Chapter Four
The next day became a constant struggle for sanity as Sha-ku declared all-out war on the three Monkees. When he or his employees weren’t calling incessantly, it was some inoffensive youth in gray sweats asking if they’d like to join Sha-ku’s Health and Strength.
By late that afternoon they were all desperate for escape—Peter locked himself in the bedroom, leaving Davy to find his own refuge at the drums with Micky’s earmuffs clamped over his ears. Micky headed out to the beach, hoping a good long run would ease the tension building between his shoulders.
He ran for a good long while—the wind in his hair and whipping by his ears, nothing but the sound of the waves and the gulls and his own heartbeat . . .
The ground dropped out from under him—one second he was mid-stride, the next he was plunging down into blackness until he landed with a thud. Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking sand out of his hair as the hot blood pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound of laughter from above.
“Awwwww . . . drummer boy go boom!” came a taunting voice.
Micky looked up. As he did something wet and hard hit his face with a dull slap, blinding him. More laughter.
Micky wiped the mud from his eyes and nose, glaring up at the source of the attack. Bulk and a couple of Sha-ku’s over-muscled flunkies ringed the pit that had been dug in the sand, laughing down at him.
“Should’ve stopped when you had the chance!”
With a snarl Micky tried leaping out, but the walls were sand and couldn’t afford him any kind of handhold. More handfuls of cold mud pelted him, driving him back.
“We’ll let you out when you agree to come with us!”
“Forget it!” Micky said, wincing as another mudball hit him. “I’m not joining anyone!”
“I don’t know, Bulk. He’s not breaking.”
Bulk picked up another handful of the muddy sand, lumping in some pebbles along with the muck. Holding it aloft, he snarled, “Last chance, shrimp.”
Micky peered up at him, his face streaked with brown as if he’d had a seizure while trying to apply war paint. “Go. To. Hell,” he ground out.
Bulk shrugged. “See ya there,” he said as he flung the handful.
Micky cried out as the sharp pebbles tore into his chest and shoulders; he reeled back against the wall with a grunt.
“See ya later, small fry,” Bulk laughed as they walked away, leaving Micky alone.
Micky slowly staggered up, cursing under his breath. There had to be a way out of here. There had to be. He tried once again to climb up the walls, but they were nearly vertical and every foot- and handhold crumbled before he could pull himself up.
“Hold on!” came the familiar baritone just before a rope came shooting down at him.
Micky caught it. “Peter! Please tell me that’s you and not Bulk doing some miraculous impression!”
“It’s Than,” came the reassuring answer. “Blow yourself up the rope!”
“Yes! Hallelujah!” Micky shouted as he quickly crawled up the rope, grabbing Peter’s outstretched arms.
Peter hugged him convulsively for a second. “You’re filthy!”
“Yeah. Bulk,” Micky said, his words short and forced.
“Which is why I used my other name—he didn’t know it.” Peter grinned, then it faded. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“And then?” Micky said, not having to elaborate.
“And then the Monkees fight back.”
~~~~~
The drive to Sha-ku’s wasn’t very long, and it was spent in silence. Each of the three were too angry to speak.
When they stopped Micky was the first out of the car, marching to the door with clenched firts. Two frightened-looking newbies in the requisite gray sweats were huddled outside; they parted immediately to let him pass.
The others followed, walking right into the gymnasium. Sha-ku was there with his men, who were in the process of showing off their muscles to impress the group of newbies huddled in the middle of the floor.
“And as you can see, their muscles are . . . ” Sha-ku trailed off when he saw the three Monkees. The newbies all turned, staring at them with a mixture of confusion and anxiety. They don’t look like they’re here by choice, Peter mused. They look like a captive audience.
Sha-ku clapped his hands. “Would the initiates please wait outside? These gentlemen and I have . . . business to discuss.” After the new members had left he turned to Micky, who was still in the lead. “So, you’ve reconsidered, have you?”
Micky rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Lemme put it this way.” He walked up to Sha-ku and leaned forward. “No! No no no no no no no! N-o!”
Sha-ku wiggled a finger in his ear. “Was that really necessary?”
“Since you don’t ever seem to get the point, yes!”
“I don’t understand you boys,” Sha-ku said with a regretful sigh. “I tried to do this the easy way, but since you insist upon difficultly . . . ” He held up a hand, snapping his fingers.
As one, the three Winds turned, their bodies instantly relaxing into battle stances. Sha-ku’s men met them, fists up, waiting for the word from their master.
“Attack!”
Bulk smiled as he charged toward Micky. “This is gonna be sweet . . . ”
Micky easily dodged the big man’s clumsy attack. “In your dreams, you ugly lump!”
Davy was menaced by a hulk who thought he knew martial arts. A clumsy kick was aimed toward the East Wind’s head.
Davy rolled neatly out of the way. “Peter! Watch out!” he cried as two of the oversized men pounced on Peter from behind.
Peter rolled and came up in one movement, his momentum carrying one of the men over his head.
The other seized him by the shoulders, grunting in surprise when Peter easily slid from his grasp. Peter flipped him into the first man, then cried out a warning to Micky.
The doubled fists slammed into Micky’s shoulders with the force of a sledgehammer, driving him to his knees. Snarling with uncharacteristic fury, Peter leaped high into the air, turning gracefully as his heel smashed into the man’s chin, felling him.
Bulk shook his ringing head, coming up with a pair of juggling pins, which he twirled like stringless nunchakus.
“Micky!” Davy shouted, tossing the drummer a jump rope. “See, Bulky . . . this is how it’s done!” Micky grinned as the wooden handles of the jump rope sliced through the air, his skillful hands twirling them until they were a blur.
Bulk’s movements slowed, and he just stared at the graceful movements, blinking. “Even Master can’t do it that fast . . . ”
With a snap of his wrist Micky flung one end of the rope out, where it wrapped around Bulk’s wrist. Bracing his heels, Micky gave it a sharp yank, pulling the bigger man off his feet. Bulk hit the ground with a whump and—incredibly—struggled to get up.
“Yeehaw!” Micky whooped, leaping on top of Bulk as if he were a steer. Using Bulk’s disorientation, he quickly bound the thug’s hands together with the jump rope, clapping when he’d finished. “A new record!”
Davy chuckled. “Mike should have seen that,” he said, whirling and drop-kicking the wannabe martial artist battling him.
“Hey guys?” Peter asked once their attackers had been thwarted, “Where’s Sha-ku?”
“I don’t know. He was right here.”
“Fellas?” Davy said, his voice unnaturally subdued.
“Not now, Davy—we’re looking for Sha-ku!” Micky said.
“Fellas?” Davy said, a little louder.
“Not now, Davy!” Micky snapped.
“Fellas!” Davy shouted, stopping Micky and Peter in their tracks.
“What?” Micky snapped as he turned to face Davy. His eyes trailed past Davy, and he gasped as he grabbed onto Peter’s arm convulsively, making Peter turn as well to see what had rocked Micky so. What he saw made his blood turn to ice water in his veins.
On to Chapter Five
Back to Chapter Three
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
