“Yes, Nesmith. It’s me.” Honeywell took a further step into the room. The short haircut and horn-rimmed glasses were still in place, but his manner was more at ease, more confident than it had been before.
“Chief, these are the men!” Modell said, struggling in Micky’s and Davy’s grip. “They’re responsible for stealing those files! It was them!”
“WHAT!?” Mike roared. “That’s a LIE!”
“Enough!” Honeywell thundered. “Relax, Nesmith. I know that it’s a lie. You four are innocent of any wrongdoing.”
Modell’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “But, Chief—!”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, Modell. I know all about your little scheme to force these boys to do your dirty work for you. Spare me your story.”
Mike just stared. Chief? He’s a chief now? “Would someone mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on here, please?”
“He’s the head of the CIS now, Mike,” Davy said.
“He is?”
Honeywell smiled. “It was largely thanks to you. I got a promotion to inspector for bringing Boris down, and when we caught Madame in China I was promoted to chief.”
Mike scowled. “WE’RE the ones who brought Boris down.”
Honeywell chuckled. “Yes, but you weren’t CIS agents. Otherwise YOU would have gotten the promotion. In any case, Modell here was promoted to inspector after the Dragonman case was resolved—”
“Which also wouldn’t have happened without us,” Mike pointed out.
Honeywell nodded dismissively. “Shortly thereafter I began to suspect that Modell was allowing a junior agent named Blackly to safeguard top secret files—a direct violation of CIS security. So I arranged a little ruse.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “YOU stole the files!”
Honeywell nodded. “Very good, Nesm—Mike. I had some of my agents dress up in clothing similar to yours here,” he said, pointing to their outfits, “and sneak into this office, stealing some particularly sensitive files.”
“Chief, that’s unethical!” Modell protested as two CIS agents entered the room.
“So is blackmail and kidnapping to cover up your mistakes, Modell.” Honeywell turned to the agents. “Men, take Junior Agent Modell up to my office. I’ll deal with him shortly.”
Mike tightly grasped Peter’s arms as he crawled to his feet. The deflated, defeated look on Modell’s face almost made him feel sorry for him. Almost. “Are you going to kick him out, then?” he asked once they were gone.
“No,” Honeywell said.
“WHAT?” the Monkees roared.
“Boys, boys, please,” Honeywell said, raising his hands. “As much as he’s made a mess of things, he’s still one of the best agents we have. I’m hoping this little demotion will humble him sufficiently. And I promise that he will never interfere with you four again. You have my word.”
Mike nodded. “Thanks, Honeywell. We appreciate it.”
“Mike, you’re hurt!” Peter said, spreading the tear in the back of Mike’s shirt.
“Got shot,” Mike murmured.
Honeywell crossed the room to Mike’s side and took a closer look. “Looks like it grazed you. Come on—we’ll take you down to First Aid and then I’ll have a car take you home.”
~~~~~
“Well, all’s well that end’s well!” Micky said, flopping back onto the couch. Mike grabbed a nearby pillow and hurled it, clobbering the drummer on the side of the head.
“So what now, Mike?” Peter asked from his spot on the bandstand. His fingers idly plucked at Mike’s old acoustic.
Mike sighed. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I mean, our secret’s out, so . . . hiding isn’t really an option any more.”
“So we’re gonna use them after all?” Micky asked, his eyes flashing with excitement.
“I didn’t say that, Micky. Just ‘cause we don’t hide them doesn’t mean we can just go out and . . . beat people up.”
“Oh. So . . . what ARE you saying?”
Mike sighed. “We only use them when we have to. We don’t go struttin’ around just showin’ off how tough we are.”
“I agree,” Peter said.
“Me too,” Davy said after hesitating.
“Micky?”
The drummer sat gnawing his lip, clearly debating things over in his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “It’ll be nice not having to run from anyone now.”
Mike and Peter exchanged looks; Mike had a sinking suspicion that it wouldn’t be that easy with those two. All it would take was one pretty girl—whether she was in distress or not was a moot point—and they’d be right back in it.
“Good. Then we’re agreed.” As the others settled in to watch TV, Mike wandered over to the closet, quietly opening the door. He peered into the back, where four identical black jumpsuits hung side by side on four wooden pegs. His hand reached out, touching the smooth, polished wood of the five foot staff leaned up against the wall, then moved to the sheathed blades hanging from their belt. The gracefully curving bow with its accompanying quiver of red-feathered arrows sat waiting in the other corner. Mike sighed, his fingers closing over the door as he carefully eased it shut.
Somehow he knew that it would only be a matter of time before they’d have to open the closet again.
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