Instantly he sank beneath the surface. He tried to hold his breath, but the cold water gushed into his mouth and nose. The current caught hold of him and started to carry him away.
Startled guards shouted and cursed, the sound muffled by the water. Automatic weapons blared loudly. Bullets slammed into Gordon’s body, tearing through flesh and bone. Searing jolts of pain rocked him from head to toe. He screamed beneath the water.
No! Gordon thought. I have to get away…sound the alarm.
Crimson foam spread atop the water. The current cleared it away.
Bane gazed down into the flowing river. His unworthy minion, who had been imprudent enough to bring Gordon into their base of operations in the first place, stared at the channel, as well.
“He’s dead,” the fool insisted, as though that might somehow excuse his poor judgment. The smell of gunfire hung in the air. The body of his comrade still rested on the ground, just a few feet away. “He has to be.”
Bane tucked Gordon’s papers into his belt, so that he could examine them at his leisure. His mind raced with ways he might put these revelations to use.
He spoke to the terrified man.
“Then show me his body.”
“That water flows to any one of outflows,” the man protested. “We’d never find him.”
Bane considered the problem. He turned to his lieutenant, Barsad. The loyal soldier had fought beside him in so many conflicts over the years, all around the world. He owed Bane his life a dozen times over.
“Give me your GPS,” the masked leader demanded.
Barsad handed over the unit, and Bane tucked it into the terrified stooge’s leather jacket. He zipped the jacket up like a doting mother sending a child off to school. He patted the jacket to make sure the GPS unit was secure.
“Follow him,” he said.
The worthless fool stared at him with an utter lack of comprehension.
“Follow?”
Bane drew his gun and shot the man between the eyes.
The body dropped to the floor. Bane kicked it over the edge of the platform and into the turbulent water, then watched as the current carried the corpse in the same direction as Gordon. He turned and again addressed Barsad.
“Track him,” Bane instructed him. “Make sure both bodies will not be found. Then brick up the south tunnel.”
Barsad hurried to carry out his orders. Bane took out Gordon’s papers and leafed through them again. If the pages were to be believed, they were easily worth the lives of any number of men. He welcomed the fortuitous turn of events that had brought them into his possession.
Fate, it appeared, was on his side.
* * *
The sewage treatment plant looked uglier by night. Blake pulled up to the gate and flashed his badge at the puzzled security guard, who let him through. Ross was off-duty, at home with wife and kids, but Blake was putting in some unpaid overtime. Playing a hunch, he parked his vehicle and raced for the basin where Jimmy’s body had washed up earlier.
This was a long shot, Blake knew, and he was already dreading the prospect of finding Gordon’s body in the same state as Jimmy’s, but anything was better than standing around wondering if the commissioner was still alive. He had to believe that Gordon had survived the underground explosion. Gotham still needed him.
Moonlight rippled atop the water that flowed beneath the metal grate. Bracing himself for the worst, Blake thought he spotted something that poked up briefly through the grille before sinking back into the currents below. Something pale groped for the air.
Fingers?
He ran forward and thrust his hand down into the basin. He groped frantically until—his heart pounding—he caught hold of what felt like another man’s wrist.
Yes! It was Gordon.
Straining, he tugged the commissioner up through an opening in the grille and hauled him onto the concrete pathway. His breathing ragged, the commissioner looked barely alive. His face was gray, and his glasses were missing. Dripping clothes were soaked with blood and water. Crimson swirls streaked the puddle that began pooling beneath his trembling body.
Blake could tell at once that Gordon had been shot more than once. He shouted anxiously for help.
“Man down!” Then he realized the commissioner was trying to speak.
“Bane,” Gordon whispered urgently, almost too softly to hear. “Under the city. Warn Gotham, warn—”
Blake leaned in closer, trying to make out what he was saying. The cop felt torn between fear and relief.
At least he’s still alive, he thought.
But for how much longer?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blake had never been to Wayne Manor before. Its stately stone walls and towers made it look more like a castle than a house. High lancet windows and marble columns added to the grandeur. Gargoyles gazed down from the upper stories. An elegant parapet circled the roof. Stone spires stabbed at the sky. All that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. The mansion belonged in some far-off European kingdom, not mere miles away from downtown Gotham.
He found it hard to believe that the whole place was home to just one guy, even if that guy was Bruce Wayne. You could move an entire orphanage into it, and still have room for a small army.
An elderly butler greeted him at the door. Based on his research, Blake recognized Alfred Pennyworth, a man who had served the Wayne family for at least two generations. He wondered how much the old servant knew about his master’s secrets.
“I need to see Bruce Wayne,” Blake said.
“I’m sorry,” the butler said. “Mr. Wayne doesn’t take unscheduled calls. Not even from police officers.”
“And if I go to get a warrant, in the investigation of Harvey Dent’s murder?” Blake asked. “Would that still count as ‘unscheduled’?”
The butler frowned and gave the young policeman a closer look.
Minutes later, Blake found himself waiting in an opulent study, surrounded by antiques and heirlooms he was almost afraid to touch. He fidgeted upon a well-upholstered couch, still wondering if he was doing the right thing. He had rehearsed this visit a thousand times in his head, but it was one thing to imagine it, and another thing to actually go through with it. What if he was making a tremendous mistake?
