A/N: I hope this chapter is alright. The last couple days have been a bit hectic, and I had to write in short stints.

I'd like to extend a huge thank-you to all my reviewers for their support. You are the ones that make this all worthwhile.

Warning: this chapter is a little more intense than those before.

As he, Mike, and Peter ran down the flight of outdoor steps that led from the pad to the beach, Micky found that the pains and nausea of moments ago was fast fading as panic began to rise in his chest. He soon lost all feelings of illness to the desire to get away as fast as possible, and thus it was not hard to keep up with his two friends.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs and feeling the warm beach sand beneath his get (which were bare- there had been no time to put any shoes on, and he had forgotten, anyway) Micky began to feel a faint glimmer of hope after all. They might make it away after all; they might actually be able to get away and beg asylum with the police or something.

All these newborn hopes were crushed, however, as a growling shout sounded behind them.

"Hey, you kids! Stop!"

Highly likely, Micky mentally scoffed, as he ran, and he was pretty sure he heard Mike, running beside him, make a similar noise out loud. Then a loud shot rang out from behind them.

Oh, that's just wonderful. They've got guns.

With this new development, Micky knew they would have to change their course. Running along the beach, they were exposed, easy targets for the bullets of their pursuers. However, if they could find cover of some sort, and be able to duck and weave and create more of a maze as they ran, he knew their chances would be much greater. Exchanging a glance with Mike confirmed that the Texan had been thinking along the same lines. All they needed was the opportunity.

The rocky hill that rose up along the edge of the beach was now beginning to flatten. Micky recognised the area they were in, and knew they were coming closer to the poorer end of town. If they ran on (for approximately double the time they had already spent running, though Micky didn't know how much that was) they would soon reach the docks, the centre of the industrial area. A few more shots sounded behind them, but luckily all missed their marks. The three boys ran on, however, for their goal was now in sight.

Within moments they had reached it - a small alley which led off the beach and into a rather dirty street lined with stone apartment buildings, interrupted at regular intervals by alleys similar to the one they used to access it. The Monkees did not, as a rule, frequent this part of town, but they knew about it, and the knowledge was coming in handy. Unfortunately their pursuers seemed to share their knowledge, as they were hot on their heels.

And gaining, fast.

Micky could practically hear their panting breaths behind them now. Yet another gunshot- this one passing so close to his head it ruffled his curls. The rush of air it created sent the thrill of panicked terror through him anew, and it spurred him forward, so much so he did not notice that he was beginning to outpace Mike and Peter.

Then Peter tripped.

Mike had been running beside the unfortunate boy the entire time, with Micky at first a little behind, and now a little ahead. The three had made their way through the alley and into the street, which was deserted. The lights were on, for it was now after nine and beginning to grow very dark and the street around them was flooded with yellow light. This light, however, did not stretch in all areas; two of the lights were burnt out, and here and there a shadow would blacken out a patch of the street. It was when they were running through one such shadow that Peter fell, his foot having caught on a large crack in the sidewalk.

Once he was down, with a small 'oomph' as the air was knocked out of his lungs, Peter didn't stand a chance. The men behind them were on top of him in a moment, dragging the poor boy to his feet. Mike stopped, turning to face them for the first time. There were only two of them, but they were tall, strapping young men only a little older than Peter and Mike, and much stronger looking. One, wearing a black cap over his greasy black hair, held Peter by the scruff of his collar and pressed a revolver to his head.
"Okay, kid. Walk back here nice and easy with your hands up," he coaxed, in a rasping tenor. Then turning to his companion, a long haired blond, he said, softly. "Get the other kid."

Mike did as he was told, while Blondie went after Micky. The drummer was still running, either because he had not noticed what had happened or was simply too terrified to stop; Mike didn't know which, but he willed his friend to escape.

Micky glanced around him, and Mike saw his eyes grow wide as they settled on his two friends, and he began struggle in Greaseball's clutches, shouting all the while.

"Run, Micky! Get the cops! Don't stop-"

He was cut off mid-sentence when Greaseball brought the butt of his revolver down sharply on the back of his skull.

Peter watched Mike slump to the ground with a growing feeling of nauseous hopelessness. Glancing up, he saw Micky nearing the end of the street, the blond thug hot on his heels. The curly haired boy suddenly dashed around a corner, disappearing from sight. Within moments, Blondie had followed him.

A few moments later, the now familiar crack of a gunshot sounded. At that moment, all the emotion that had been growing within Peter burst in waves of frantic hysteria. The situation he was in proved too much for his nerves, and the boy found himself in tears, with a scream forming on his lips. First Mike, now Micky...Micky, who could be dead right now, or on his way there...

Blondie was coming down the street towards them now, looking very self-satisfied, and Peter felt something he could not recall ever having felt before. It came on him like a rush, the sudden, uncontrollable desire to cause pain to person who had done him and his friends so much harm. He supposed this was true anger; he was struggling like a madman, and barely noticed the piercing yells coming from his mouth.

Then suddenly, in an explosion of pain, bright stars burst before his eyes. Then darkness fell.

"We have to do something!"

