The Monkees entered the Tank’s territory from separate directions; Mike and Peter, the most experienced and balanced fighters, walked in boldly on the ground, while Davy and Micky followed them from above, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. They didn’t have to wait long. Subtly they were being herded toward a certain alley.
“Keep your eyes open, Peter,” Mike murmured. “We can’t let ‘em take us by surprise.”
Peter nodded. “They’re converging.”
Mike glanced from side to side, counting the shadows. “There’s a lot of ‘em. Wonder how many, total?” Neither he nor Peter made any indication that they knew they were being followed.
“Probably thirty, forty . . . ”
Mike frowned. “Ten apiece. I can live with those odds. I just hope they don’t have guns,” he said, voicing the fear that they all carried. The Four Winds were not, despite their wondrous abilities, faster than bullets.
“Micky said they didn’t. The guy they assaulted said they didn’t. Just knives and fists.”
“We can handle those,” Mike said as they rounded the corner into a dead end.
“Looks familiar,” Peter growled.
“This is the place, I’m bettin’,” Mike said, glancing upward. “Micky and Davy’re up there. Now all we need are some bad guys.”
Peter turned to see the alley filling in. “Uh . . . ” he said, deliberately making his voice quiver as if in fear. “Mi-Mike?”
Mike turned as well, the staff well-hidden behind his back. “Wh-who are you?” he asked in the tone of someone trying to sound brave in spite of overwhelming terror.
A laugh. “We’re the tollmasters. And we’ve come to collect.”
“H-How much?” Mike asked.
“Hundred dollars. Each.”
With a slow nod the frightened façade slowly melted from Mike’s features. “That’s an awful lot of money.” He dug a penny from his pocket and hurled it in the direction of the voice. “Here. That’s all you’re getting from us.”
Stunned silence. “What the hell is this, some kind of joke?”
Mike looked at Peter, obviously trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah, it is. Joke’s on you.”
At that signal, Davy and Micky dropped behind the Tanks. Mike leaped forward, cutting down the first two punks with his staff. He glanced to his left and saw a third go flying over Peter’s shoulders.
Paul pulled his knife and crouched in front of Micky. “I remember you!”
Micky stood perfectly still in the midst of the chaos around him, his glittering eyes the only things moving. “I’d certainly hope so,” he growled.
“You’re the one we enjoyed whippin’.”
Two punks took advantage of the distraction and rushed Micky from either side, fully expecting him to be as vulnerable as he had the last time. Micky remained still until the last moment, then pulled up, snapping two high kicks—one forward, one backward. The first struck a chin, the second, a jaw. Both punks hit the ground and were still while Micky returned to his former position, staring at Paul with unerring calm.
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve improved.”
“No. I just got smart.”
Paul laughed. “Not very smart. You came back.” He made a hand signal and three more rushed Micky.
Micky didn’t struggle as arms seized him, roughly winding around his arms and neck; he relaxed, tilting his head back. “Mike! Peter!”
As soon as the cry for help had left his lips Peter was there. Mike’s staff slid into the fray, locking around the throat of the punk holding Micky’s neck. The man choked and gasped, immediately releasing the drummer; he was dragged backwards, where Mike quickly dispatched him. Peter barely moved, but the business end of the nunchakus slid between the punk’s legs and made him release Micky fast.
Micky slid out of the arms of the third, a backspin kick sending him over the top of a nearby junked car and onto the pavement with a muffled thud. Davy’s stars took out three more, the pain they caused effectively robbing them of any fight.
Five minutes after the fight had began, the gang members not hobbling around in various states of injury began to flee when it became apparent that the four men who’d intruded on their turf were not going to be going to the hospital that night.
Paul still hadn’t attacked Micky, nor had he been injured. It was quite apparent he was the leader of the Tanks. When all were unconscious or otherwise indisposed, the Monkees surrounded him, gazing at him with varying degrees of anger. Peter and Mike looked disgusted, Davy was trembling with rage, while Micky looked calm, his face an impassive mask.
“So,” Paul said with a cold smile. “It would seem I’m outnumbered.”
Mike nodded. “Now you know how it feels.”
“Maybe.” And with that, Paul lunged at Mike, a second switchblade in his hand.
Mike dodged it easily even as Micky’s hand shot out, seizing Paul’s forearm. Paul struggled to break free.
To everyone’s surprise, Micky let him go. Even Paul staggered backwards, his eyes wide with shock.
“Come on,” Micky said softly. “Try to finish what you’ve started, if you want to.”
Paul nodded a single nod of respect, then he lunged at Micky, going low with the knife.
Micky leaped up and aside, whirling and catching Paul in the side with his leg—a move meant to disable but not injure. Paul went down with a grunt, then rolled, coming up. He moved slowly, his hawkish eyes looking for an opening—any opening. Micky moved with him, tossing his unused weapons to Davy, who automatically caught them. He advanced on Paul, making no move to attack. Paul circled him warily.
Mike glanced at Peter, his eyes widening fractionally, as if to say “He’s not attacking!” Peter smiled and nodded.
