The Dark Knight Rises (23 page)

The looming goal posts called out to him. He could practically taste his victory.

Touchdown, here I come!

The mayor’s box exploded, raining blood and debris onto the field. The cheers turned into screams. People panicked and leapt from their seats. Smoke blew over the field.

What the—?

Confused, the receiver glanced behind him— and saw the grassy field drop away into the earth, swallowing players. Rogues and Monuments alike tumbled into a smoking chasm that seemed to be chasing after the receiver as eagerly as any opposing linebacker. The pigskin slipped from his fingers as he sprinted even faster than before, desperate to stay ahead of the collapsing field.

An earth-shaking rumble competed with the shrieks of more than sixty thousand spectators, many of whom were already stampeding for the exits. The terrified player stumbled past the end zone, abandoning all thought of scoring.

Get me outta here!

The street erupted all around Blake’s cruiser, throwing chunks of asphalt into the air. Thick black smoke billowed up from below. Manhole covers shot upward. Water gushed from broken fire hydrants. Street lamps toppled over, crashing onto streets and sidewalks.

Snapped electrical wires sparked and hissed. Pedestrians ran in terror. Horns honked frantically, adding to the tumult. Brakes squealed. Sirens blared. Vehicles collided.

Struggling to keep control of his car, Blake swerved wildly to avoid the bright orange flames shooting up from an open manhole. His notes and maps went flying
around the cabin. An empty coffee cup toppled over.

Blake swore out loud, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.

The Granton Bridge collapsed behind him. The massive towers, deck, and cables crashed into the river in what appeared to be a controlled demolition. Dozens of cars, trucks, and taxis plunged down into the icy water.

Further ahead and off to the right, he saw the Sallow Bridge come crashing down as well, severing the east side of midtown from the mainland. He guessed that the other bridges had been sabotaged, as well.

Bane is cutting Gotham off from the world,
he realized.
But why?

Another eruption went off directly beneath the cruiser, tossing the car over and onto its roof. It skidded across the exploding asphalt. Sparks and the screeching of metal against asphalt created yet more chaos. Blake’s seatbelt and shoulder strap dug into him, holding him to his seat.

The windshield shattered. Metal crumpled around him. Geysers of smoke and flame spewed around the careening vehicle.

His world turned upside-down.

The once-green football field was now a smoking wasteland except for one narrow strip of turf that had survived the disaster. Rubble and dead bodies
littered what was left. The pigskin itself had vanished into the chasm.

No one noticed.

Bane’s men poured out of the locker room tunnel and onto the ruined field, forming a protective gauntlet for his entrance. More soldiers, he knew, were posted at all the exits, preventing his audience from leaving before the show was over. He had no intention of performing to an empty house.

He strode into view like a gladiator entering the coliseum. Everywhere members of the panicked crowd sobbed and shouted as they realized there was no escape. He observed with satisfaction that the television cameras were swinging in his direction. By now, he calculated, the live footage was airing on every channel all over the world.

He hoped Wayne was enjoying the broadcast.

A dead umpire, killed by a chunk of flying debris from the mayor’s box, lay sprawled upon the turf. The man’s headset appeared to have survived and Bane plucked it from the man’s remains. It amused him to use the umpire’s mike.

The panicked crowd grew hushed as Bane took command. He held out his arm for silence and raised the mike to the mouthpiece of his mask.

“Gotham!” he exhorted. “Take control of your city—”

* * *

Feeling as if he’d been shaken but not stirred, Blake squeezed out of his overturned cruiser and crawled onto the shattered asphalt. Flames and smoke still belched up from below. Groaning, he took a moment to assess his physical condition. As nearly as he could tell, he was scraped and bruised all over, but nothing seemed to be broken.

He spit a mouthful of blood onto the charred pavement. His teeth stayed where they were, thank God.

Enough about me,
he thought.
I need to know what’s happening.

He crawled back toward his vehicle and reached inside the crumpled cabin. Straining, he managed to snag onto the radio. As he did so, a burst of static hurt his ears.

“Foley?” he asked anxiously.

“Jesus, Blake!”
Foley answered, sounding hoarse and understandably distraught.
“Every cop in the city’s down in those tunnels.”

Except me
, Blake thought,
and…

“Not every cop.”

Racing against time, he pried his shotgun from inside the cruiser. A battered-looking sedan was cautiously making its way down the broken street. Scrambling to his feet, Blake ran to flag it down.

Gordon’s heart-rate monitor started beeping rapidly. He awoke with a start, jolted from sleep by some sort
of commotion outside his room. He had been having a nightmare about Bane and that shoot-out in the sewers.

Groggy and confused, it took him a moment to realize that something very bad was happening— for real. Screams, shouts, and the occasional burst of gunfire came from downstairs, as if the hospital lobby was under attack by persons unknown. The commissioner was gripped by an unsettling case of
déjà vu,
remembering the time the Joker had attacked this very same hospital to get to Harvey Dent, then blown up an entire wing afterward.

He shoved the disturbing memory aside to focus on the here and now. He had a pretty good idea he knew who was behind this disturbance—and who they were coming for.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. He heard the invaders moving from room to room. Terrified patients screamed and shouted for help. Nurses and orderlies ran and hid. Occasionally there was the sound of a gunshot. Gordon realized that it was only a matter of moments before they found him.

He needed to check out of the hospital, and pronto.

Clenching his teeth to keep from crying out, he painfully dragged himself from the bed. His stitched wounds hated every movement, but held together—at least for the time being. He wheeled his IV tree across the floor. The needle in his arm hurt every time he jostled it. His bare feet shuffled over the cold tiles.

This was
not
what the doctor ordered.

