The bike gives a satisfying roar as Steve curves down the well-lit concrete ramp that leads under the mansion - well, under the grounds. Under the grounds, under the rumble of traffic on Fifth Avenue, and up again to emerge from the ground in a clump of trees next to East Drive. Steve guns it, thundering onto the road with a sound much more impressive than the speed merits.

If he were by himself, he might consider going a little in excess of the speed limit.

As it is, he keeps careful pace with the vehicles around them, thinking maybe the helmet wasn't the best idea as several tourists start exclaiming and taking pictures - but then the locals start waving to him, and he can't help the little grin that creeps onto his face.

Yeah, maybe there is a tiny ego in there somewhere. At the very least, pride and gratitude.

"Hang on, Agent Dunham," he says, swinging onto Terrace and East 72nd. People pay less attention as they get past Park, and at a stoplight, Steve unstraps his helmet and twists around to tuck it into one of the saddlebags. Nostalgia or no, where they're going, he'd rather not draw attention to himself.

'Where they're going' turns out to be a small flower shop, its windows hand-painted with seasonal designs. The Captain putters to a stop and kills the engine. "I'll only be a minute."