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“Hey, Erin,” Veronica said. “Logan.”

Logan hadn't seen Veronica standing there with Hailey. She didn't look at him. “Hi, Veronica.” Tom was there too, as was most of the Spokie Middle crowd. Nobody else said hi.

“How long's the set?” Logan asked.

Hailey shrugged.

“Half an hour,” Tom said. “Then the band with the most support gets an encore.”

Logan felt his mouth go dry. That was a long time for something to go wrong.

“Let's take a loop,” Erin whispered. “See who else is here . . .”

Logan suddenly noticed Hailey staring at Erin, the way Erin was whispering into Logan's ear. Hailey looked hurt. Logan pulled away.

“What's the matter?” Erin asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Let's go.” And he frowned and shrugged at Hailey before slipping off into the crowd.

2

Outside, in the shadows, Tyler and Eddie were flipping cards, taking turns punching each other in the face.

“If I win this round, I get to bag him.”

“Two out of three,” Eddie said.

And Tyler said, “Hey, Blake, whaddo we do once we bag him?”

Blake had been keeping a lookout for agents or, worse, Logan and his miserly friend Erin. The last thing he wanted was another playground-type disaster. “Knock him out.” Blake shrugged. “Don't you know how to knock someone out? You practically do it to yourselves all the time.”

“Yeah, but we never
actually
do it,” Tyler said, as Eddie punched him in the face.

“Well, whaddaya want me to say? Clock him in the head with something. I don't know.”

“I'm afraid I'll crack his skull. I'm afraid I'll kill him.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Fine. Use this, if you have to,” he said, and he handed Tyler a vial.

“What's chlor . . . chlor . . . chloro . . .” Tyler struggled to read the side of the glass.

“Chloroform, stupid.” Blake tapped the label. “Just drip some on the front of the bag.” Blake snapped his fingers. “It'll knock 'im right out.”

Tyler uncapped the vial and started waving it around Eddie's face excitedly, announcing the rules of his “new game.”

“Careful with that!” Blake said. “And don't waste it!”

“Where'd you even get this?” Tyler asked, wide-eyed.

Blake let out a small laugh. “Think of it as a gift. From our good friend Trenton.”

“Last we'll be getting from him!” Eddie laughed.

“Shut it, skinflint.”

Tyler stared reverently at the liquid. “Still won't be easy,” he said.

“Well, that's why you're a professional,” Jo butted in, exiting a side door of the building. “So start acting like one. And clean up your stingy nose.”

Tyler sniffled and realized he was bleeding out both nostrils.

“I won!” Eddie said. Then in childlike singsong, he added, “
I-I-I
get to
ba-a-ag
him!”

Tyler wiped his nose. “Fine, but I drip the juice.”

“So what's the situation?” Blake asked Jo.

“Dim lighting, loud music. Easy to hide.”

“That's good,” Blake said.

“Yes. But he's got a ton of friends in there. Once he's in the crowd, it'll be impossible to get him alone.”

“You'll have to be creative,” Blake said.

“You gonna wait out here?”

“Yeah. Make sure the coast stays clear. You come right out this door, okay?”

“Where's Meg?” Jo asked, looking around.

“At the Fulmart. Tied up.”

“Why the Fulmart?”

“That's where we're headed. You'll need a wheelbarrow to get Dane all the way to the warehouse, but I sure wasn't about to bring one here.” Blake looked at his watch. “Concert's almost through. You know what that means.”

“Showtime,” Jo said. And she slipped back into the building through the emergency exit, pulling Tyler and Eddie along with her.

3

“This is impossible,” Erin said to Logan. “I can't see. Anything could be happening in this crowd.”

The room was hot and humid with sweat, and dozens of arms and shoulders knocked Logan violently as he walked through the mosh pit. The music was so loud it pressed against his chest, and very little of what Erin was saying had registered.

“No sign of the Dust,” she yelled. “That's good, at least.”

“That's worse,” Logan said. “That means they're outsmarting us.”

Just then the members of another band, still waiting to perform, passed through a side door and into the gym, scowling at the Boxing Gloves as they did. Logan realized he was looking at the backstage entrance. “This way,” he yelled, and Erin followed. “We'll meet him the second he comes offstage.”

But getting there wouldn't be so easy.

“Can I help you kids?” a man shouted, stepping out from the crowd and blocking the door in one swift motion.

“Just like to get through,” Logan yelled.

But the man shook his head. “No can do, kid. Sorry.”

Logan stood for a moment, stumped. “Look, I'm not really asking you,” he said, finally. “I'm telling you.” As far as Logan could see, this guy had no real authority whatsoever, and Logan didn't have time to waste.

The man narrowed his eyes at Logan. He wore a dull knit sweater and khakis, and by this point he stood with his legs spread and his arms folded, practically daring Logan to push his way through.

“Hey, why don't we take a walk,” Erin whispered, suddenly but calmly, right into his ear. “Just walk with me for a second, okay?”

But Logan wasn't having it. “Look, mister. My friend's up there in that band onstage. He's about to finish his set, and I
need
to be back in this wing when he does.”

The man stared at Logan, more intensely now, and as Erin stood there, he began eyeing her too.

Erin leaned in to Logan and grabbed his arm with both hands. “Logan,” she pleaded. “Can you
please
come over here with me?” And she pulled him aside and into the crowd without letting him refuse.

“This is ridiculous,” Logan said. “We need to get back there, and I don't care what some volunteer chaperone has to say about it!”

“That's no chaperone,” Erin said. “That's DOME.” Logan peered at the man, disbelieving. “I'm sure of it,” she said. “I'm
sure
of it.”

