The Dark Knight Rises (33 page)

Then, out of the sky, the Bat came swooping over the street. Its own cannons targeted the tumblers, blasting
away at them. The armored vehicles flipped over onto their sides, smashing down on the sidewalks. Smoke and flames rose from the mangled metal. Their wheels spun uselessly in the air.

Bane frowned behind his mask. This was not part of his plan.

The Bat rose above the army of cops, providing air support and encouragement. Cheering, the police rallied and charged the enemy. Gunfire erupted as the armies opened fire on each other, while opposing lines rushed toward their inevitable collision.

Bullets bounced off the Bat’s armor plating as the armies met head-on in the middle of Grand Street like clashing tidal waves. Bodies hit the snow. Gunfire gave way to hand-to-hand combat as thousands of cops and criminals mixed and fought in close quarters. A multitude of shouts and grunts and curses added to the deafening tumult. Knives flashed, drawing blood, and fists collided with flesh and bone. Rifle butts were turned into bludgeons. Cops swung their batons.

Grand Street turned into a wide, snowy melee as the battle for Gotham spilled over onto the steps and sidewalks. No quarter was asked, nor was any given. Both sides wanted to prove who really ran Gotham— once and for all.

No longer needed against the tumblers, the Bat fell back and descended to the street behind the ranks of the cops. From his vantage point atop the steps, Bane glimpsed a caped figure emerging from the cockpit. In his black armor and nocturnal disguise, Batman looked distinctly out of place by day, especially against the fresh white snow. The Dark Knight had finally come into the light.

No matter,
Bane thought.
I broke you once. I can do it again.

He strode down the steps toward his foe.

CHAPTER FORTY

Despite the distance, Catwoman heard the fighting. It sounded like an all-out war was being fought down by the City Hall, which was surely the case. And a certain caped vigilante was bound to be right in the middle of it.

Better you than me
, she thought.

Sitting astride the Bat-Pod, she fired its cannons at the wall of junked automobiles. The missiles blew apart the barricade, sending mangled cars and car parts flying. She ducked to avoid being tagged by shrapnel, even as billowing clouds of smoke and dust obscured her view. Flaming chunks of metal rained down on either side of the tunnel. Blowing snow added to the chaos.

She wiped the wet flakes away from her goggles.

Did that do it?
she wondered. Her finger hovered
again over the firing controls, in case she needed to unleash another salvo.
I haven’t got all day here.

But when the smoke cleared and dust settled, she saw that the mouth of the tunnel was open. She had a straight shot out of Gotham.

Now she just needed to take it.

Bane waded through the battle, searching for his true enemy. Thousands of men and women grappled around him, fighting for control of a city that would soon be nothing but a radioactive crater. Random bodies got in his way, and he brutally knocked them aside, using his fists, elbows, knees, and boots to clear a path through the overwhelming melee. Finesse wasn’t an issue—he cared only about results, and removing any obstacles as quickly possible.

A uniformed officer, exchanging blows with an escaped murderer, had the misfortune to block Bane’s path. The masked giant snapped the cop’s neck with a single blow, then casually tossed him out of the way. He trampled over fallen bodies, both alive and otherwise. His eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for the only foe who mattered.

Where is he?
Bane thought impatiently.
Where is Batman?

He spotted a swirling black figure moving toward him, cutting a swath through raging mercenaries and rebels. Battered bodies fell by the wayside, thrown
about by an armored figure whose own fists and boots never stopped moving, striking out with ruthless speed and precision. Bane recognized the modified fighting techniques of the League of Shadows. It angered him to see Rā’s al Ghūl’s lessons corrupted so.

But that is why Wayne can never win,
he thought grimly.
He lacks the will to do what is truly necessary.

Batman tossed a nameless hoodlum over his shoulder. He elbowed another attacker in the gut, while kicking a third opponent in the jaw with a steel-toed boot. A space cleared between him and Bane so that they came to face to face once again. They confronted each other across the blood-stained snow.

“You came back,” Bane said. “To die with your city.”

“No,” Batman said. “I came back to stop you.”

Unlikely
, Bane thought. He had intended for Wayne to watch helplessly from afar as Gotham met its doom, but it seemed Batman was destined to perish on the same day as his city—at the hands of Rā’s al Ghūl’s true heir.

Perhaps it is better this way.

Seeing no point in further banter, he lunged, throwing powerful blows at the Dark Knight’s cowl. He had smashed that ridiculous disguise before, and this time he would not stop until Wayne’s unworthy skull was shattered, as well. He would soon claim another broken cowl as a trophy.

Batman fought back smartly, less recklessly than he
had in the sewers. He ducked and weaved, evading the worst of Bane’s blows, while throwing surgical jabs and strikes at Bane’s sides. A rabbit punch to his solar plexus was followed almost instantly by an elbow to his ribs. Bane absorbed the blows stoically. He was no stranger to pain.

His mask filled his lungs with anesthetic gas.

It would take more than a few hits to keep him from his destiny.

They fought in the middle of the street, surrounded on all sides by the sprawling conflict. Bane found himself impressed by Batman’s skill and stamina, especially considering all that Bane had already done to him. No ordinary foe could have escaped the pit— as Wayne must have done. He saw now what Rā’s al Ghūl had seen in this man so many years ago.

