Chapter Seven
“Mike? Mike, c’mon—it’s already ten o’clock!”
Mike’s brain, still fuzzy from its long slumber, slowly awakened, his eyes focusing on Peter’s concerned face. “Huh? It can’t be . . . I just shut my eyes five minutes ago!”
Peter pointed to Mike’s bedside clock. “Take a look for yourself.”
Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his sleep-tangled hair. “Is Mick up yet?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. I made him some breakfast. He’s eating right now.”
Peter left while Mike showered and dressed, not even bothering to tuck in his shirt or put on a belt. It didn’t seem to matter much now. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen, his mind awake and alert, his body already loose and limber, even though he knew from the previous day’s activity that he should have been sore in six dozen places.
Micky was sitting at the table, drinking down the last of his orange juice. Several empty plates sat in front of him, testaments to his exhaustion-fueled appetite.
“How you feelin’, Mick?” Mike said, turning a chair around backwards and sitting down.
Micky shrugged. “Okay. Doesn’t hurt much this morning. What are we going to do about Davy?”
“Don’t worry, Micky. We’re gonna get Davy back without doin’ ANYTHING for the CIS. I promise.” He sincerely hoped his voice carried more authority than he was feeling. He didn’t know how they were going to get Davy back; his mind worked furiously as he watched Micky scrape the last crumbs from his plate. Something. He had to think of something and fast.
“I know, Mike, but . . . how?”
Mike’s brow furrowed with the force of his frown as he looked at his bandmates—Peter, standing by the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and Micky, whose scratched face looked somehow both weary and energized in the cold light that poured in from the gray sky outside the windows.
“I think it’s time we pay Mr. Liang another visit. We got these powers—might as well find out exactly how far they go and how we can use them to rescue Davy.”
~~~~~
Blackly looked down at their remaining ‘guest.’ He was short; shorter than Blackly himself, who was used to craning his neck to look his boss in the face. And young—so young that he didn’t look old enough to be able to drink alcohol in the very clubs in which he played.
With a moan the boy’s eyes fluttered open, and Blackly took an involuntary step back, his hand trailing to the gun holstered at his side. It was the first time Modell had let him wear one since his unfortunate mishap with Agent Morris, who would go through the rest of his life with only nine toes.
“Where . . . am I?” he said, his hands moving weakly against the iron shackles that held him in a straight-backed chair.
“You’re in CIS headquarters, Mr. Jones. No harm will come to you—provided you don’t try to escape.”
“Escape?” Jones’s eyes opened wide. He began tugging at his restraints in earnest. “Wait a minute? What is this? You can’t keep me here!”
“Please, Mr. Jones. I’ve heard it all before from your friend.”
The young musician’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Blackly swallowed the lump that rose up in his throat. “Where’s Micky? What have you done with him?” he demanded.
The façade of the calm, collected spy was not something Blackly had yet mastered, and there were times that his tongue behaved like a half-tamed horse, breaking away from his brain and running free. “He’s not here. He escaped,” he said, immediately clapping his hands over his mouth when he realized what he’d done. Jones’s eyes lit up triumphantly, and Blackly could already hear Modell’s angry shouting.
“Then you’d better keep an eye on me, then. I might just follow him.”
~~~~~
Mike pulled the Monkeemobile to the curb half a block from the restaurant. The three Monkees got out, walking casually down the street lest any CIS agents were watching. Mike carefully scanned the area, looking for any unusual people or cars. He didn’t notice any, and released the tight breath he’d been holding in his chest.
The restaurant was completely empty except for a petite young woman sitting at a table nearby, delicately lifting rice to her mouth with a pair of chopsticks while her dark, narrow eyes scanned the pages of a magazine laid out on the table before her. When the Monkees entered she looked up, her jet black hair whipping over her shoulder.
“Is Mr. Liang here?” Mike asked without bothering with niceties like ‘hello.’
“What do you want with him?” she asked, taking in the stern, forbidding expressions on their faces.
“It’s okay,” Peter said. “We’re friends.”
She nodded. “Yia-yia!”