“Okay . . . ,” Logan said. “Well, that's good, then! That means they responded to the call! Look, maybe . . . if you're right, maybe we can tell them everything—just . . . confess to everything, right now.” Erin could see the wheels turning in his head. He was getting excited now. “Yes. Erin, this is great. They can work with us. Erin, they're gonna help us!”

But Erin looked at the man by the door. She studied his expression, watched the way he mumbled into his collar. “Logan, I'm not so sure there's much left to confess,” she said. And now several other men, just as large and weirdly average-looking, stepped ominously from the crowd and moved directly toward her and Logan. “And no, Logan . . . I
don't
think they're about to help us.”

4

Onstage, Dane played the final tune of his set—his new song “Comet”—and let the music envelop him. He sang into the microphone and wailed with his hands to his sides, gazing out into the crowd of classmates and friends who screamed and clapped and jumped up and down, like a tidal wave summoned by him. By his music. By his words. And Hailey in the front row. It was perfect. It was his moment.

And even when the Boxing Gloves left the gym and turned the stage over to the next band, even when the glow and applause and sparkling air faded completely behind the harsh fluorescent light and cold, cinder-block walls backstage, Dane
still
was flying so high off adrenaline and endorphins that he could barely feel his feet on the ground.

“We'll for sure get the encore,” Dane told his drummer as they walked off. “We're
for sure
gonna win.”

The excitement continued well into the wings, where Dane and the rest of his band walked back through the hallway, slapping one another on the shoulders and laughing. In the midst of the commotion, Dane almost passed right by the tall girl and her two friends, who were standing, waiting for him, bouncing a little, eyes wide and thrilled and eager, just a short way down the hall.

“Dane Harold?” she asked. “Are you
the
Dane Harold? Of
the Boxing Gloves
?”

Dane laughed. “Uh . . . yeah, that's me.”

“Dane, I am your
biggest
fan!”

Dane smiled at his bandmates. He didn't know he had
any
fans, let alone a biggest one.

“Can I have your autograph? Please, Dane?
Please
?”

“Of course!” Dane said. He felt around in his pockets. “But I don't seem to have a stylus on me . . .”

The Boxing Gloves' drummer rolled his eyes. The bassist crossed his arms and began tapping his foot impatiently.

“That's okay, you guys. Go on ahead. I'll catch up with you in the crowd.”

When they left, Dane saw his bandmates walk past two grown men who sat, slouched against the wall, sleeping.
How odd
, Dane thought. He wondered how anyone could sleep in all this noise, or why they would want to.

But that didn't matter. Right now it was just Dane Harold, lead singer of the Boxing Gloves, alone in the wings with his three biggest fans.

5

In the gymnasium, Mr. Arbitor pushed his way past kid after sweaty kid. He hated rock music. He hated crowds. And right now, he especially hated teenagers.

His daughter was an exception . . . but barely.

He cleared the worst of the moshing now, and walked toward the circle of his men, camped outside the crowd and in front of the side door. There she was, in the middle of it. Erin. And her stingy friend, Logan Langly.

Standing among the DOME agents, Erin looked up with a horror Logan had never seen on her face, not in all their adventuring, and that frightened him worse than anything else.

“Hi, Dad,” Erin said. “Like the show?”

Mr. Arbitor gazed down upon her with an authority that was absolute.

“Snooping through classified documents. Breaking and entering into government property. Grand theft of weapons-grade materials. Taking the highest laws of the A.U. into your own hands. And playing a monthlong game of chicken with a known serial kidnapper. Just for fun.”

“It wasn't for
fun
. It was self-defense!” Logan said.

“I'm not talking to you, boy.”

“Dad,” Erin said. “I can explain.”

“Oh yeah?” Mr. Arbitor said. “And what exactly do you think I don't already know? What, precisely, is it about this situation that eludes me? Because if there's anything—anything at all—that does, then you have my word—I'll retire right here and now.”

“Dad—”

“Because to me, this is the simplest cut-and-dry case in the books. To me, this is a little girl who found a boy she liked . . . and decided to make a little adventure for herself.”

“Peck's after me,” Logan said. “She saved my life—”

“
I know that, boy. I'm not talking to you!
”

“You know it now!” Erin yelled suddenly. “You know it because of me! Because of us!
We
led you here!
We
did this. We deserve a medal!”

“Mr. Arbitor,” Logan butted in. “With all due respect, whatever punishments you have in store for us—they
have
to wait.”

“Was that an order, Logan Langly?” Mr. Arbitor laughed at the thought of it.

Logan gulped. “Yes! Actually, it was! My friend is back there and he's in danger! Now either stop wasting your own time or stop wasting ours—because
one
of us has to help him!”

Mr. Arbitor smiled. “Your selflessness is admirable, for someone carrying so many treasonous charges.”

“Please,” Logan begged, feebly now.

“We have two men back there,” Mr. Arbitor said. “If you're right about any of this, they will be more than capable of handling it.”

“Just like you've handled everything else so far?” Erin shot back. “Because it seems to me that we're the two best agents you've got!”

But something about that statement struck a nerve. Mr. Arbitor didn't look angry anymore—he looked crazed.

“Cuff them, Johnson. Cuff them both.”

6

The smaller of the two boys jumped up and down, and his voice echoed in the quiet hall. “Ooh! Here's a pen! I have a pen!” The girl took it from him and handed the thing to Dane. It wasn't a stylus. It was an actual pen. Dane couldn't remember the last time he had held one like it, if he ever had.

“Uh . . . so where'd you like me to sign?”

“I don't have a tablet,” the girl said. “So how about just signing right here?” She held out her hand, strangely, and pointed to her wrist, which was blank. Dane looked up at her face. This girl was a teenager. There was no doubt about it. This girl was a Markless.