheath. He took a few backwards steps until he stood in the middle of the room. “Millie?”
She looked up—and her eyes widened as she stood.
Mike’s voice was as smooth and gentle as he could make it. “Please don’t be scared—I know what I’m doin’.” With no further words or actions he launched himself into a series of numbingly complex moves, the blades turning to blurs as he whipped them around his body. Millie found herself—for the third time that evening—uncharacteristically speechless as she watched the movements. Fright turned to fascination as she watched the long arms and legs move in balletic battle movements, each one completed with no injury. There was something beautifully soothing in the way he moved.
Mike finally stopped, his breathing coming a little quicker, but he wasn’t panting. He bowed low to Millie, the blades tucked neatly against his arms.
She slowly began to applaud. “Mickey . . . that was . . . ”
“Not bad,” Micky said. “And I’m Micky.”
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled, her eyes still on Mike.
“That’s what we are, Millie,” Mike said. “We’re all capable of this, and more.”
She sat back down and accepted the tea. After sipping it, her eyes began to close.
Mike tossed the blades to Micky, who quickly stowed them away.
“What a night,” were Millie’s last words before she slipped to sleep resting on Peter’s shoulder. At a nod from Mike, Peter carefully picked up her up and carried her upstairs, walking backwards with a grace he could never have managed before.
Davy sat on the edge of the bandstand. “We need to get more information tomorrow,” he mused.
“Yeah, and we have to work on a defense plan—in case they come back,” Mike added.
“Who’s taking first watch?” Micky asked.
“I am,” Mike said firmly.
Davy began to smile. “We didn’t even think,” he mused, awed in spite of himself. “We just started protecting her.”
“Maybe that crazy old Chinese guy was right,” Micky said.
Peter nodded slowly.
“Or maybe we’re just four decent guys protectin’ a helpless old widow,” Mike said. “Now go on t’bed. I’ll be here.”
Davy squeezed his shoulder and headed on, grabbing Micky by the collar and dragging him behind him. Mike chuckled, watching them. When all was still and silent he went around, turning off the lights until the Pad was bathed in darkness, with the moon providing the only light. Mike took up position by the windows, staring out at the night sky beyond.
Peter sat beside him, a second silent sentinel.
“What’re you doin’ up?” Mike whispered. “Thought you went t’bed.”
“Not tired,” Peter whispered back. “My head’s too full.”
“Mine too.”
“I just can’t figure out what they want with her. Why they keep after her if she’s paid them off.”
“I can’t either, Peter. Hopefully we’ll find out—before something happens to her.”
Peter shot him a sideways look and a smile. “Straight from the Horse’s mouth.” He couldn’t resist.
Mike gave Peter a mock-unamused look.
But he was grinning that sunshine smile. “I’m going to rest now. Safe watch, Michael.”
“Thanks.”
Peter moved to the bedroom and closed the door partially. Mike slipped out the back door onto the veranda, savoring the cool night breeze.
There was the scuff/oof! of a body slipping on the incline around the beach. Mike froze, instantly alert, and held his breath, his ears straining to pick up any further sounds.
There were none.
Mike stood for a few minutes, debating. I gotta go see, he thought. It’s probably nothing but we can’t take any chances. Moving silently, he crept down the stairs to the beach below.
There was a moment of silence, then something that sounded suspiciously like a ‘shh!’. Mike’s ears homed in on the sound of the ‘ssh!’, and he whirled, his fists starting to rise.
Bright light flared into his face. An eyeful of direct sunlight could not have been more painful. Mike reeled backwards, groaning, fighting the violent urge to claw his eyes right out of his head.
A sharp blow between his shoulder blades drove him to the sand with another groan; he tried to recover, but bright red spots dominated his vision, blinding him. A boot to his ribs, and something smashed into the side of his head. The world fell into a muted state, the vicious blows barely registering in Mike’s foggy consciousness. His body jumped and shook with each blow as if jerked by invisible strings until the white haze of pain pulled him into blissful darkness.
The figures then descended upon the beach house.
The Monkees, however, were ready. Micky pounced from one side, while Davy charged from the other. Peter vaulted out of the back door, the nightstick-like tonfa in his grasp whirling out in black shadows, striking anyone within reach.
