All right, so you brought us here. What do you want? Mike growled, crossing his arms over his chest. He and Peter stood in what they recognized as Inspector Blounts office, although there had been a few changes since the last time theyd been there.
Im curious as to how you managed to hurl a drumstick through a tightly packed crowd and hit a person so precisely on the head, after so fervently convincing us that you were merely harmless musicians.
Peter gave Modell a shy, innocent smile. Lucky shot?
Wait a minutehowd you know about that? Mike said. Most of the people in the club didnt notice!
The CIS has eyes and ears everywhere, Modell said cryptically.
Whatever, Mike snorted. Were not talkin to you, Modell. Wheres Inspector Blount?
Modell leaned back in his chair. Former Inspector Blount was promoted because of that whole Dragonman case. Apparently the higher ups confused his imbecility for brilliance. Doesnt matter. I was promoted to take his placeyou may call me Inspector Modell now.
Listen! Mike said, pounding his fist on the desk. Whatever you want, Inspector, we aint doin it!
Oh no? Modell said. I think you will.
Is that right? Mike said. How you figure that?
Modells smile grew unbearably cold. Because you two are guilty of assault and battery. You beat up five people and left them unconscious in an alley.
Thats not true! Peter said. They attacked us and we were defending ourselves! And we left them there because you kidnapped us!
Modell laced his hands behind his head. Perhaps. But with one phone call to the police I can see that you two are locked up for years. Unless . . .
Unless what? Mike said, a terrible dead weight dropping into his stomach. I knew it. I knew this would happen . . .
Theres a den of spies holed up in the warehouse district whove stolen some top secret files from the CIS. Weve been trying to infiltrate them for weeks with no success. You are going to use your peculiar talents to sneak in and get those files back.
And if we say no? Mike said.
Then you and your blond friend here will go to jail. And Ill make sure its for a long time.
Mike turned away, his fists and teeth clenched. Peter, whose posture and bearing were much quieter but just as angry, cleared his throat. And if we do this . . . job for you, youll leave us alone?
Modell nodded. Until such time as we need you again.
Mike whirled. Now wait just a damn minute! Youre gonna keep blackmailin us to do your dirty work whenever you want!?
Modell let his hands drop. Very good, Nesmith. Smart boy.
With a furious roar Mike lunged for Modell, leaping nimbly onto the desk. The two agents whod been standing guard over them grabbed him, dragging him off the desk in a spray of papers. Mike gritted his teeth as a hand roughly seized him by the hair and a gun barrel was jabbed under his chin.
Dont move! Modell snapped as Peter started for Mike. This is not a game, gentlemen. Either you do the job or go to jail. Its your choice. You have thirty-six hours to either retrieve the files or turn yourselves over to the police. He looked at the two agents. Get them out of here.
As Mike and Peter were dragged away a third agent stepped out of the shadows. Really, Inspector. Dont you think that was a little rough?
Modell shook his head, picking some of the papers up off the floor. Those boys are more than what they seem, Blackly. You were in that club. You saw Tork throw that drumstick. You tell me if that was too rough.
The agent shook his head. Why didnt you tell them about Dolenz and Jones? Why the whole calling-the-police charade?
Modell smiled. I choose my bluffs carefully, Blackly. When Tork and Nesmith get home and find their friends missing . . . the threat of the police will seem like childs play.
The agent nodded. It all just seems . . . kind of dirty, sir.
Modells head snapped up and he glared fiercely at his subordinate. We need to get those files back, Blackly. At all costs.
Even those musicians, sir?
Yes, Blackly. Even them.
~~~~~
Micky groaned. Man . . . whyd they have to hit me with a TRUCK? The floor underneath him was smooth and bitterly cold, raising sluggish goosebumps on his arms. He rolled onto his side, panting and trying to focus on the bare wall across from him. The room still spun wildly and he gagged, flopping onto his back once more. Oh, that guy is SO dead for shooting me with this stuff, he thought as his body weakly fought off the last of the powerful sedative hed been injected with. He finally managed to prop himself up on his elbows, the great gasps of air he pulled into his reluctant lungs clearing his head.
Davy! Wheres Davy? He twisted around, but the room was empty. Davy! he cried hoarsely.
He cant hear you. Hes still out.
Micky whirled at the sound of the disembodied voice. Whos that? Where am I? Wheres Davy?
The small window in the rooms single door closed; the door opened and a man entered. At first glance Micky thought it was Honeywell; the man had short black hair and a pair of black glasses, but this man was much younger, probably only a few years older than Micky. Im Agent Blackly, Mr. Dolenz. Youre in the CIS headquarters. Dont worryyour friend is fine.
Micky crawled to his feet. Where is he? I want to see him!
Blackly shook his head. Im afraid that isnt possible. You and Mr. Jones are our guests for now.
Now wait just a minute! Micky shouted. I want out of here right now! You cant just hold us prisoner like this!
Blacklys polite smile disappeared. We can and we will, Mr. Dolenz. Were sorry to have to resort to these methods but its a necessity, Im afraid.
Micky nodded solemnly. Yeah, I get it. Well listen, Blackly, Im sorry too.
Blacklys unflappable facade wavered. S-Sorry for what?
Mickys eyesgiven their almond shape from his Cherokee ancestorsflashed, and before Blackly could give a single thought to his predicament, Micky had leaped forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and delivering a solid blow to the agents midsection with his knee.
Closing the door behind him, Micky ran out into the corridor, running blindly for the window at the end of the long hallway. When he was about five feet away shouts began echoing down the hall after him and he picked up speed, taking only enough time to make sure he was on the first floor before diving through the window with an earsplitting shatter of glass. He hit the pavement hard and rolled, gaining his feet, oblivious to the small, merrily bleeding cuts on his face and arms.
Stop him! Get him! someone shouting, the voice spurring his legs into action. He took off running, sprinting desperately for the high chain link fence that stood between him and freedom. Using the skinniness for which hed often been teased, he shinnied up the fence and threw his body over the top, gritting his teeth at the pain that ripped through his arm as he dropped to the ground.
CIS agents were swarming towards the fence, their gray suits and stony faces indistinguishable from one other. Micky scrambled to his feet and took off into the city, hoping that Davy was okay and that hed find Mike and Peter in time.
~~~~~
Modell looked up as Blackly stuck his head into the office. What do you want? He noticed Blacklys disheveled state. What happened?
Inspector, I, uh . . . I made another mistake, Blackly said, his voice trembling.
What now? Modell said. No one in the CIS but Modell knew that the reason the files had been stolen in the first place was that Blackly had been left in charge, and had fallen asleep at his post, allowing the spies to sneak in, lock him in a closet, and rifle through the files at their leisure. If only he wasnt my brother in-law . . . Modell thought with a restrained sigh.
Its Dolenz, sir. Hes escaped.
On to Chapter Six
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