* * *

The streets were full of confused and frightened people. Blake swerved the commandeered sedan around the shell-shocked pedestrians while dodging random gouts of flame and smoke. Smoke and soot blackened the faces of the stunned survivors. Rubble and smoking craters made for a bumpy ride that jarred Blake’s spine all the way across town.

Toppled street lights and broken pavement turned the streets into an obstacle course. It was like driving through a war zone, which was apparently what Gotham had become. News reports coming over the car’s radio claimed that terrorists had killed the mayor and taken control of the football stadium. More than sixty thousand people were being held hostage, while most of the police were still trapped underground.

I can’t worry about that now
, Blake thought. He knew who Bane’s next target would be.
If I’m not already too late.

The sedan squealed to a halt in front of the hospital. Blake bolted from the vehicle and raced up the steps into the lobby, which was worryingly deserted. Bullet holes perforated the walls and ceiling. Broken glass was strewn over the floor. The gift shop and reception desk had been shot up.

He heard gunshots upstairs.

Crap,
he thought.
They’ve found Gordon.

Taking the stairs two steps at a time, he dashed up
to the commissioner’s floor. He burst into the corridor, gun high, only to freeze as he felt a warm steel gun muzzle at the base of his skull. The heat of the metal told him that the gun had been recently fired.

He swallowed hard. For a second, he thought it was all over for him.

“Clear the corners, rookie,” Gordon scolded him.

Blake turned to see Gordon, wearing a rumpled hospital gown, lower his trusty Smith & Wesson. Four dead mercs lay in the hallway. Fearful patients peeked around the doors that led to their rooms.

“Get my coat, son,” Gordon said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Gotham Stadium had become the hottest spot on the planet, at least as far as the Pentagon was concerned. More than three hundred personnel were crammed into the National Military Command Center in Washington, DC, popularly known as the “War Room.”

Rows of state-of-the-art computer and communications stations faced a huge array of illuminated maps and screens. Live footage from Gotham Stadium dominated the central screen as teams of analysts and military staff members, along with the rest of the world, attempted to assess the ongoing—and unprecedented—situation.

Air Force General Matthew Armstrong, five stars gleaming on his epaulets, watched with concern as the terrorists rolled an ominous-looking device onto what remained of the playing field. The glowing metal
sphere was mounted atop a wheeled trolley. Its design did not match any weapon of mass destruction with which he was familiar.

“This is the instrument of your liberation,” Bane declared. CIA analysts had already identified the masked madman as the same terrorist who had staged the attack on the Gotham Stock Exchange last week. Apparently, that had just been his opening number.

“Satellite shows a radiation spike,” an analyst reported. “Whatever it is, it’s nuclear.”

The tension in the room shot up another notch. All eyes remained glued to the monitors, where the terrorists dragged a bedraggled, middle-aged man onto the field and thrust him to his knees before Bane.

“Identify yourself to the world,” the terrorist leader ordered.

“Dr. Leonid Pavel,” the man said, his voice shaking. “Nuclear physicist—”

Bane turned the scientist’s face toward the cameras, even as intelligence experts scrambled to verify the man’s identity.

“Pavel is confirmed dead,” a CIA analyst reported, calling up the data from a computer. “Plane crash on an agency pull out of Uzbekistan.” She compared the man on the monitor to a photo from their database. “But it certainly looks like him—”

The general had to agree. He rubbed his chin, pondering the situation. This was getting more serious by the moment. He stared up at an illuminated screen
tracking their response.

A squadron of F-22 fighter jets was already streaking toward Gotham.

On the TV monitors, Bane placed a hand on Pavel’s shoulder. The kneeling scientist shuddered visibly.

“Tell the world what this is,” Bane instructed.

“A fully primed neutron bomb. With a blast radius of six miles.”

Bane nodded.

“And who can disarm this device?”

“Only me.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

With the whole world watching, Bane effortlessly snapped the scientist’s neck. Pavel’s body dropped onto the grass. Screams erupted from the bleachers. People gasped in the war room.

“The bomb is armed,” Bane said, ignoring the screams. “The bomb is mobile, the identity of the triggerman is a mystery. One of
you
holds the detonator. We come not as conquerors, but as liberators to return control of this city to the people. At the first sign of interference from the outside world, or of people attempting to flee, this anonymous Gothamite—this unsung hero—will trigger the bomb.

“For now, martial law is in effect. Return to your homes, hold your families close, and wait.” He threw out his arms. “Tomorrow you claim what is rightfully yours.”

Bane turned and left the field. His men rolled the
bomb after him, leaving Dr. Pavel’s body behind on the desecrated turf.

A hush fell over the war room.

“Pull back the fighters,” the general said finally, breaking the silence. “Start high-level reconnaissance flights. And get the President on the line.”

God help us all,
he thought.

Gotham Bridge was the only one left standing. By sunset, tanks and troops were already advancing on the city. Captain Willis Parker, in charge of the operation, just wished he had a clearer sense of their mission strategy. How did one recapture a city being held hostage?

A squad of mercenaries held the bridge. There was no sign of Bane, but one of his men stepped forward, holding a bullhorn. An amplified voice challenged the approaching army.

“Tanks and planes cannot stop us from detonating our device,” he warned. “Send an emissary to discuss terms of access for supplies and communication.”

Captain Parker figured that was his cue. After a hasty conference with his superiors, he marched toward the apex of the bridge, his hands held open in front of him. Washington was anxious to hear the terrorists’ demands, so he walked until he was within spitting distance of the enemy. The lead terrorist had the shaggy, undisciplined look of a professional
mercenary—and the dead eyes of a stone-cold killer.