But Bane had come too far to be cheated of his ultimate victory. Both Batman and Gotham would die today.

He parried Batman’s attack, then drove the caped hero back with a rapid-fire series of kicks and punches. The Dark Knight retreated onto the steps, deflecting the mercenary’s attacks with his gauntlets and armor. Bane’s steel-toed boots and bare knuckles smacked against his opponent’s body armor, aiming for the joints and weak spots.

He managed to get his hands around Batman’s neck, trying to snap it, but Wayne broke his hold by clasping his own hands together and delivering an
upward thrust that drove Bane’s arms apart and away. Even so, Batman staggered backward—he was on the defensive now, losing ground.

Bane clenched his fists, tensed, and threw another kick.

It was only a matter of time.

He lifted his eyes to the building he had claimed. High above them, framed in a top-floor window at City Hall, a dark-haired woman gazed down on the battle with a concerned expression on her lovely face.

Good,
Bane thought.
Let her watch the Dark Knight fall once more.

Gordon heard the fighting, too. He silently wished good luck to his brothers and sisters in blue. They were going to need it. Now he had to do his part to make sure there would still be a Gotham after the fight.

He reached beneath his coat to make sure he still had the box. He was no techie, so he took it on faith that it would jam any signals sent to the bomb, just as Batman had said it would. This wasn’t the first time Batman had trusted him with the right tool at the right time. Like that antidote to Crane’s fear gas. That had worked as advertised, so Gordon assumed the jammer would, too—if he could just get it to the truck in time.

He glanced at his watch. By his calculations, they had less than thirty minutes left.

He scanned the street impatiently.

“Come on, come on…”

Minutes dragged on endlessly until,
finally,
a large black truck rounded the corner. Gordon checked his GPS device to confirm that, yes, this was the same truck they’d identified earlier. He stared at it with a mixture of awe and horror. Even after everything that had happened, it was still hard to accept that the truck’s lethal cargo was capable destroying all of Gotham City in a thermonuclear flash.

What if Bane—or someone else—triggered the bomb prematurely?

That’s not going to happen,
Gordon resolved.
Not on my watch.

He signaled his men to put their plan into operation. All at once, a Greyhound bus, empty of passengers and commandeered from a downtown lot, pulled out in front of the truck, which slammed on its brakes a minute too late. The truck barreled into the side of the bus.

The din of crashing metal shook snow from nearby roofs and window sills as the truck came to an abrupt stop, its cab driven halfway through other vehicle. The driver smacked into his windshield, cracking the glass. Gordon hoped he was down for the count.

“Now!” he shouted.

He and his men burst from hiding, swarming the truck. They couldn’t fire blindly for fear of setting off the bomb. A handful of guards, still dazed from the crash, stumbled from the cabin, trying to put up a
fight, but some quality GCPD sharpshooting put them down in a hurry.

Gordon shot the lock off the rear door. He yanked it open and—gun in hand—rushed into the trailer.

It was empty.

He stared in shock at the vacant space. There was no sign of the bomb.

I don’t understand,
he thought, remembering how Miranda had confirmed the truck with the Geiger counter. He double-checked his GPS. This was the right truck all right…but it wasn’t.

“That’s impossible.”

The bomb was still out there. Somewhere. His mind raced to remember the routes of the other trucks. Clutching the signal jammer to his chest, he jumped out of the truck and sprinted for the next parallel avenue.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Cut over to Fifth!”

He was afraid to look at his watch.

He didn’t want to know how little time they had left.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The snow was easing up a bit, but the day was still cold and raw as Blake hustled the boys out of St. Swithin’s. Older ones assisted the younger orphans, all of whom were bundled up against the winter. A dilapidated yellow school bus idled at the curb. Blake raised his voice in order to be heard over the anxious babble of the children.

“Knock on doors, spread the word,” he said, gesturing down the deserted city street. “The bomb’s going to blow! Get out by South Street Tunnel or over the bridge!” Gotham’s citizens cowered behind closed doors, unaware that time was running out for all of them. At least the kids could spread the message to folks who lived nearby—if any would listen.

As far as he knew, those were the only ways out of the endangered city. Blake wished there was time to
warn more people, but that wasn’t an option. He’d be lucky to save even these orphans—unless Batman and Gordon got to the bomb in time.

“Do two blocks,” he ordered the boys. “Then get back to the bus!”

The battle raged on in the streets. Cops fought with cons and mercs, vying for control of Gotham, while Batman and Bane remained locked in combat on the steps of City Hall. Both men were intent on victory.

Defeat was unthinkable.

Batman hurled rapid-fire punches and kicks at Bane, delivering them with every ounce of strength and skill he could muster. He didn’t bother with threats or tricks or theatrics. Bane knew all the secrets of the League of Shadows. He wouldn’t be intimidated by the ominous guise of the Batman, either—and he would not stop until he had broken his foe again. One way or another, this would be their final contest.

But I’m fighting for Gotham,
Batman thought.
I’m fighting for life.

That would have to be enough.

A blinding-fast volley of strikes drove Bane back. Batman lunged to press his advantage, only to have a camo-colored tumbler roar between them, momentarily cutting him off. Snarling, Batman dodged around the armored vehicle and launched himself at Bane, who stood before City Hall’s wide front doors,
looking as though he owned the place.