Pants, shirt, and jacket of khaki clad his body with comfort and panache. But unlike the mock clothing sold in fashion houses, Captain Anger constructed his gear of a rugged, almost indestructible weave of aramid fibers developed in his own lab. The same cloth composed Rock’s business suit and Leila’s apparel. The dense fibers provided some protection against low velocity bullets and insulated well against heat and cold while maintaining a constant body temperature for the wearer.
Captain Anger’s shirt sported several pockets, two large ones and several smaller ones designed with their openings disguised and not obvious to the casual glance. His pants similarly possessed cargo pockets that did not bulge away from his strong legs, but rather conformed to them without clinging tightly. The jacket hung to mid-thigh and displayed crisp, no-nonsense lines. It hid many secrets in its six outer pockets and ten inner ones. Even the belt that cinched his waist held its share of surprises.
His face, scrubbed clean of the rubber mask he utilized in his guise as the old bum, looked even more impressive in the afternoon sun. This was a man meant to live in the fire of adventure, born to roam the world and change it wherever he went. Nothing less could please such a man of action.
Yet in his gaze dwelt the soul of a scientist, a rationalist whose every action was ruled by the cool workings of the intellect. Even his boldest, wildest moves operated under the firm yoke of reason.
It was his expertly trained intellect that warned him of danger in the seemingly unthreatening home. He stepped in front of the other two members of his team and strode to the front door. Standing aside to avoid any gun blast that might chance to punch through the closed door, he swung the ornate brass knocker twice.
No response.
Without any urging, as if they had rehearsed a hundred times, Rock and Leila split up, heading to the left and right sides of the home. Captain Anger withdrew a slender, bendable black tube from his jacket and peered around the window frame and through the glass next to the entry. The tube—an infra-red viewer—detected the slightest variance in temperatures and converted it into an image. Looking through it at the hall carpet, Cap saw the blurred heat-outline of footprints. Someone had been there only a few moments ago. The steps led from the foyer up the curved stairway to the second story.
“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.