TehBatGetsBraked wrote:soon

Boy, are you caught up yet?

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:

Fifty-four

Crane wasted no time ensconcing himself in Gotham’s courthouse, which included a remodel that reflected the city’s new chaotic order. At one end of a long, cavernous room, furniture from throughout the building had been stacked to form a mountain. Atop it, Crane held court in a worn judge’s robe, light spilling over him through tall windows. In the center of the room was one chair—an antique, a worn but ornate golden piece. Upon it sat those who were judged and sentenced, most often Gotham’s rich. Always a quick affair. After all, the docket would be full for days to come. He allowed the accused a brief moment to plead their case and beg for mercy before he banged his gavel and offered them a simple choice for sentencing.

“Death or exile?”

Exile consisted of the condemned trying to swim the rivers that surrounded the island. No one would ever have the strength to endure the autumn cold or the strong currents. Soon the water would freeze, or nearly freeze. Then the accused would have to brave frigid winds and cracking, shifting ice in their hopeless attempts to cross to freedom.

Occasionally Bane attended the sessions as a distraction from his work or from the boredom that soon set in after Gotham had been stabilized. He observed off to one side, taking no part in the proceedings, as was his agreement with Crane. Silently he would watch, often finger crocheting to keep his hands busy and his mind calm. With amusement, he would watch the shouting, spewing, cursing gallery of spectators—men and women who vented their frustration on the wealthy of society who sat in the chair of judgment and begged for clemency, claiming that their fortune had been obtained through honest means, that no one had suffered because of it, that they had always been benevolent to Gotham’s less fortunate. Neither the mob nor Crane were sympathetic.

There were others besides the affluent—citizens who stepped beyond the few restrictions Bane had imposed, such as those who attempted violence against any of Bane’s men or those who were accused of rape. The latter crime was one Bane would tolerate from no man, whether a Gothamite or one of his own. Since Melisande’s murder, he had never hesitated to immediately execute any man guilty of attempting to perpetrate such a horror.

It was during one of his visits to the courtroom that he received a phone call from Yemi. The minute he saw the number on his display, a chill shook him, for Yemi only broke protocol to call him if it was an urgent matter relating to Talia. Quickly he slipped from the noisy room into a side chamber to take the call in privacy. Well, not complete privacy for his security detail never let him out of their sight.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to call you—”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. She’s fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”

Bane scowled. “Then why are you taking such a risk?”

“I thought you might want to hear who I just got off the phone with.”

“Let us not play guessing games, brother.”

“Hans. Hans from…from our old life.”

Stunned, Bane stared at a frosted window that looked out upon the street, a street nearly devoid of traffic.

“Hans?” he said once he had recovered. “I didn’t know you were still communicating with him. It’s been years, has it not?”

“Yes, since I came here.”

“And why did he call you?” Bane asked suspiciously.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. But I can think of only two reasons; he either wants to try to talk you out of what you’re doing or maybe he wants to join us.”

Bane gazed out the window into the gray sky, remembering his old friend from the pit prison, seeing him as clearly as if they had parted yesterday. How old would Hans be now?

“I told him that I would pass his message along,” Yemi continued. “But I told him I couldn’t guarantee that you’d speak with him.” He paused. “Will you?”

Bane considered. “Hmm, perhaps I should. After all, he knows more about us than any other man.” And more specifically, Hans knew Talia. Yet surely he would never have had an occasion to see Miranda Tate. “I will need to acquire his assurance that he will pass along nothing that he knows to the authorities.”

“Don’t you think he would’ve already done that if he was going to?”

Bane nodded to himself. “No doubt you are correct, brother. If he had betrayed us, there would be no purpose in him calling.”

“I don’t think he would. You both saved his life, after all. Hans isn’t the type of man to forget that.”

“Well, if he has, then I shall remind him,” Bane rumbled, the mask’s amplification echoing his words in the empty room.

“So you’ll speak with him? He’s taking a risk, too, you know; if the authorities find out his connection to you, his life could be turned upside down.”

“Yes, I will speak with him, but it will be best for his safety and ours if we don’t use the typical channels. I’ll acquire a burner phone. Tell him that he must do the same and give you the number. Once I have that, I will call him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, brother, it goes without saying that you did not mention a certain woman to him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Very good. Call me when you have the number.”

