Chapter Three
“Micky, we have to . . . we have to . . . ” Peter pushed past the drummer into the living room. “We have to do something!”
Micky nodded wildly. “Right! We’ll get dressed!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said distractedly.
“Then we’ll go searching! I’ll call Bennett.”
“Yeah, call.” Peter stopped at the kitchen sink, looking at the crumbs from the sandwich Mike had eaten before he left. He turned away and saw the note on the kitchen table. He looked at it again, noting the time—they’d left while he and Micky were showering. It had been nearly six hours since then.
Micky dialed fast, misdialing the number twice before managing it. Peter half-listened as Micky babbled into the phone; he was quite sure that Bennett would be nothing other than confused by the time Micky hung up. Sure enough, Micky hung up a moment later, not having let Bennett get a word in edgewise.
“What’d he say?” Peter asked. Micky opened his mouth to reply, then let it hang open as he realized he’d done all the talking.
“Nevermind.” Peter ran his hand through his hair.
“What’re we going to do?” Micky whimpered.
“We’re going to stay calm, and we’re going to find them. Personally I hope they just got distracted and come walking through that door so I can kill them myself,” he said, trying in vain to lighten the mood.
Micky smiled tightly at that and went upstairs to change. Peter paced around the living room, jumping every time he heard a car drive by or a door slam. He couldn’t get the screams out of his mind . . . they kept echoing in his ears until he felt on the verge of screaming himself.
Micky re-emerged. “No better?”
“Huh?”
“You. You’re still shaken from that dream?”
“Yeah.”
Micky nodded. “I’m gonna call Bennett again—and listen this time.”
Peter nodded. “Okay.”
Micky dialed the phone. “Mister Bennett? I’m sorry about earlier . . . ”
Peter once again tuned out Micky’s voice as he looked at the couch. Mike’s hat was there, looking quite forlorn without its owner, and once again cold fear stabbed through him.
~~~~~
Mike recoiled from the blow, sucking in a startled, pained breath. Every muscle coiled tight as a bright, throbbing line spread along his side where he’d been hit.
Laughing, Dragonman whirled and repeated the blow to Davy. Davy bit his lip, his eyes closed tight.
Dragonman then stepped back, frowning. “They did not cry out?” Underneath the surprise Mike detected the faintest bit of fear.
“No, Master,” Toto whispered, staring at them in awe.
Mike watched the brief flicker of fear vanish, replaced with blind rage. “You dare not cry out? You are being tortured by Dragonman and you do not cry out!?” he ranted. With a snarl he grabbed one of the long metal spikes and slammed the red hot edge against Mike’s other side. This time Mike arched, screaming.
“Much better!” Dragonman laughed as he twisted the spike slightly.
“Stop it!” Davy roared.
Mike bit his lip and cheek, his body jerking violently. The pain was consuming him, filling him with anguish so great he thought that it alone would kill him. Abruptly, Dragonman lowered the spike. Mike sagged, panting raggedly. Davy trembled with barely-contained fury.
Chang smiled and walked forward. “Your turn, small one!”
Davy lunged, managing to yank one of his feet free. In a move that sent Dragonman stumbling back a few feet in surprise, he lashed out and kicked Chang in the chest, then shot his heel up and hit the taller man in the chin. The poker went flying from his hand—into Toto. Toto screamed, clutching his leg as he fell.
Dragonman twisted around and hit Davy with the poker in his hand. Davy shrieked, pulling his torso as far back as he could, then shot another kick at Dragonman.
Dragonman ducked and menaced Mike with the poker. “Be still.”
Davy froze. “Don’t hurt him . . . please.” He looked at Mike; the Texan was still panting for breath, his gaze dull.
“I will not—if you will not fight.”
Davy held still for a few moments, then nodded. Chang stepped over and re-tied Davy’s leg, giving the Englishman a firm punch in the stomach once he’d finished.
Then—and only then—did Dragonman send the poker into Mike’s side.
Mike’s anguished cry was eclipsed by Davy’s. “You bastard! You promised!” he howled.
Dragonman laughed. “You have made me lose face before. What have I left to lose?”
Mike looked up, his face pale. “You . . . ” Unable to summon the words, he instead spat into Dragonman’s face.
With a look of deep loathing, he wiped his face with his sleeve. “Chang. Cane the small one.”
Mike turned his head away as the loud cracks began, each one echoing in the small room.
“Enough.”
When he opened his eyes, he saw Davy’s bare back, lined with darkening red stripes.
“Now . . . it is your turn.”
Mike held very still, meeting Dragonman’s gaze head on. “Do your worst.”
Dragonman studied him, then smiled. “No. I won’t.” He laid the cane down. “Because you are ready for it and expect it.”
Mike’s stare never wavered. “You can hurt us, but you’ll never break us.”
“Think again,” Dragonman chuckled. “I have broken him already.” He barked in Chinese, and the three of them left the room.
On to Chapter Four
Back to Chapter Two
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
