The Dark Knight Rises (8 page)

A major excavation appeared to be underway, but Gordon suspected that the city’s planning department hadn’t authorized any of this. He doubted they even knew about it.

This is bigger than just a kidnapping,
he realized.
Much bigger.

The workers stopped briefly to watch as Gordon was dragged past, only to resume their labors after a moment. The din of the jackhammers echoed off the dripping stone walls of the tunnels before receding into the distance. Gordon wondered where his captors were taking him—and just who this “Bane” was.

Another level below twin cataracts of clear runoff water gushed down into an underground river. A catwalk led between the spraying waterfalls, and his ambushers hauled Gordon across the walkway onto a recessed platform hidden behind curtains of falling water. The cavernous space appeared to have been converted into an ad hoc command center, complete with living quarters. Desks and file cabinets were crammed into the corners. Maps and blueprints papered the desks. A faded quilt of exotic design, spread out atop a large cot, provided an incongruously homey touch.

Armed guards in military fatigues eyed the new arrivals suspiciously, but let them pass. An imposing, bare-chested figure, the size of a professional wrestler, stood before an open furnace, his broad back turned toward Gordon and his captors. Firelight cast a hellish glow over his muscular frame. A jagged line of rough scar tissue ran down his spine. A dark rubber headpiece was strapped to his skull.

“Why are you here?” the man asked. Gordon guessed this was Bane.

The thugs tossed Gordon at his feet.

“Answer him!” one of them demanded.

Bane turned toward them. Gordon’s eyes widened at the sight of the elaborate apparatus concealing the giant’s nose and mouth. Some sort of gas mask? The commissioner sniffed the air, but detected only the stale atmosphere of the tunnels.

“I’m asking
you,”
Bane said, turning toward the two men.

“It’s the police commissioner,” one of them volunteered. Hearing this, Bane did not look pleased.

“And you brought him down here?” he asked.

“We didn’t know what to do,” the other man said, trying to explain. “We—”

“You panicked,” Bane said, cutting him off. “And your weakness cost three lives.”

The flunky looked around in confusion.

“No, he’s alone—”

Bane lunged forward with surprising speed. Before the man could even complete his sentence, Bane seized his head and twisted it sharply. An unmistakable crack ended the unlucky henchman’s life. His lifeless body dropped to the floor.

Good Lord,
Gordon thought. He stared at Bane in horror.
What kind of monster is this?
The masked killer turned toward the remaining thug. Then he nodded in Gordon’s direction.

“Search him,” he ordered. “Then I will kill you.”

His intended victim gulped. All the blood drained from his sallow features. His knuckles tightened on the grip of Gordon’s captured pistol. He glanced around anxiously, no doubt searching for a way out, only to see Bane’s guards hefting their weapons. The soldiers had the battle-hardened look of professional mercenaries.

Escape was not an option.

The man held onto Gordon’s gun for a moment
longer before meekly surrendering. He put it down, and a look of mournful resignation came over his face. Rummaging through the prone officer’s pockets, he took out Gordon’s wallet, badge, and several folded sheets of paper.

My speech,
Gordon realized with alarm.
Dear God, no…

The doomed felon handed the items over to Bane, who briefly examined them, one by one. They appeared to be of little interest to him, until he came to the papers. He skimmed the pages quickly, then paused and read through them more carefully. His eyes narrowed.

No one spoke. All eyes were on Bane and the poor stooge who was slated for execution. Nobody was paying any attention to Gordon as he lay sprawled on the floor of the chamber, not far from the edge of the platform. He could hear the water surging by several feet below. The spray from the twin cataracts rose up to spatter him.

He cautiously lifted his head to make sure no one was watching.

This is it,
he realized.
This could be my only chance.
Adrenaline cut through the cloudiness fogging his brain, and he rolled frantically over the edge of the platform, splashing into the churning waters below.

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.