Paul lunged again, going high this time. Micky turned, yanking Paul over his shoulders and dropping him firmly onto his back; with another grunt, Paul tried to get up again. Micky stepped on Paul’s chest, pinning him. “You lose. Your thugs are gone, and you’re going to jail.”
He glared up at him. “Go to hell.”
Micky’s expression never changed. “You first.”
Paul smiled, shaking his head. “I won’t be in there more than four hours.”
“Not with testimony from your victims, you won’t,” Mike rumbled.
“Anyone talks, the Tanks will kill them.”
Micky moved forward, grabbing Paul by the front of his jacket and twisting it so that the punk couldn’t breathe. “We’ll protect that kid you put in the hospital. And you can’t kill ME, so you. Are. Screwed.” With each snarled word he tightened his grip. Paul began to gasp for breath. “You are done hurting people,” Micky snarled, his voice tight with anger. “Now, we can either take you in to the police . . . or drag you there. Your choice.”
Paul spit in his face.
Davy shook his head. “Man’s got a deathwish.”
Micky slowly wiped his face, then rammed his knee into Paul’s stomach. Paul doubled over—and spit up blood. Mike tensed, half-expecting Micky to start beating Paul to an unrecognizable pulp. Instead Micky released him, letting him slump to the ground in a heap. “You’re not even worth the effort,” Micky said.
Paul just lay there, gasping for breath.
“Mick, you and Davy take smartmouth here to the police. Peter and I’ll follow at a distance . . . make sure you’re not ambushed.”
Davy nodded. Peter moved to Mike’s side. Mike didn’t say anything as Davy and Micky shoved a barely resisting Paul down the now deserted street. “Two hours ago I wouldn’t have believed it possible for Micky to control himself like he did.”
“Me either. I’m so proud of him.”
Mike nodded his agreement. “I’m happy that maybe now he won’t go runnin’ off on his own . . . and we won’t have to worry any more than necessary.”
Peter gave a soft, inelegant snort. “You’ll worry anyway.”
“Yeah, but maybe now I won’t go gray ‘fore I’m thirty,” Mike added with a wink.
Peter laughed. “We’re nearly there.”
Mike stopped dead in his tracks. “Guys! Our weapons!”
Peter nodded. “I’ll hold them. You go.” Mike handed his staff to Peter, and Micky and Davy dutifully forked over their weapons. Peter melted back into the shadows, waiting silently but alertly.
Mike turned back to his bandmates. “Come on, guys.” He turned a stern glare on Paul. “Time to take in the trash.” Paul glared back at him, then sighed and bowed his head as if in defeat. A second later his leg shot out, the ball of his foot connecting solidly with Mike’s crotch.
Mike doubled over with a low groan, Paul’s second lightning kick smashing into the side of his face, felling him. Paul whirled as Davy released his arms, running to Mike’s side.
Micky’s next movements were even quicker. One kick hit Paul in the chest, the next in the stomach, and as the drummer spun gracefully on his heel, dropping down, Paul’s legs were suddenly swept out from under him, and he hit the pavement flat on his back, gasping for breath.
The echoes of several pairs of heavy shoes rang out as police began to swarm them. They’d seen the entire thing.
Davy moved forward, unconsciously shielding Mike from the men in uniform. He knew that the sight—a trio of young men in identical black uniforms surrounding a fourth young man and attacking him—wouldn’t look at all good in the eyes of the law.
“Are you all right, son?” a policeman asked, crouching by Mike.
“We saw this man attack your friend,” a policewoman told Micky. “Nice footwork there.”
“Uh, I . . . uh, thanks,” Micky said, taken aback.
Mike, meanwhile, began the painful process of crawling to his feet. “M’fine,” he said.
A third and fourth were arresting Paul as Micky explained the situation. “This is the ringleader of the gang who hurt that kid.” He tilted his head back so that the streetlights shone upon the faint but still visible bruises on his face. “Got me, too.”
The cop fastening the cuffs on Paul’s wrists nodded. “This guy’s been wanted for questioning for a while. If you’re willing to swear a statement I think we can put him away.”
“I’d be happy to,” Micky said, still staring steadily at Paul. The gang leader no longer met his gaze.
“You need us to call an ambulance?” the policeman asked, helping him up.
Mike shook his head. “No . . . thank you. Got my friends here to help me.” He summoned enough strength to give a small smile. “Won’t be goin’ on any dates for a few days, though.”
The policeman chuckled. “Take care of him,” he told Micky as they began to pull back into the station, a gasping Paul in tow.
“Oh, we will,” Micky said. “We Winds take care of each other.” He winked at Mike.
Peter came up to them and held out the staff. “Walking stick,” he quipped. Mike took it, holding it up as if he were going to smash Peter over the head. Peter laughed and ducked, running to hide behind Davy.
“C’mon, guys,” Mike said tiredly. “It’s late and it’s been a very long night.”
“Agreed, let’s go home and crash,” Davy yawned. “This Wind’s about blown out.”
They walked home slowly, unconcerned with shadowy figures in the night. Mike walked in their midst, happier than he’d ever be comfortable admitting that his friends were with him, and that none of them had been hurt during their clash with the Tanks. He knew that there would be many more Tanks and Pauls in the future, but as he glanced back at Micky’s smiling face, the future seemed comfortably far away.
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