“Well, Peter, I’m glad you see things my way.”
Peter shrugged. “You were right, Mike. I guess if I have to choose . . . I’ll stick with the band.”
Mike looked up at the darkening sky. He and Peter had gone out to get new strings for Peter’s bass and drumsticks for Micky, but their quick shopping trip had turned into a long walk through the city streets and around the park while they talked. Mike put aside his usual reticence and told Peter about his concerns, his gut-solid certainty that turning into vigilantes or crimefighters would only lead to misery for them all.
“Don’t you remember what happened when Davy bought those maracas with the microfilm in them? We got shoved into settin’ that trap for Boris and Madame. You an’ Micky got thrown into a wall and I got knocked out. You remember that whole deal with Dragonman? You and Micky could have gotten really hurt or killed.”
“Yeah, but Mike—we can fight now. I know it doesn’t mean we’re invincible but at least now we have a way to defend ourselves. We didn’t have that before.”
“But see, Peter—that’s exactly my point! The other times we’ve gotten mixed up in stuff we’ve come out okay because . . . well, I mean, when we set that trap for Madame and Boris we had Honeywell in the other room just in case. They weren’t gonna just toss us into danger with no help ‘cause they knew we weren’t trained fighters or spies or whatever. But now . . . they wouldn’t have a reason to care, because we’re the Four Winds and we can take care of ourselves. You understand, Peter?”
Peter had, reluctantly admitting that Mike had a good point and though there was a part of him that still disagreed, he had to admit that Mike had the band’s—and his friends’—best interests at heart.
“C’mon, man. It’s gettin’ dark and we better get back home ‘fore Micky goes and calls Missing Persons on us.”
Peter nodded, and together they headed down the street back to the Pad.
“Hey Mike,” Peter said, pausing. “You feel something?”
“Something like what?” Mike said, turning to face his friend.
“Like . . . something’s not ri—” Peter said, his words cut off as a pair of hands grabbed him and yanked him into a dim, narrow alley.
“Peter!” Mike shouted, leaping into the alley after him. Another pair of hands grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall next to Peter, who was being held firmly by the same young man who’d been hit in the head with a drumstick the night before.
“Hey, hey, easy,” Mike said.
“Shut up!” the young man snarled, digging his hands a little deeper into Peter’s shirt. “Think you’re tough, do you? Throwing sticks at people from a stage like a damn coward?”
“You were hurting that girl,” Peter replied, his eyes narrowing. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Oh yeah? Well maybe you’ll let me do this!” The young man cocked his arm back and snapped a punch that would have hit Peter directly in the eye. Moving like a striking viper, Peter grabbed his fist; turning neatly on his heel, he slid out of the way and smashed the young man into the wall face first.
Mike took advantage of the distraction; he reached around and grabbed his man by the right sleeve, wrenching him around. He smacked the man on the head and spun him around, pinning him against the wall. “Surprise,” he said.
Another three men appeared out of the darkness, blocking their escape. A quick glance to his left confirmed his suspicion—the alley was a dead end. Mike quickly released his man and backed away, Peter joining him. They stood back-to-back as all five advanced. The young man that Peter had smashed against the wall now had a long scrape on his cheek in addition to the red welt on his temple. “What’re you gonna do now, huh?” he growled.
Mike glanced at Peter and knew they were thinking the same thing. For all their knowledge neither one had actually used their skills in a real fight. Mike raised his eyebrows, a look which clearly asked, “Well?”
Peter nodded, then turned to their foes. “We fight,” he said, raising his fists.
~~~~~
“Man, I wish they’d get back already,” Micky said, pacing anxiously around the Pad.
“Micky, will you relax?” Davy said. “They’re probably out talking and lost track of time, that’s all.”
Micky hopped up and down on the balls of his feet, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. The tension between Mike and Peter had really unnerved him; for his part he agreed with Mike about keeping their skills a secret, but he also had to admit that Peter had a point. If Peter hadn’t nailed that guy I would’ve, he thought, feeling a fresh rise of anger at himself for not noticing her predicament. Okay, Dolenz, relax. You’re just mad because she was cute and Peter got there first. Though it wasn’t something he would just blurt out, Micky wanted to be the one to save a damsel in distress just once. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m just kinda nervous, that’s all.”
“Nervous about what?” Davy said, standing. “It’s gonna be okay, ma—” He stiffened, his huge brown eyes going wide.
“Davy?” Micky said, already crossing the Pad to Davy’s side.
“Mi . . . run . . . ” Davy mumbled, collapsing into Micky’s arms.
“Davy! Davy!” Micky said. There was a small needle protruding from Davy’s neck, and Micky looked up, his eyes spotting a man in gray suit standing at the back door, a gun in his hand.
Micky set Davy down onto the couch and lunged for the back door, senseless anger surging through him. The man stepped into the house, calming bringing the gun up and firing it. Micky felt a sharp pain in his side and stumbled, his hands grabbing for the needle stuck between his ribs. He pulled it out, staring in horror at the blood-slicked shaft. “You bast . . . ” he began; his tongue thickened in his mouth and he fell to his knees, the eclectic furnishings of the Pad whirling around him until he thought he’d be sick.
“Just relax, son,” he heard a voice say from a million miles off. “The less you struggle the better off you’ll be.”
“Nnno!” he groaned, swinging blindly at the blurry shape in front of him. His hand connected with air and he hit the floor hard, panting and trying to get to his feet and fight. A pair of hands seized him and held him down. He tried to kick and struggle, but his limbs refused to obey him. He blinked his burning eyes and tried to focus on the faces hovering over him. “Who . . . ” he murmured.
Blackness.
~~~~~
“Peter! Head’s up!” Mike swung his attacker around and Peter ducked, sending the man tumbling over his shoulders to the ground.
Mike’s fears about their untested prowess had disappeared as soon as the men blocking the alley had attacked. His body had responded instantly, his limbs and muscles relaxing until they were in striking distance, then unleashing with a flurry of blows that left his attackers reeling. Peter stood beside him, his fists and feet striking stomachs and sides with uncanny accuracy, his face pinched into a look of concentration that Mike was used to seeing only when Peter was playing music.
An arm wound around Mike’s neck, locking around his throat. Instead of panicking Mike leaned forward, bringing his heel up into the man’s groin with a solid thud. As he was released his elbow smashed into the man’s chin, knocking him down—and out.
As the last of their attackers collapsed—felled by a neat karate chop from Peter—Mike could hear a new sound over that of their breathing.
The sound of a single person clapping.
He and Peter turned as one, their fists still raised. Mike could see the dark shape lurking in the shadows as the clapping continued, echoing in the now silent alley.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
The shape moved, stepping out into the dim light.
“What do you want?” Mike groaned, his eyes focusing on the face of CIS Agent Modell.
Modell smiled coldly as he finally ceased his applause. “That was quite a performance. Two against five, and neither of you have a scratch. I’m impressed.”
Mike stiffened, glaring. “And we’re leaving. Bye.” He and Peter started forward, halting when Modell drew his gun.
“I don’t think so. You’re coming with me.”
On to Chapter Five
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