A few moments passed, then Liang shuffled out of the office. He looked at the Monkees a little nervously, obviously remembering the tension that had prevailed the last time they’d been there. “Yes?”
Mike quickly explained the situation. “ . . . and they still have Davy. We gotta get him back.”
“And what do you expect my grandfather to do?” the young woman said, crossing her arms.
“An-mei!” Liang snapped. “These honored guests!”
“No, it’s okay,” Peter said quickly. “We just want to know exactly what it is that we can do.”
Liang raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You not know?”
Mike shook his head. “No. Up until know we’ve never used any of this stuff. Never HAD to.” It was true—for all the trouble the Monkees seemed to be a perpetual magnet for, they hadn’t run into any trouble in the time between the drinking of the tea and Peter’s defense of Marie.
Liang looked flustered. “An-mei, you talk. My words no good.” He began speaking rapidly in Chinese, with An-mei smoothly translating.
“Your senses have all been heightened, given the sharpness that warriors possess. Your strength and flexibility have been doubled, and your reflexes are animal swift. You have the knowledge of the martial arts from China, Japan, and Korea residing in you, and as the Four Winds your skills are beyond compare.”
Mike whistled. “Wow. Sounds . . . uh, different when you put it like that.”
“Now you see?” Liang said. “Break into building no problem for you.”
Mike bit his lip, musing for a few moments. Saving Davy wasn’t enough—somehow they had to insure that the CIS would leave them alone. Otherwise it wouldn’t even be worth fighting for.
~~~~~
It was only after spending almost an hour struggling that Davy realized that his shackles weren’t going to budge, and the chair was firmly bolted to the floor. Blackly had left him alone after only a few minutes; apparently the young CIS agent wasn’t the type to dominate his captives, but rather leave them to solitude and let their own wild thoughts and fears serve as their enemies.
Davy, however, was spending less time dwelling on his predicament and more time trying to think of a way out of it. The iron bracelets were firmly welded to the arms of the chair, but as Davy slowly rotated his hands within them it dawned on him that the cuffs were just a LITTLE larger than was required for his wrists. He curled his hands, straightening his fingers, and slowly began working them free. It was a slow, painful process, especially when his knuckles caught the edge and he was obliged to pull them through, tearing several layers of skin off in the process. Finally his left hand was freed with a yank, his right following several moments later.
Leaping from the chair, he slid over to the door and stood on tiptoe to see through the small window. The hallway outside—at least the tiny portion he could see—was empty. He tried the doorknob experimentally; it was, of course, locked.
“Damn,” he muttered. “What a time to be without a battering ram.” He paced back and forth in front of the door, trying to figure out how to escape. If Micky could, why couldn’t he?
The sound of voices alerted him and he quickly flattened himself against the wall next to the door. The voices paused, and a few moments of nearly perfect silence passed before the door was flung open and two CIS agents—who looked distinctly panicked—burst in.
“Where is he?” one shouted.
For the first time in his life Davy thanked God for the small statue that allowed him to slip out easily and slam the door behind him. Ignoring the loud shouting and banging that would guarantee the appearance of more agents, Davy took off down the corridor. He didn’t care that he might be heading deeper into the building; the need to escape had taken hold and made his feet even swifter as he rounded the corner and took the flight of stairs three at a time.
Shouts echoed behind him and he stopped, looking frantically down to identical corridors. Which one? With a quick “eenie meenie miney moe” he took the left-hand one, running to the end, then veering sharply to the left.
Dead end.
“Shit!” he gasped. Pounding footsteps were already thumping behind him, and he knew that he was trapped.
Except . . .
Glancing to his right he spotted a door. Praying it wasn’t locked, he grabbed the knob and wrenched it; to his absolute relief it opened and he darted inside, slamming it behind him.
A few moments of harsh, rapid breathing slowly yielded to the realization that he wasn’t alone. His gaze lifted from the hardwood floor to the figure sitting behind a huge mahogany desk, and his eyes widened when he realized who it was.
“You!”
On to Chapter Eight
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