Chapter Two
It was the most terrified he’d ever been.
Terror not only for himself, but for Micky. When they’d wheeled him into the room, spinning the chair to which he was bound with a move almost designed to make him throw up, he’d caught sight of his missing friend. The drummer was still in his pajamas, his eyes tired, his face drawn from whatever torture they’d put him through. Even so, he’d managed a sarcastic “Thank heavens you’ve come!” as Peter’s gag was removed.
Dragonman was there, taunting him, his words making the knot on his head throb. Despite the fear that kept pounding through him, he’d tried to keep up a brave front, if only for Micky’s sake. It was enough that Micky and Mike and Davy had had to “babysit” him; he wasn’t about to ask Micky to do it while they were both held prisoner.
Now he was back there, in what he’d soon come to regard as Liang’s office, sitting in the same ornate chair. This time, however, he wasn’t tied down. Chang and Toto were still standing behind him, and Micky was sitting there, bound.
Peter’s gaze finally rested straight ahead, and he gasped. Mike and Davy were sitting there, tied to chairs and gagged. They were struggling, their mouths moving, but making no sound. Dragonman stood between them and Peter, laughing.
With a cry Peter sprang to his feet; Chang leapt in front of him. Peter dispatched him with a vicious blow, but as soon as he fell another Chang appeared to replace him. Peter shoved him out of the way—another Chang was there to take his place. As fast as Peter could knock them down, more would appear. Looking beyond, he could see Mike and Davy being dragged backwards, their terrified eyes begging for help.
“Guys! I’m coming!” Peter shouted, knocking down another Chang. He moved faster as Mike and Davy were dragged backwards into a room. As the door slammed shut he heard screaming, screaming that gradually overpowered him . . .
. . . until he awoke and realized the screaming was coming from him. He sat up, slapping a hand on his burning, throbbing tattoo, and opened his mouth to shout; all that came out was a dry rasp. He licked his lips a few times and sucked in a breath. “Micky!”
The door blew open a second later and Micky stood there—tonfa in hand. “Where is it?”
Peter threw his covers aside. He instinctively looked over at Davy’s bed, which confirmed his fear, as it was empty. “Micky, he’s got them!”
“Who’s got them?” Micky asked, the faintest traces of sleep still fogging his brain.
“Dragonman! He’s back! He has them!”
Micky’s hand tightened on the tonfa. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Go and get them!”
“Micky, we can’t just run off! We have no idea where they went, where they are!” Peter’s hands tightened into fists. “We probably don’t know any more than Mike and Davy do.”
~~~~~
He sat, waiting, his gnarled hands clasped in front of him. Occasionally he blinked and looked at the drab gray walls around him, then his gaze would settle once more on his hands. They were a patchwork of scars and callouses from long months in prison and torture at the hands of the CIS—torture which had never been called torture, but “interrogation” or “conditioning.” He was quite sure that the CIS’s allies—including those meddling, always-lucky Monkees—would be quite horrified to learn that their precious spy organization resorted to some of the same tactics that were characterized as tools only used by The Enemy, whoever that Enemy happened to be; the CIS had so many.
The door behind him opened; he addressed the person standing there without turning around. “You have them?”
“Yes, Master. They are in the room, as you instructed.”
“Did you also cover your tracks?”
Chang, the faithful servant who was far more reliable than his counterpart, Toto, bowed to his master’s back. “Yes, Master. We took the bus.”
At this Dragonman turned, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “The bus? Were you seen?”
“Yes, but no one took any notice. We took off their blindfolds and covered their bindings until we left the bus; we told the driver they were drunk and had passed out. Everything proceeded smoothly.”
“Very well.” Dragonman rose from his chair, ignoring the aches and protests of his back and knees, and followed Chang down the damp hallway to the dim room with the warped floorboards. The room stank of fish and brine, lit only by a bare bulb that cast a harsh light over everything. His precious prisoners were there, kneeling on the floor as several men held them down.
“Long have I waited,” he purred. “Unbind their eyes—let them see the face of the man who will destroy them!”
Their eyes were furious as the thick blindfolds dropped away, nothing like the timid, putting-up-a-brave-front gazes he’d seen before.
Dragonman chuckled as he looked at them. “My, how things have changed.”
The taller one yanked at his bindings, a furious snarl building in his chest. “What do you want, Dragonman?”
“Ah, you remember me! I’m touched!” he laughed.
“We remember you being hauled out by the CIS,” the smaller one smirked.
“Ah yes, a petty little inconvenience.” He recognized their taunts for what they were—false, blustering bravado.
“Our friends are coming for us,” the taller one said. “When they find us you’re in big trouble.”
“I’ve heard that before.” He leaned forward, almost bowing to them. “And I don’t believe it any more than I did then!”
There was no fear on their faces. Anger, outrage at their mistreatment, but no fear. It threw him—momentarily. He called for a henchman.
“Yes, master?” Toto scurried into the room, giving Mike and Davy a quick glare as he took his place next to his master. Chang stepped in behind him, closing the heavy door and guarding it.
“Do you remember those lessons we practiced?”
A perplexed, slightly panicked look passed over Toto’s face. “Umm . . . ”
Dragonman rolled his eyes. “The torture lessons!”
The look got only marginally clearer. “The . . . ice torture . . . ?”
Mike let out a harsh laugh. “Nice to know some things never change.”
Dragonman rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “No, not the ice torture, or the ant torture . . . Chang! You remember the lessons, yes?”
Chang nodded once. “Yes, Master.”
“Then refresh Toto’s memory!”
Toto’s expression turned to open fear. “No, Master! Please!” He turned to Mike and Davy. “You’re supposed to torture them!”
Dragonman bellowed something in Chinese and his hands came up as if to throttle Toto. “I meant explain, not demonstrate!” He went off into Chinese again.
Chang rolled his eyes. “I have the red hot spikes, master, and the rattan canes.”
Toto nodded vigorously. “We could do both at once, Master!”
Dragonman smiled at his prisoners. “Yes . . . do both.”
If he expected them to beg for mercy, he was disappointed. They struggled some more, their eyes wide, but no panicked pleas emerged from their lips as Chang and Toto fetched the torture devices.
Dragonman glared at them. He’d been expecting them to beg. He wanted to hear them beg, to grovel at his feet and promise to call him “Master” if he spared them. “Why do you not beg?”
The taller one bared his teeth as he was wrenched up and tied spread-eagled. “I will never beg,” he snarled. As his friend was jerked up beside him he added, “You might kill us, but we will never dishonor ourselves like that.”
“Dishonor?” Dragonman barked his laughter—this was too much! “What an odd word to come from an American!”
“We have more honor than you, you—” the shorter one paused, then growled an epithet in Chinese that made Toto drop the canes he held.
Dragonman jerked back as if slapped. “Where did you learn that?”
The small one just smirked. “There’s a lot about us you don’t know.”
“Chang! Give me the cane!”
Chang yanked one of the wet canes from Toto’s hand and handed it to Dragonman with a respectful bow.
“First blood,” Dragonman snarled—and struck the one called Nesmith.
On to Chapter Three
Back to Chapter One
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
