Mike watched the plain black CIS car roar off down the street, tugging his wrinkled shirt back into place. “Those guys need to learn some manners. C’mon, let’s go tell Micky and Davy what happened . . . then we’ll think of something.”
As Mike opened the door to the Pad the hairs on his arms stood on end. The house was still and quiet. Way too quiet.
“Mike?” Peter said nervously.
Mike waved for him to be quiet. “Micky! Davy! Where are you guys!” He checked the downstairs bedroom while Peter checked the upstairs. “Any luck?” he asked as Peter descended the stairs.
“No,” Peter said. “I’m scared, Mike. Something’s happened to them.”
“Now, Peter, don’t get worked up yet. Maybe they went out to the beach or someth—” Mike stopped dead when his eyes fastened on a small object, glinting in the lights that had been left on unattended. He walked over, the saliva in his mouth chalky and bitter. Bending down, he picked up the object at looked at it. It was a small needle with a thin metal cylinder attached. There was blood on the needle, as well as a few drops on the floor. “Oh man,” he whispered.
“Mike, there’s another one over here,” Peter said, sinking onto the couch, holding another small needle in his trembling fingers.
“What happened?” Mike murmured, turning the needle over and over in his hands.
“They took them, Mike. Those CIS men. They came here and took them.”
Mike looked over his shoulder. “Peter, how do you know—”
“I just know, Mike. It’s so we’ll do what they want. Maybe . . . maybe they figure that we’re not scared of the police, but . . . since they have Micky and Davy . . . ” He trailed off, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, Mike. This is all my fault.”
“Hey, Peter, stop that right now,” Mike said. “There’s no way you could have known this would have happened.”
“Yeah, but if I hadn’t thrown that drumstick—”
“Hey, Peter, listen,” Mike said, crossing the room to Peter’s side. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. I realize that now. Someone somewhere was gonna find out about us, and . . . maybe I was just foolin’ myself to think we’d be able to keep it secret forever.”
Peter nodded. “I still feel bad, though.”
“Yeah, well, I do too.”
Peter sighed, bringing a hand up to massage his temples. “What’re we going to do now, Mike?”
For the first time in a long time Mike had to admit—to himself, which was always the hardest of all—that he didn’t know what to do. “I don’t know, Pete. I really don’t.”
The front door—which Peter hadn’t closed all the way—opened, and Peter and Mike both leapt to their feet, fists raised.
“Micky!” Peter shouted, leaping over the table and chaise to support the drummer as he staggered in, making it only a few feet before collapsing.
“Peter, over here!” Mike hissed, pulling out a chair from the kitchen. Peter half-carried Micky over to it, easing him down as Mike ran to close the door and lock it.
“Micky? Micky, can you hear me?” Peter said, kneeling down in front of his injured friend.
Micky nodded. “Yeah, Pete . . . I hear ya.” His arms were a bloody mess, and long red scratches like warpaint marred his cheeks and forehead. The left sleeve of his formerly blue shirt was sliced to ribbons and stained dark red.
“Micky, what happened?” Mike said, returning from the bathroom with every bit of first aid paraphernalia he could carry. He and Peter stripped off what was left of Micky’s shirt as the drummer explained, in short, mumbling sentences, what had happened to himself and Davy.
“ . . . and then I took off. Knew I had to get home . . . tell you guys.” His left arm at the elbow had cuts in nearly a dozen places from the top of the chain link fence. Blood ran down his arm in sluggish rivulets as Mike and Peter worked together to clean the wounds.
“Do you know where Davy is?” Mike asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Micky had been through so much—there was no sense making it worse by shouting.
“No. I didn’t get a chance to look for him. Mike, what do they want?”
“You never mind about that now, Micky,” Mike said, holding a gauze pad around Micky’s arm as Peter wrapped a long bandage around the limb. “You need to get some rest first.”
Micky didn’t argue with his bandmates as they led him into the downstairs bedroom and tucked him into Peter’s bed, his snoring beginning as soon as his head hit the pillow. Peter made a quick trip to the bathroom to wash his hands; when he emerged Mike was standing on the bandstand, staring out at the night sky. His hands were still stained with Micky’s blood.
“Hey Mike?” Peter said softly.
Mike turned. Peter was at once awestruck and terrified by what he saw lurking in the Texan’s dark eyes. Rage and righteous indignation burned within them, nearly setting them on fire. Peter could feel them boring straight into his own. “Peter, we are not going to do the CIS’s dirty work. They can’t just go around forcing people to do their jobs for them simply because it’s too messy or too dangerous. I’m not gonna let Modell push us around. We’re gonna get Davy back and somehow I’m gonna find a way to make Modell sorry he ever even knew us.”
On to Chapter Seven
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