The next morning Millie came out of the bedroom, dressed and singing. She gave a small start to see Peter standing there, armed. “Peter?”
“Good morning, Millie,” Peter replied with a tired, worn smile.
“Good morning. Expecting trouble?”
Peter hesitated, deciding not to tell her about Mike quite yet. It wasn’t fair to jump it on her first thing in the morning. “In a manner of speaking,” he said finally.
Frowning slightly at him, she walked down the stairs just in time to hear Micky calling over his shoulder, “—and let Mike sleep. After that beating he took, he needs it.”
She stopped him by putting her hand on his chest. “What beating?”
Micky squirmed uncomfortably. “Uh, I uh, I m-mean . . . well, what I meant was—”
“Micky.”
Micky sighed, his eyes growing mournful. “He got hurt last night. Jumped. Probably by the same guys that are after you, Millie.”
Millie’s eyes closed and she swayed slightly, though to her credit she did not faint. “Oh, no . . . ”
“He’s okay, though,” Peter said quickly. “We showed up just in time. He’s banged up but he’ll heal quickly.”
“This is my fault.”
“No it isn’t,” Micky said quickly. “You didn’t send those guys after Mike. Besides, it’s a danger we’re facing willingly.”
She sighed deeply. “I want to see him.” For a second it looked like Micky was going to argue, but then he stepped aside with a sigh.
She walked in and drew a sharp breath at the sight of him. The bruises around his eyes had darkened overnight to a dark purple, and the jagged cut on his temple where he’d been kicked was a black lightning bolt in the dim light from the curtained windows. Even though the rest of his body was covered by black pajamas, Millie knew the rest of him was probably equally battered. She sat on the bed and just stared at him for the longest time.
“I know I look bad,” he murmured after a while, his eyes opening fractionally. “But it’s better than it looks.”
“Are you sure?” she whispered, brushing his hair from his eyes.
“Yeah,” Mike said, licking his dry lips. “I’ll be fine.”
She nodded. “If you need anything?”
“Water,” he said. “If y’don’t mind.”
She left the room immediately, returning with a large glass of ice water. “Here, Mickey. Drink it slowly.”
Mike drank greedily, his bruised hands clutching the cold glass. “Thanks,” he said breathlessly when the glass was empty.
At a nod from him the other three left to let Millie talk to Mike alone. She chewed on her lip, setting the water glass aside.
Mike slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, biting his lip to keep from making any noises that would distract her. “What is it, Millie?”
“This is my fault.”
“Millie, we been through this. It’s not your fault.”
“They’re after me.”
“And that’s not your fault, either. Look, Millie . . . we’re involved now. We’ve made it our business.”
She sighed. “Maybe I should just give in. Should just become one of their runners.”
“No, Millie!” Mike said, wincing as he bit his tongue. “That doesn’t solve anythin’. Look . . . we’ll figure somethin’ out. You gotta trust us on this, okay?”
She lowered her head.
Moving gingerly, Mike slid out of bed and limped to the bedroom door. “Guys, after breakfast we gotta start plannin’. These guys are done messin’ with Millie,” he said, his voice steely.
She lowered her head.
“They want me because my late husband was one of the best. He said they’d come after me to keep it in the family. I—I didn’t believe him.”
Mike turned, leaning against the jamb. The light from the kitchen set his face in sharp relief, his nose and mouth formed into stern shadows. “For all intents and purposes, Millie—you’re part of our family now.”
“I’m just a silly old woman, Mickey.”
“Woman, yes. Silly, no. Old . . . not yet,” Mike said, winking.
“Flatterer.” But she was smiling.
Mike smiled back. “And don’t you worry. You let us take care of you now.”
“It’s . . . hard.”
“I know. But you gotta trust us, okay?”
She gave a small smile. “Okay, Mickey.”
“Mike,” Mike started to correct her, then let it drop.
“Mike,” she blushed, smiling.
Mike nodded, winking again, then went out to join his friends while Millie busied herself straightening the room. Mike called the others over and told them what she’d told him.
Micky’s face developed thunderheads. Davy glared fiercely, his hands clenching into fists. Peter looked a little calmer than the two percussionists but the rage was clearly apparent in his light brown eyes.
There was a knock on the door just then . . . different from Babbitt’s pounding knocks.
The Monkees moved immediately into action. Davy and Micky—by far the fiercest of the four—stood on either side of the door, pressed up against the wall. Peter stood off to the side near the staircase, his bow in hand. Mike took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. Larry the moving man stood there, a friendly smile on his face. “Hi there. I came to return Millie’s cheesecake plate.”
“Oh, th-thank you,” Mike said, taking the plate. “Would you like to come in?”
Larry stared at Mike as if he’d never seen the Texan before, his forehead creased with a mixture of horror and concern. “Son, what in the world tore into you?”
“It’s okay, Larry,” Mike said. “I had a run-in with some pretty unpleasant folks, but I’m okay, really.”