Detective Oliver Carstairs rubbed a hand down his face, willing himself to keep hold of his fast mounting temper. Why couldn't this kid understand what he'd been going over for so long? If he'd said it once he'd said it a thousand times - they didn't have enough evidence to go on yet. Until the police could get some sort of lead - what had happened, where the boys were, etcetera, the only thing they actually knew was that it had probably been the work of the gang that two of the missing boys, Michael Nesmith and Peter Tork, had encountered two weeks before. And even that had not been proved. He looked up at the kid, who was standing in front of his desk and looking caught between terrible worry and fierce anger.

"Listen, son, I want to help your friends. But until I know a few more details, I can't - "

"What do you mean, you can't?" The kid practically yelled, and Carstairs vaguely noted that his English accent was thickening. "You're the cops, aren't you? It's your job!"

"Yes, but until we can get some more concrete leads, we are unable-"

The kid cut him off again. "I don't care! If you can't help now, I'll find them myself. And if they've been hurt, I'll kill those bastards myself!" With that, the kid threw Carstairs a scathing look and made for the door. He was brought to a halt by the detective's large hand on his shoulder.

"I've got my men searching the city for your friends. That's the best I can do. You're not going anywhere, son."

"Oh? And I suppose you're going to stop me?" came the rebellious reply.

"You're forgetting, Mr Jones. I'm a cop." The kid still looked murderous. The detective decoded to try a different tack. "Listen, David, you care about your friends a lot, don't you?"

The question, along with the use of his first name, seemed to catch the boy off guard. He dropped his gaze ever so slightly and nodded.

"Then they probably feel the same about you. In that case, they'll thank me for what I'm about to do."

A few minutes later, Oliver Carstairs had settled back down in his chair, and attempted to block out the loud English obscenities echoing from the cell in which David Jones had just been locked.

The first thing Mike was aware of was the pounding ache that filled every corner of his slowly returning consciousness. He tried to move his hands but found them tightly bound in front of him. Within a few minutes, he was able to crack open his eyes just a little, and noted that he was sitting in the back of a small, rather smelly car. He was in the middle seat; on his right Peter was slumped, whether sleeping or unconscious Mike did not know, and on his left, a vaguely familiar young man with greasy black hair was playing idly with a revolver. Mike groaned, remembering suddenly everything that had led up to the moment he had received the now throbbing bump on his forehead.

Then he realised with a surge of hope that Micky was not there. He must have got away! Mike whispered a silent prayer that his friend would be alright. Thinking of Micky gradually led his thoughts on to Davy. The poor kid must be worried sick, Mike thought, with a stab of pity. I know I would be.

In the front, the driver of the car was yelling profanities at the young blond man beside him, calling him an idiot and other worse things for goofing over something Mike was too tired and sick-feeling to understand. But apparently the blond had done something which went directly against the orders the boss had issued - something about not causing too much of a disturbance and such.

Beside him, Peter let out a small moan and began to stir. On Mike's other side, Greaseball let out a humourless chuckle.

"You two woke up just in time. We're just pulling up. Oh- and you're going to need these." He placed a blindfold over Mike's eyes, tying it much too tight. Then leaning over the boy, he did the same to Peter.

Presently the car braked to a halt, and within moments Mike found himself being dragged out of the car. Then he and Peter were led for what felt like hours through corridors, and up and down stairs, until finally the blindfolds were removed, and both boys found themselves standing in a small room.

*The accommodation could have been worse,* Mike thought dryly. A small bed sat in each of the far corners, complete with a blanket and a pillow each. A dirty sink sat against the wall by the foot of one of the beds, by a swinging door that looked as if it led to a bathroom.

"Well the room is nice, but the service is lousy," Mike commented, then wished he hadn't as Greaseball's hand connected with the sore spot on the back of his head. Then the rope tying his hands together was cut, and he was roughly shoved forward. Beside him, Peter was undergoing similar treatment. Then the door slammed and locked, and the two boys were left alone.

Mike's first course of action was to help Peter, who seemed barely cognitive, to one of the beds. Once the sandy haired boy was lying as comfortably as possible, Mike settled down on the other bed. He was just beginning to close his eyes, and dreading the killer headache he'd no doubt have when he woke up, when Peter spoke.

"Michael?"

"I'm here, Peter."

"Where are we?"

"I don't know, man."

"Oh." Peter seemed to be struggling with something. "Mike, Micky...he..."

"He got away," Mike reassured him, gently.

"No..."

"What?" Mike was suddenly gripped by fear once again. "Peter, what happened?"

Peter was fighting to remember something. He knew something had happened, something bad, but he didn't know what. "I don't know, Michael. But I think he might be...might be..."

"Might be what?" Mike asked, trying to stifle the panic slowly rising in his throat. What had Peter seen? What did he know that Mike didn't?

Peter was now sobbing. He wasn't really sure why he felt like he did, for he couldn't really remember what had happened. He only felt a strong conviction that something terrible had happened to his younger friend, something irreparable...

He only managed to choke out one word through his tears of pain and fear, but that word was enough to make Mike's blood run cold.

"Dead."