Bane remained in the room after disconnecting the call. He shuffled over to the window where he sat on its broad seat. The chill from outside penetrated the glass and cooled the sweat beneath his coarse brown shirt, an old garment reminiscent of the simple garb he used to wear during his training days at the League’s mountain headquarters. He stared down at the street where only an occasional car passed or one of the Tumblers on patrol. Gas had grown scarce, rationed for Bane’s forces. Public transportation was virtually nonexistent now.

Hans. Bane closed his eyes and shivered at a memory from the pit, of his German friend whom he had known since the big man arrived in the prison when Bane was ten years old. A natural-born leader with an intimidating physique and sharp wits, Hans had risen quickly through the hierarchy of the prison. He did not do so simply by force—and such times as those were only necessary for his own survival—but by gaining respect for toughness as well as fairness. A cellblock captain as well as the man who always held the fall of the safety rope that prisoners used when they attempted to scale the shaft. That duty had led to Hans’s great despair when the rope had been tampered with by one of Bane’s enemies and led to Bane’s back-breaking plunge to the bottom of the shaft.

Easily Bane recalled how he had been intrigued by the quiet German from the first day that he had been incarcerated for working with an arms dealer, an arms dealer who had supplied guns to forces that had attempted to overthrow Melisande’s warlord father. Hans was not his real name but instead a nickname that the other prisoners had bestowed upon him the instant they heard his accent. His real name, like Bane’s, had died in the pit. Bane had not even realized Hans had any other name until years after meeting him, and he had quickly forgotten it since no one used it, not even Hans.

Always curious about newcomers, those with fresh experiences and news to share from the world of light and warmth, Bane had hung about Hans’s cell whenever he could find an excuse to do so. Bane had learned at a tender age that many fresh prisoners had no desire to speak to anyone and would react violently to those who tried to engage them, so he had been cautious with Hans, especially since the German was the largest man in the pit (until Bane reached adulthood). But Bane’s insatiable desire for knowledge compelled him to shadow the man. If he could gain nothing else from Hans, perhaps he could at least learn a new language. He had little expectation for friendship, for no one up to that point in Bane’s life had shown any desire to befriend the boy who lived with the prison’s biggest point of torture for all there—his mother.

One of Hans’s traits that immediately won Bane’s respect and admiration was the German’s lack of malice toward his mother. While other prisoners regularly wielded frustrated insults like verbal daggers or displayed lewd, disgusting behavior when they passed her cell, Hans did none of those things. The first time he had walked by their cell, he had looked at Bane’s mother where she sat sewing on her charpoy, but he had said nothing and kept walking. This self-control impressed and puzzled Bane, for he had never witnessed such virtues before. His mother had been so shocked that she had commented on it.

“Perhaps,” she had said, “we at last have a civilized man among us. But be careful, my son. We both know men are not always what they seem.”

Yet in time Bane learned that Hans indeed was what he appeared to be. Bane’s frequent presence seemed to amuse Hans, who at first did not engage him, as if he wanted to string along his curious stalker. This tactic succeeded in aggravating Bane who then increased his efforts until at last he simply approached Hans one day while he was washing at the pool and began asking the dozens of questions that had been fermenting in his mind since the prisoner’s arrival. They had been friends ever since.

Hans had given Bane much more than friendship. He became almost a father figure and taught him how to fight, how to strengthen and harden his body, how to survive among the hostile population. And Hans had saved his life that fateful day when Talia had climbed to freedom and the prisoners had turned their hatred and frustration on Bane for his concealment of Talia’s true gender. Hans, along with Temujin, had plowed through the savage ranks, fighting men off Bane where he had lain beneath the masses, unconscious, torn, bloody, and near death. Hans had helped save Talia as well, the day she had been kidnapped in the pit. Both he and Yemi had come to Bane’s aid in recovering the infant from her kidnapper.

Such memories unexpectedly made Bane nostalgic, and he stood from the window seat, berated himself for his lapse. There was work to be done, and here he was wasting his time on the past. But as he left the room, he could not deny that he looked forward to hearing from Hans.