Larry nodded, tearing his gaze away from Mike with difficulty. “Is-is Millie here?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah, she is.”
“I’ll tell her you’re here,” Peter said, quickly ducking into the bedroom.
Millie was sitting by the window. “Millie?” Peter said gently. “Larry’s here.”
Her face lit up. “He is?”
Peter nodded, smiling. “Yeah. He’s asking for you.”
“He is?” she slid from the sill and walked toward the door. “Do I look okay?”
“You look fine.”
She walked out. “Hi, Larry.”
He smiled at her. “Hi, Millie.” And he stared at her, tongue-tied. Mike, standing next to Larry, gave him a little nudge. “Uhm . . . the cheesecake was good!”
Her face lit up. “I’ve got more . . . let me get you another bite.” And she moved to fill his plate.
Mike leaned in, whispering in Larry’s ear. “You like her, don’t you?”
He smiled gently. “Sure.”
“Tell her!” Micky whispered excitedly. “She’s hung up on you, too!”
“Aw, she’s probably got suitors a mile—”
Millie brought the cake over. “There you are, Larry. Happy eating.”
“Thank you, Millie.”
“She doesn’t have any other suitors,” Mike said.
Millie frowned at him slightly. “Suitors?” Larry mumbled a thank you and exited quickly.
Davy slid over to Millie. “He likes you, you know.”
“Go on,” she chuckled.
“He does!” Davy maintained. “He got that look that Peter got when Valerie first tried to talk to him!”
Peter blushed. “That was a while ago, Davy.”
“Yeah, but it was the same look, Big Peter,” Micky said, winking.
Millie huffed. “Boys, you’re embarrassing Peter.”
“Thank you, Millie,” Peter smiled.
“No,” Mike said slowly. “If we wanted to embarrass him we’d remind him of those dancin’ lessons he signed up for.”
“Now hold on!” Peter gasped, but he was smiling.
“I think we should drag Larry back here,” Micky said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Well, I think—” Davy began, but he never got the chance to finish. The bay window exploded into shards and dark-clad bodies launched themselves into the house as the glass shattered around them.
The Monkees moved as one, fanning out. Davy, Micky, and Peter stood shoulder to shoulder, fists raised, as Mike grabbed Millie and pulled her into the downstairs bedroom.
Millie protested all the way there. “I can help. I have a gun.”
Mike stopped. “You have a what?”
“A gun! In my purse!”
Mike paused. “Millie, get it out, but stay in here. We’ll take care of those guys. Don’t come out until we call the all clear.” Mike’s eyes were piercing. “Please?”
Struck dumb, she nodded. Mike turned and charged back through the door, joining his friends as they faced whatever had crashed into their house.
There were eight of them—five men and three women. Their faces hidden by heavy scarves, their bodies by black clothing, they bobbed and weaved, armed with various weapons. They were fanning out around the Monkees, trying to box them in without attacking first.
Mike saw Peter’s eyes flick to the bandstand and their hidden weapons. Taking a deep breath, he released an enraged roar and charged at the nearest attackers. Startled by the laconic Texan’s sudden action, Micky and Davy followed him, giving Peter the opening he needed to grab the weapons. Prying up the boards and using them to keep the attackers at bay, Peter pulled out the weapons and called his roommates’ names, throwing them their weaponry. For himself, he balanced the blades and stood, waiting.
Mike caught the staff that flew through the air and used it to trip the attacker nearest him. Micky caught his tonfa and slammed the butt of one into the stomach of another attacker. Davy caught the bow and used it and the quiver as makeshift staffs, knocking his attackers off-balance enough to sling his quiver over his shoulder and nock an arrow.
Peter surveyed the scene cautiously, not wanting to step in with his blades until he needed to; the man who had slipped behind him struck, kicking Peter’s legs out from under him. Peter hit the floor hard, gasping and choking until his eyes focused on the swordpoint touching his throat.
“Hold!” the man barked. “Hold or I skewer him!”
Mike turned. “Peter!” He lunged madly for the man, Micky’s arms reaching out and holding him back. “Micky, lemme go!”
The man raised his head. “We want Millicent. Turn her over to us and I’ll let this boy go.”
Davy swung his bow around, arrow aimed right at the man’s throat.
“Don’t do it, Mike!” Peter cried.
A second man pushed the point of his sword into Davy’s lower back. “Lower it.” Davy clenched his teeth as he slowly lowered the bow.
The swordsman’s eyes crinkled as if he was smiling. He raised his voice. “Millicent, we know you’re here! Come out, and all will be forgiven!”
“Don’t come out, Millie, please don’t come out,” Mike murmured under his breath.
There was silence and no movement for a long moment. The man called again, “My patience grows thin!” He shifted position to bear the point slightly harder into Peter’s throat. “Millicent, come on!”
Mike’s heart beat jaggedly as he saw the thin line of blood that trickled down Peter’s neck. Micky’s hand tightened on his arm, and Mike glanced down. In the drummer’s hand was a small silver star.
On to Eight
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