Maybe some secrets should stay buried…
Bruce Wayne entered the room, hobbling on a cane. Blake was startled by how much the once-dashing playboy had changed, but tried not to show it. He looked older and scruffier these days, better suited to retirement than a red-carpet gala. Wearing a rumpled dressing gown and slippers, he made Blake feel overdressed.
The one-time prince of Gotham City did not sit down. Blake wondered how he had injured his leg.
“What can I do for you, officer?” Wayne asked.
Blake got straight to the point.
“Commissioner Gordon’s been shot.”
“I’m sorry to hear that—”
“He chased some gunmen down into the sewers,” Blake elaborated, cutting him off. “When I pulled him out, he was babbling about an underground army and a masked man called Bane.”
Wayne maintained a neutral expression.
“Shouldn’t you be telling this to your superior officers?”
“I did,” Blake admitted. “One of them asked if he also saw any giant alligators down there.” He shook his head, remembering how Foley and the others had brushed him off, once Gordon was safely delivered to the hospital. Only hours had passed since the commissioner had been shot, but it already felt like ages. They needed to do something!
“He needs you.” Blake took a deep breath before going on. “He needs the Batman.”
There, he thought. I said it.
If Wayne was shocked by his implication, the reclusive billionaire gave no sign of it. He merely chuckled wryly.
“If Commissioner Gordon thinks I’m the Batman, he must be in a bad way—”
“He doesn’t know or care who you are,” Blake said. “But we’ve met before…when I
was a kid. At the orphanage.”
Wayne gave him a quizzical look.
“See, my mom died when I was small,” Blake continued. “Car accident, I don’t really remember it. But a couple years later my dad was shot over a gambling debt. I remember that just fine.” He looked into Wayne’s eyes. “Not a lot of people know what that feels like, do they? To be angry, in your bones. People ‘understand,’ foster parents ‘understand’—for a while. Then they expect the angry kid to do what he knows he can never do. To move on, to forget.”
He spat out the word.
“So they stopped understanding and sent the angry kid to a boys’ home, St. Swithin’s. Used to be funded by the Wayne Foundation.” Blake paused to let that register. “See, I figured it out too late. You have to hide the anger. Practice smiling in the mirror, like putting on a mask.” The words—and memories—tumbled out of him. “You showed up one day in a cool car, pretty girl on your arm. Bruce Wayne, billionaire orphan. We made up stories about you. Legends. The other boys’ stories were just that. But when I saw you I knew who you really were.
“I’d seen that look on your face. That mask. Same one I taught myself.”
Blake stopped. He wasn’t sure what else there was to say. He waited for Wayne to respond, to deny or confirm, but the other man just stood there silently, looking lost in thought. The young cop wondered what was going through his mind.
“I don’t know why you took the fall for Dent’s murder,” he said finally, “but I’m still a believer in the Batman. Even if you’re not.”
Wayne looked at him.
“Why did you say your boys’ home used to be funded by the Wayne Foundation?”
“Because the money stopped.” Blake could tell Wayne was surprised by the news. He rose to his feet, disappointed by what he had had found at the mansion. “Might be time to get some fresh air, and start paying attention to details. Some of those details might need your help.”
He showed himself out.
Bruce and Alfred watched from the front hall as the patrol car drove away.
“You checked that name?” Bruce asked. He assumed Alfred had been listening in on his meeting with the young police officer. “Bane?” The word had sinister connotations. A cause of ruin, disaster, and death, at least according to Webster. Bruce wondered what kind of man would choose such a name for himself.
A man who wished to instill fear in others?
He understood the reasoning.
“Ran it through some databases,” Alfred said. The faithful butler had once served as an operative for British Intelligence, before going into service. His skills at garnering information still came in handy. “He’s a mercenary. No other known name. Never been seen or photographed without a mask. He and his men were behind a coup in West Africa that secured mining operations for our friend John Daggett.”
Wayne raised an eyebrow. Daggett was the kind of shark that gave rich tycoons a bad name.
“Now Daggett’s brought them here?” he asked.
“It would seem so,” Alfred replied. “I’ll keep digging.”
The butler turned to leave, but Wayne had another question.
“Why did the Wayne Foundation stop funding boys’ homes in the city?”
“The Foundation is funded from the profits of Wayne Enterprises,” Alfred reminded him. “There have to be some.”
Bruce’s expression fell. Recent years had taken their toll on the company Bruce’s ancestors had founded, but he hadn’t realized that Wayne Enterprises’ financial reverses had hurt the charities that depended on its largesse. He rebuked himself for not paying closer attention.
“Time to talk to Mr. Fox, I think,” Bruce declared.
Lucius Fox was the chief executive officer of Wayne Enterprises, and had been for several years now. Bruce trusted him almost as much as he trusted Alfred.
“I’ll get him on the phone,” Alfred said.
“No.” Bruce glanced out the front door. Marble steps led down to the gated front drive. “Do we still have any cars around the place?”
Alfred smiled.
“One or two.”
