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Chapter Five




“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 Blount’s office, although there had been a few changes since the last time they’d been there.

“I’m 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 minute—how’d you know about that?” Mike said. “Most of the people in the club didn’t notice!”

“The CIS has eyes and ears everywhere,” Modell said cryptically.

“Whatever,” Mike snorted. “We’re not talkin’ to you, Modell. Where’s 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. Doesn’t matter. I was promoted to take his place—you may call me Inspector Modell now.”

“Listen!” Mike said, pounding his fist on the desk. “Whatever you want, Inspector, we ain’t doin’ it!”

“Oh no?” Modell said. “I think you will.”

“Is that right?” Mike said. “How you figure that?”

Modell’s 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.”

“That’s 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 . . .

“There’s a den of spies holed up in the warehouse district who’ve stolen some top secret files from the CIS. We’ve 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 I’ll make sure it’s 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, you’ll leave us alone?”

Modell nodded. “Until such time as we need you again.”

Mike whirled. “Now wait just a damn minute! You’re 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 who’d 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.

“Don’t move!” Modell snapped as Peter started for Mike. “This is not a game, gentlemen. Either you do the job or go to jail. It’s 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. Don’t 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 didn’t 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 child’s play.”

The agent nodded. “It all just seems . . . kind of dirty, sir.”

Modell’s 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 . . . why’d 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 he’d 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! Where’s Davy? He twisted around, but the room was empty. “Davy!” he cried hoarsely.

“He can’t hear you. He’s still out.”

Micky whirled at the sound of the disembodied voice. “Who’s that? Where am I? Where’s Davy?”

The small window in the room’s 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. “I’m Agent Blackly, Mr. Dolenz. You’re in the CIS headquarters. Don’t worry—your friend is fine.”

Micky crawled to his feet. “Where is he? I want to see him!”

Blackly shook his head. “I’m afraid that isn’t 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 can’t just hold us prisoner like this!”

Blackly’s polite smile disappeared. “We can and we will, Mr. Dolenz. We’re sorry to have to resort to these methods but it’s a necessity, I’m afraid.”

Micky nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I get it. Well listen, Blackly, I’m sorry too.”

Blackly’s unflappable facade wavered. “S-Sorry for what?”

Micky’s eyes—given their almond shape from his Cherokee ancestors—flashed, 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 agent’s 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 he’d 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 he’d find Mike and Peter in time.



~~~~~




Modell looked up as Blackly stuck his head into the office. “What do you want?” He noticed Blackly’s 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 wasn’t my brother in-law . . . Modell thought with a restrained sigh.

“It’s Dolenz, sir. He’s escaped.”




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