“Someone’s in there,” he subvocalized without moving his lips or even opening his mouth. The tiny but powerful microphone in the earpiece he wore picked up the nearly inaudible tones conducted through jawbone and inner ear, transmitting them to his comrades who wore the same devices and via satellite to Cyclops. A second microphone operated on a different frequency, capturing all the sounds that Cap heard and transmitting them back to the Institute. The earpiece was smaller than the smallest hearing aid so that Captain Anger’s team could be in full communication with one another at all times without anyone suspecting. Cap was one of the most circumspect people imaginable. So much so that his enemies sometimes swore that Cap and his friends were telepathic, or psychic, or black magicians.

Rock crept through the neat bed of bright yellow flowers surrounding the south wall of the house. He discovered a patio and sliding glass door. The door hung jimmied open on one hinge. “My side,” he muttered, “fast!” With that, he jumped from the flower bed and through the doorway, landing on the carpet of the breakfast nook with astonishing silence for a man of his bulk. He crouched, listening for any sign of movement.

Cap was the first to join him, quietly appearing at his side. Leila crept in an instant later.

Cap peered through the infra-red scope, determined that no one had been in the room for a few minutes, and signaled the others to follow.

Halfway up the hall stairway, they heard a mighty crash, the sound of steel against steel. Captain Anger raced swiftly up the stairs three steps per stride and followed the sound to its source.

The ringing smash sounded again. And again. Cap entered Dr. Madsen’s upstairs office to see a long-haired blond teenager frantically swinging a sledgehammer at a wall safe.

The boy, who could not have been more than fifteen, took another swing at the exposed hinges on the safe. Steel hit steel, sending white-hot sparks flying, scenting the air with the smell of burnt iron. He took a moment to wrist away the sweat dripping into his eyes. Then, for whatever reason, he turned around to check the doorway.

And saw the tall, copper-haired man in khaki.

With a startled gasp, the young man raised the hammer and lunged toward the bearded intruder, swinging the weapon with all his might.

Cap caught it in one hand, near the business end of the sledge, and reduced its motion to zero. With his other hand, he gripped both the boy’s wrists and pried them away from the handle.

The kid struggled and screamed, “I’ll kill you, you murdering bas-”

“Hold on, son,” Cap said calmly without releasing his grip. The boy tried to kick him, but he lifted him up by the wrists, out and away from harm in a feat of leverage that would have astonished a professional weightlifter. “We haven’t killed anyone lately. Who are you?”

“None of your business. Put me down.”

Cap complied, keeping hold of the sledge hammer.

The kid with the shoulder-length yellow hair rubbed a sore wrist and stared up at the stranger. He paused for a moment, then broke and ran for the hallway. He galloped squarely into the block wall that was Pyotr Kompantzeff.

“Shto tebye-what have we got here?” Rock caught and held the frightened and angry kid in a Russian bear hug that defied escape. The captive swung a foot at Rock’s shin, but the ragged sneaker bounced off the thick bone and sinew of the burly man’s gristly leg.

“We’re not who you think,” Leila said, stepping into the kid’s field of view. “Put him down, Rock.”

Freed of Rock’s iron grip, the boy stared at the haunting, raven-haired woman in puzzlement. “You don’t work for Dandridge?”

Cap shook his head. “My name is Richard Anger. This is Leila Weir and Pete Kompantzeff.”

“Are you cops?”

Leila laughed. “Hardly.”

“We’re scientists,” Rock said levelly.

The kid eyed him up and down. “Yeah, right.” Rock looked more like an enforcer for the Russian Mafia than a scientist.

Cap leaned the sledge hammer against the wall. “Do you know Dr. Madsen?”

“Who said I should?” The teen’s voice was suspicious, cautious.

“You’re in his home, breaking into his safe.”

The kid shrugged. “So I’m a burglar. What does that make you?”

“Burglars don’t call the people who catch them murderers. Is Dr. Madsen dead?”

The kid walked over to a chair and collapsed into it. Burying his face in one hand, he wept and pounded the chair arm with another. “Dandridge did it. I know he did. I’ll kill him.”

“What’s in the safe?” Cap asked.

The boy looked up, a guarded expression on his face. “Nothing. Money. I need to get out of town.”

Captain Anger nodded. “I see. Maybe I can help.” He stepped over to the safe. “What’s your name?” he asked calmly, his sensitive fingers gently turning the dial.

“What’s it to you?”

Cap shrugged, continuing his work on the safe. “I just like to know the people for whom I serve as safecracker.”

With that, he stopped turning the dial and reached for the locking handle. “Well?”

“Jonathan Madsen.”

The handle rotated with a heavy clack. Cap swung the door open to look inside. “No money,” he said.

Rock walked over to the desk. “Out with it, boy. Who’s Dandridge and how’d he kill your father?”

“My grandfather,” Jonathan Madsen corrected. “Dandridge worked with him at Stanford. Grampa Julie would let me visit now and then. I liked being around the lab. Then something happened to a grad student of his named Barry Feinman and Dandridge took over and had gramps canned.”

“Flash,” Captain Anger murmured, “check status of a Dr. Dandridge at Stanford.”

“Already working,” said a voice in his ear. “William Arthur Dandridge, Ph.D. in electronics. Currently head of research at Drexler College of Nanotechnology.”

Cap withdrew a sheaf of papers partway from the safe. “Are these patent forms what you’re looking for?”

The young Madsen gazed impassively at the imposing figure before him. “Maybe. Let me see.” He walked over to the open safe and reached in with his right hand, feeling around for a second or two. Then he pulled out the stack of papers with both hands and carried them to the desk by the bookshelf-lined far wall. Putting the papers down, he casually slid his hands into his pockets and sat down behind the desk.

“Yeah. That’s the stuff.”

Cap smiled at the kid’s bold-but crude-effort. “And,” he said, “how about what you palmed into your pocket?”

In a leap that surprised all, Madsen jumped to the desk and took a swift step to its edge. Using it as a diving board, he kicked off and sailed fists first through the glass of the second-story window. The crash of the shattering panes startled the three into action.

“Gospodi!” Rock cried, turning to run downstairs.

Cap raced to the window in time to see Jonathan hit the ground shoulder first. With a bone-crunching thud, the boy landed in the soft earth of the floral landscaping. The wind knocked out of him, he fought to rise and run.

With a stronger and more planned jump, Captain Anger sailed from the window to land on his feet a yard from the gasping, bloodied boy. After determining that Madsen was not seriously injured, Cap crouched beside him and waited.

When Jonathan had regained his breath, Cap said, “What’s in your pocket that’s worth dying for?” He held out a hand as the boy struggled in panic. “I won’t take it from you, even though I easily could. I want to help you.”

Rock and Leila arrived by a more mundane route in time to hear the wheezing teen say, “Gramps… and I were… real pals. I wanted… to be a scientist the way… he was. He told me… about his problems at… work. Said corporate intrigue… and spying were… things he wasn’t used to.”

He sat up, with help from Leila. Still laboring for breath, he also fought to restrain sobs of anguish.