The attackers had been relying on surprise and stealth. With that gone they fled, leaving the three Monkees alone outside their darkened home.
“Mike!” Peter howled, charging towards Mike’s still form, Micky and Davy a few feet behind him.
Davy wheeled around mid-step. “I’ll guard Millie!”
“Go!” Peter ordered. He knelt next to his injured friend. “Oh, Mike . . . ” He ran his hands over Mike’s body, letting out a shuddering sigh when he found no broken bones.
“Shit—what did they do to him?”
“Same thing we do to those practice dummies we use sometimes—they beat the hell out of him.” Peter fought back tears as he and Micky carefully lifted Mike up and carried him back into the house.
Davy was coming down the stairs. “She’s still asleep.”
“Good. Davy, I need towels and hot water . . . and the first aid kit. Micky, can you get me Mike’s pajamas? We need to get him cleaned up and into bed.” Peter’s voice was quiet with authority. Both of them nodded and separated to their respective tasks.
Peter sat on the coffee table. His eyes silently took in the bloody nose and lip, the red streaking the raven hair, the torn shirt . . . tears welled up and spilled forth, and Peter lowered his face into his hands, weeping softly for his friend.
Micky touched his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, big Peter.”
Peter looked up, quickly wiping away his tears. “Yeah, Micky.”
“I got his pajamas.”
“Thanks, Micky.” Peter reached out, fumbling with the buttons through his tears.
“Need help?”
Peter nodded, letting his trembling hands drop. Micky got Mike changed.
When Davy finally arrived with the towels, water, and first aid kit, Peter had recovered enough to tend to Mike’s wounds, which, in the soft light of the Pad, didn’t look as bad as he thought they would.
“He’s going to be okay,” Davy said firmly.
“Guys, you can stop talkin’ ‘bout me like I’m not here,” Mike mumbled, his eyes slowly opening.
“Thank heaven,” Micky breathed.
“Mike?” Peter said. “Mike, are you—”
“Yeah, shotgun . . . m’alive . . . ” Mike said. “What happened?”
“Assholes thought they could get the drop on us,” Micky growled.
“Now I remember,” Mike groaned, sitting up. “Flashed a light in m’eyes . . . blinded me.”
“You’re . . . okay now, though?” Davy asked.
“I’m alive, Davy . . . that’s ‘bout all I can say.” Mike blinked, giving him a tired half-smile. “But
yeah . . . I’ll be okay.”
Davy smiled. “Good,” he said. “I’d hate to have to bring you back to life so I could kill you. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” Mike said. “I heard a noise and went out to investigate. Then BAM—flash of light and I’m gettin’ kicked from all sides.”
“They took off when we jumped them,” Micky said.
“I couldn’t see them very well,” Peter said, a little ashamed. “I was too worried about getting to you.”
“One of them was that man that was here earlier,” Micky growled.
Mike sat up a little. “These guys aren’t gonna give up until they get to Millie. We can’t let that happen . . . if they’d do this to me, what’re they plannin’ t’do to her?”
Davy gave a little shudder then stood up straight. “How do you propose we stop them?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said, his eyelids slowly drooping closed. “We’ll figure it out later . . . ”
“Guys, Mike needs to sleep,” Peter said softly.
Micky nodded. “C’mon, D’artagnan.” He braced Mike’s arm around his shoulder and sleep-walked him to the downstairs bedroom.
“I thought he was Aramis,” Peter said to Davy, a small smile breaking the tension a little.
“Nah, he’s Athos.” Davy grinned back.
“Whateveros!” Micky shouted from the bedroom door. “C’mon, guys!”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Now he sounds like Mike.”
“He’s Porthos,” Davy chuckled, heading for the bedroom. “The one who always ate. You gonna stand watch?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah.” He waited until Davy was gone and the house was quiet, then carefully removed the bow and arrows from beneath the bandstand. Silently mounting the stairs, he retreated to the shadows, nocking an arrow to the string and waiting, as if challenging their enemies to try another attack.
Nothing else happened that night.
On to Seven
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Back to Secrets and Lies Index
