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Chapter Ten




The long hours spent bound to a pole, helpless against the sadistic kicks and punches of his captors, had left Peter’s body stiff and aching; hardly the ideal condition in which to participate in hand to hand combat. The bandits were quick and light on their feet, but their knowledge seemed strictly limited to crude street fighting techniques. Peter moved around them gracefully, like a ballet dancer among football players, and Mike watched with satisfaction as Peter landed blow after blow, his anger and urgency spurring him on.

When all five were down and Peter stood alone, El Diablo stepped into the fray. If Peter expected the bandit leader to fall as easily as his men, he was mistaken. His first punch sent shock waves up to his shoulder, stunning him for the precious few moments it took El Diablo to seize him by the shoulders and hurl him to the ground.

“Mike! Mike, you gotta let me help him!” Micky struggled against Mike’s restraining grip, gritting his teeth and groaning as each movement sent flares of pain through his injured arm. “He’s hurting him!” El Diablo had his foot on Peter’s chest and was leaning his weight onto it. Peter writhed, gasping for breath, his arms and legs kicking the dirt helplessly.

“No, Mick!” Mike growled through clenched teeth. “He’s gotta handle this on his own!”

“But he can’t breathe!” Micky howled, not caring who heard. “Mike, lemme go!”

“No!” Mike barked. “Just watch!”

Peter had stopped struggling, his body going limp as he lay in defeat. El Diablo released a triumphant howl of laughter and removed his foot—in a flash Peter was up, swinging both legs around and knocking El Diablo’s out from under him. The edge of Peter’s foot slammed into El Diablo’s throat with an audible thud, and the most powerful man in Sonora began gasping for breath like a fish tossed onto dry land.

Several of his men took off, running in fear, while the rest faded away slowly, shaking their heads. Two more returned with a confused-looking Davy, shoving him into Mike’s arms.

“Davy! You okay?”

“Yeah, Mike, I’m fine. What’s going on?”

Mike shook his head. “I’ll explain later.” He looked at the two bandits who’d brought Davy; they were already stalking off.

“Hey, where you going?” Mike shouted.

One of them stopped. “El Diablo has fallen. To a bunch of gringos. We cannot follow him anymore.” There was a regretful shake of the sombrero’d head, then he was gone.

El Diablo made it to his knees in time to see the last of his men disappear. “Where are you going!?” he roared. “Come back, you cowards!” His attention focused on the Monkees as they surrounded him, their battle-worn, sweat-streaked faces dark with anger. He didn’t have time to find words as Micky grabbed an abandoned rifle and brought it down on his head, felling him again, this time into unconsciousness.

“Gee thanks, Mick,” Mike groaned. “Now we’ll have to haul him up into the car.”

Micky shrugged. “Well, no plan is perfect.”


~~~~~




The Monkeemobile, once again displaying its determination towards mutiny, spluttered as they crossed the threshold of the town. “Not again!” Davy moaned.

“I think that’s what the car’s trying to say!” Mike groaned. “How’s sleeping ugly?”

“Still out,” Davy said, his voice thick with scorn. El Diablo was still sprawled out across the back seat, letting out an occasional snore.

“We still gonna turn him over to local justice?” Micky asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “It’s the only way to do it—he needs to be somewhere where he can’t hurt anyone again.”

Mike nodded, then let out a satisfied sigh as the car didn’t die when he pressed the brakes. “Guess it’s nearly fixed.”

Micky nodded in agreement. “Once we get home, I’ll finish it.”

“Good,” Mike said. He leaned in, peering at the dials. “Jeez . . . might help if we put some gas in it.”

Micky rolled his eyes. “Gee, you think?”

Peter chuckled.

“How you holdin’ up, Pete?”

“Pretty good, so far. I have a feeling come morning I’m going to be nearly immobile.”

“Serves you right for coming out there like that,” Davy said.

“I came out there to save you, Davy!”

Davy couldn’t suppress a grin. “And a wonderful job you did, too.”

Angelita walked out of the saloon as the car pulled up. “You brought him . . . ” She raised her voice and screamed in Spanish. “They defeated the Devil!”

Townspeople flooded from the houses and buildings and swarmed the Monkeemobile. Their expressions ranged from triumphant to flabbergasted as Mike and Davy hauled El Diablo’s slowly awakening form from the car, handing him to the waiting hands of the local authorities, who handled him as if uncertain how to contain such a fearsome villain. Angelita walked up to him, where he was standing between two deputies. She just glared at him.

The Monkees just watched silently, recognizing a tense scene when they saw one.

El Diablo smiled, his spine straightening. “Cut me loose, dear one,” he said, holding up his bound hands. “Cut me loose and I’ll repay you richly.”

She drew a knife that one of the deputies held in a scabbard and her eyes moved to El Diablo. The deputy didn’t move, his gaze riveted on Angelita.

“Yes, that’s it,” EL Diablo cajoled. “Set me free so I can have revenge on these gringos!”

There was a long pause, then she slid the knife into her sash and nodded at the Monkees. “Thank you . . . for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Mike said. “If we could just get some gas for our car we’ll be headin’ home. Mexico’s nice but I think we’ve seen enough.”

She smiled. “There is gas on the ridge. Tell them my father sent you.”

Mike nodded. “Thanks, and . . . good luck.”

She nodded and watched them get in the car. The townspeople were gathering around her and the still-bound Diablo.

“You take care now,” Micky said to the captured outlaw. “Play nice.” He grinned as the car sputtered and coughed, summoning enough power to roll out of the square and up the hill. Sure enough, there was a gas station on the ridge. The owner came out, looking suspiciously wary. Mike told him about Angelita, and the man’s demeanor changed as he immediately filled up the tank.

“Mike?” Mike shivered at the tone of Peter’s voice. It was . . . fear. Fear mixed with a deadly sort of shock. He turned to see Peter staring back toward the square. “What’s happened?” Peter just pointed. Mike’s eyes followed his gaze and his gasp alerted the other two.

Down below, Angelita jerked her arm back. El Diablo doubled over slightly and the bloody knife in her hand was revealed. Before the four could even blink, she’d plunged it into his stomach a second time. Then it was as if a switch had been thrown. The intimidated townspeople were transformed into a bloodthirsty mob. A roaring sea of humanity folded over El Diablo and the deputies holding him. The screaming began in earnest.

Up on the ridge, far removed from the action, the Monkees stared in numb disbelief. Peter’s hands were clapped firmly over his mouth and he trembled, his eyes mournful and wet. Mike stood with his hand on Peter’s shoulder, supportive even as he leaned on him. Micky was turned away, his uninjured arm jammed deeply into his pocket. Davy’s expression was unreadable.

“It . . . it’s not supposed to end like this,” he said at length. “It’s . . . it’s not right.” Despite the battles they’d fought, the Monkees had never killed anyone. They fought to disable and disarm. No more than that.

Down below the screams changed from agony and anger to triumphant victory.

“They’re free,” Mike whispered. “But God, what a price!”

“Davy’s right.” Micky shook his head. “It’s not supposed to end like this.”




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