Good, Bruce thought. “And I need an appointment at the hospital. About my leg,” he added.
The leg had been bothering him for eight years now, ever since he’d fallen several stories. The fall had killed Harvey Dent. Bruce had merely injured his left knee. Perhaps for good.
“Which hospital, sir?”
“Whichever one Jim Gordon is in.”
Wayne Enterprises occupied a gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper in downtown Gotham. The city’s monorail system and utilities were routed through the building, making it the unofficial center of the city.
A board meeting was just breaking up on the top floor of the tower. Worried executives rose from their positions around a large polished oak table, gathering up their notes and reports. Picture windows looked out on the thriving city below. Half-empty pitchers of fresh water waited to be picked up by the service staff. Marble busts of company’s founders, Solomon and Zebidiah Wayne, gazed down from their perches as the board members exited the room.
Miranda Tate lingered behind, hoping for a private word with the CEO.
“Mr. Fox,” she said, “I believe in what Mr. Wayne was trying to do. I’m only asking for explanations because I think I can help.”
“I’ll pass along your request,” Fox said. “Next time I see him.”
A dignified African-American gentleman in his sixties, Lucius Fox sat at the head of the table. His neatly trimmed hair and mustache were now more salt than pepper. An old-fashioned bow tie gave him a courtly air. He had started out as a research scientist and engineer, before assuming control of the company nearly a decade ago.
“He doesn’t talk to you either?” Miranda inferred.
“Let’s just say that Bruce Wayne has his…eccentricities.”
To put it mildly, Fox thought.
“Mr. Fox,” she persisted. “Are you aware that John Daggett is trying to acquire shares of Wayne Enterprises?”
“I was not,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t do him any good. Mr. Wayne retains a clear majority.” At that he fell silent, indicating that the conversation was at an end.
Miranda departed, clearly disappointed not to have learned more about the company’s current prospects. Fox sighed. He appreciated the woman’s energy and conviction, but certain information could not be shared with anyone other than Bruce Wayne himself. Miss Tate needed to remain in the dark, along with the rest of the world.
Returning to his own office, he found an unexpected visitor.
“Bruce Wayne,” he intoned. “As I live and breathe.”
Bruce rose to greet him, leaning on his cane. Fox couldn’t remember the last time the hibernating heir had visited Wayne Tower.
“What brings you out of cryo-sleep, Mr. Wayne?” he asked. Bruce chuckled.
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor—even if you have lost most of my money.”
Fox just dismissed the accusation.
“Actually, you did that yourself,” he replied. “See, if you funnel the entire R&D budget for five years into a fusion project that you then mothball, your company is unlikely to thrive.”
“Even with—”
“A wildly sophisticated CEO, yes.” He leaned forward, and gave Bruce the cold, hard truth. “Wayne Enterprises is running out of time. And Daggett is moving in.”
Bruce accepted the gloomy prognosis without complaint.
“What are my options?”
“If you’re not willing to turn your machine on—”
Bruce cut him off.
“I can’t, Lucius.”
“Then sit tight,” Fox advised. “Your majority keeps Daggett at arm’s length while we figure out a future for the energy program with Miranda Tate. She’s supported your project all the way, incidentally. She’s smart, and quite lovely.”
Bruce rolled his eyes.
“You too, Lucius?”
“
We all just want what’s best for you, Bruce.” It pained Fox to see such a remarkable man, who had already overcome so much tragedy, cut himself off from any hope of happiness. Bruce deserved better than the self-inflicted purgatory to which he had condemned himself. “Show her the machine.”
“I’ll think it over,” Bruce said. That was more than Fox had expected, so he chose to leave it at that.
“Anything else?” Lucius asked.
“No, why?” Bruce responded. Fox smiled nostalgically.
“These conversations used to end with some…unusual requests.”
“I retired,” Bruce said tersely.
Neither man needed to clarify. They had always understood each other with regard to Bruce’s former…pursuits, even if they seldom spoke of them directly. Plausible deniability had its advantages, at least as far as Fox was concerned.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t finished.
“Let me show you some stuff anyway.”
CHAPTER NINE
Wayne Enterprise’s Applied Sciences Division was hidden away in a hangar-sized bunker deep beneath the tower, many stories below the business offices. When Bruce had first visited the facility, nearly a decade ago, it had become a graveyard for discarded prototypes and forgotten projects, left to gather dust out of sight, and out of mind.
Only he and Lucius had seen the potential in the division’s extensive collection of high-tech castoffs. Together, they had turned the mothballed relics into an arsenal.
Before it all went wrong.
Now the bunker was a graveyard again. Bruce limped uncomfortably through the vast, cavernous chambers, inspecting Lucius’s growing collection of high-tech toys. A brilliant mechanical engineer as well as a savvy businessman, Lucius had designed or overseen practically every item hidden away in the facility. He had been with Wayne Enterprises for decades, ever since helping to build Gotham’s citywide monorail system for Bruce’s father a generation earlier.
Thomas Wayne had been a philanthropist devoted—along with his beloved wife—to making Gotham City a better place to live for all its citizens. Bruce sometimes feared that the city had never truly recovered from their senseless murders.