Mike darted quickly around the corner at the sound of approaching voices. As they passed by he allowed himself to relax only slightly. He still didn’t know how he was going to force Modell to leave them alone—or even if such a thing were possible. Part of him desperately wanted to unleash his powers on Modell, pummeling the arrogant secret agent into pulp. But he couldn’t do that. No matter how satisfying it might have been in the short run, in the long run it would only make matters worse.
He reached Modell’s office without running into any CIS men; they all seemed to be occupied with the power outage that Mike knew was Micky’s handiwork. He slipped inside, carefully easing the door closed behind him. The office was dark and still, impeccably neat save for the small pile of papers on the desk. Holding them up to the light that streamed in from the streetlights, he quickly rifled through the papers, not bothering to pick up the ones that fell on the floor.
“Nothing here,” he murmured, moving to the filing cabinet behind the desk. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he WAS sure that he’d know it when he found it. “C’mon, Modell . . . there’s gotta be at least one thing you’ve done wrong . . . ”
He was so intent on digging through the endless manila folders that the arms that snaked around his neck and shoulders caught him completely off guard. They wrenched him around, slamming him face first into the wall and holding them there with a leverage that could only come from someone taller.
“Snooping around, are we?” Modell said. “I knew taking Dolenz and Jones would bring you here.”
Instead of struggling, Mike relaxed in the inspector’s grip. “They’re my friends. By the way, I saw what you did to Micky.”
“We didn’t do that, Nesmith. He chose to run from us. Doesn’t matter now. You’re all here now, I suspect; after you’re all rounded up we’ll get down to business.”
Mike’s muscles tensed and he abruptly threw himself backward, bracing both feet on the wall, giving himself the sudden power he needed to throw Modell off balance. He wrenched himself around, breaking free from Modell’s grip. “Like hell we will,” Mike growled. “We’re not doin’ anythin’ for you. Period.”
“Is that right?” Modell sneered, drawing his gun. “I know you’re fast but I doubt you’re faster than a bullet. If you won’t cooperate, then I’m afraid I have no choice.” Mike tensed as the barrel of the gun lifted, training on him.
~~~~~
“He’s not in any of these rooms,” Micky sighed. “Man, I don’t even know if they even put him here!”
“Calm down, Micky,” Peter said, looking behind him. “We just have to keep looking, that’s all.”
“Yeah, but what if he’s not even here at all?”
Peter paused. “Then we find someone who can tell us where he is.”
Micky’s dark brows drew together and Peter could almost feel the rage flowing from him. He turned on his heel and headed for the distant sound of voices.
“Micky!” Peter hissed desperately, running after his friend. “Micky, what’re you doing?!”
Micky turned the corner, heading straight for the two CIS agents standing by a door. Their flashlight beams converged upon him as he leapt at them, sending one to the floor with a powerful kick, and pinning the other to the wall, his arm wrenched up behind his back. “Where is he?” Micky demanded, jamming his knee even further into the man’s back. “Where?!”
“Where’s who?” the man groaned through clenched teeth.
“You know who! My friend! Where’d you put him?”
Peter just watched helplessly, not knowing whether he should leap in and pull Micky away or just let Micky wrench the information out of the helpless man. His attention was so riveted on Micky that he didn’t see the pair approaching from the other direction until their faces became visible. His jaw dropped. “Davy! What—?”
Micky froze. “Davy?” He turned, releasing the agent, who slid to the floor with a pained grunt. “Whoa!” he said, focusing on Davy’s companion.
“No time to explain, Micky. I’m fine. Where’s Mike?”
“He went up to Modell’s office,” Peter said, coming closer to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. “He’s going to find some way to make him leave us alone.”
Davy’s companion turned to face him. “We have to get up there now. I think I finally understand what this is all about.”
~~~~~
Mike stared intently at the gun. He’s right. I’m not faster than a bullet. But I just might be faster than his aim . . . Carefully tensing his muscles, Mike leaped for all he was worth, diving over the desk and rolling, his ears ringing from the sound the gun made as it went off, sending a bullet whizzing harmlessly over his head.
“You little punk!” Modell spat, taking aim and firing again. Mike sprang forward, tucking and rolling before popping up near the far wall. Modell cursed and fired again, and again, and again; each time Mike acted as a human spring, launching himself safely out of the way.
One more bullet, Mike thought. He’ll have to reload—that’s when I can take him down. Once more Modell squinted in the dim light, getting an approximate fix on Mike before he pulled the trigger. Mike darted out of the way, sliding up onto the desk and curving his shoulders in anticipation of the drop to the floor. Instead a ripping, flaring pain tore through his back and right shoulder, sending spirals of numbness through his arm. He hit the floor with a cry, his left arm reaching for the edge of the desk in a frantic attempt to pull himself back up. He couldn’t leave himself vulnerable.
“Seems I’ve wounded you, Nesmith. Now maybe we’re on equal footing.”
Mike slowly pulled himself to his feet. “How do you figure that? You still have the gun, remember?”
Modell looked down at the weapon. “You’re right.” He tossed it away, where it landed in the corner with a thump. “There. No more gun. Now let’s see how tough you really are, Nesmith. Even wounded you should still pose a threat to me . . . if you are indeed capable of doing what they say you can do.”
Mike just glared. “Why? What did we do to deserve all this?”
“Deserve all what?” Modell replied. “You boys decided to fight back, instead of just doing what you were told. I didn’t cause this—you did.”
Hot rage exploded within Mike and he lunged for Modell, his hands curling around each other in the tiger position; the V formed by his thumbs and forefingers would smash into Modell’s throat, bruising—or possibly shattering—his windpipe.
The door swung open at the same moment that the lights flared back to life; Mike stumbled, the sudden burst of illumination stunning him. He was blinking, trying to get his bearings back, when Modell’s doubled fists slammed into his head, sending him to the floor.
“MIKE!” He dimly heard the shout, followed by the sounds of a struggle. A pair of hands wrapped around him, lifting him up; opening his eyes, he saw Peter’s concerned face. “Are you okay, Mike?” he asked.
“Yeah, Peter, m’fine . . . Modell?”
Peter helped him to sit up. Davy and Micky were both wrestling Modell to the ground with the energy and efficiency that rage afforded them. Slowly becoming aware that there was someone else in the room, he turned his head, his eyes widening.
“HONEYWELL??”
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