###

Before dialing the number of Hans’s burner phone, Bane hesitated with finger poised. Again he tried to divine his old friend’s purpose for calling. No doubt Yemi’s speculation of one of two reasons was valid, but surely Hans would know a simple phone call from one friend—no matter how prized he was—would not halt the massive operation that would culminate in Gotham’s annihilation, nor would Hans suddenly volunteer to join their forces; he would have no motivation to abandon his safe, comfortable, legitimate life to throw his lot in with a suicide squad. Hans had gotten married only a couple of years after escaping prison; he had two sons. The thought of his old friend with a wife and children almost made Bane chuckle. He was glad Hans had found happiness; he deserved it.

At last he dialed the number. Two rings later the familiar voice answered. “Dies ist Hans.”

An unexpected smile stretched behind Bane’s mask; of course Hans would use the name that was best known to his friend. In German, Bane answered, “It is good to hear your voice, old friend. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well…” Hans hesitated, as if surprised by the question. “With what’s happening there, I felt compelled to call you. I know it’s probably an exercise in futility, but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try.”

“Try what, my friend? To convince me to disarm the bomb and quietly leave Gotham? You are right—such a request is futile.”

“But why, Bane? Why are you doing this?”

“It is my duty.”

“To destroy an entire city and everyone in it?”

“Who said anything about destroying it? We are reforming it.”

“Bane, don’t bullshit me. I know enough about your operations over the years to know reformation is not one of your goals. You are a purger.”

“Indeed. And there is evil incarnate that must be purged from this country.”

“There’s evil everywhere, and there always will be. You can’t cleanse the entire world.”

“No, only parts of it, the ones that are necessary.”

Hans paused, and Bane could feel his disappointment. “There’s more to this than you, Bane. I can sense it. You’re working for someone. You must be. You are not a madman.”

“Perhaps I am now, old friend. You do not know me anymore. I am not the boy shivering in that hole any longer.”

“I can see that. You’ve brought a world power to its knees. You’ve made your point. Now give up Gotham.”

“If I do, it will only go back to its corrupt ways. Gotham is beyond saving and must be allowed to die. A wise man once told me that, and he was right.”

“And what happens after that, if you survive? Every agency in the world will be hunting you down.”

“My sacrifice is the price of justice.”

“Mein Gott, Bane. Killing innocent people is not justice.”

“In war, there is collateral damage, as you know. Like the innocent villagers who were killed because of the arms you helped sell in the Middle East.”

“Damn it, Bane, this isn’t about me.”

“I remember a time in our past,” Bane continued calmly, reflecting none of Hans’s anger, “when you admitted that trying to change my mind was a pointless task. So let us speak no more of this. Our time is short. I would much prefer revisiting our friendship and remembering old times, such as the time you saved my life and the time I helped save yours. Surely you have not forgotten our blood debt to one another, old friend.”

“Of course not,” Hans said in a more settled voice.

“I would hope that debt would serve to ensure your loyalty.”

“I have not shared our connection with anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

Bane nodded to himself. “I am pleased to hear that. And rest assured I have no intention of sharing your past with anyone either. I would not want to bring any turmoil to your family.” He paused to let the veiled threat sink in, then continued pleasantly, “Tell me of your family. Are they well?”

The conversation’s change in tone seemed to take Hans aback, but he managed to recover quickly. “Yes, they are happy, as am I.” He hesitated. “I wish you had the same happiness, Bane. I wish you had a family to help you see a different path than the one you’ve taken.”

“I did have a family. They are the reasons why I have chosen such a path. My family was violently taken from me, by men like those who rule the world, wealthy men who have no conscience about destroying the lives of those whom they view as inferior. So you are mistaken, old friend. My family has helped me find this path, and for their sake it is one I cannot abandon. They deserve vengeance, just as those in the pit suffered vengeance for what they did to my family there. Would you do anything less for your family if they were slaughtered? I think not.”

There was silence on the other end of the line except for an exasperated sigh, one Bane had heard many times from Hans during their prison term. Of course Hans knew no details about his life with the League before or after the death of Rā’s al Ghūl, but he knew enough from Yemi during their time in Africa to understand the type of family to which Bane referred. What he did know intimately, however, was the bond Bane had shared with Melisande and Talia; after all, it was Hans himself who used to tease Bane about his prison “family.” Though not the same as Hans’s family, the German would easily understand Bane’s emotions on the matter.

“Are you still in touch with Talia?”

Bane hesitated. “Yes. She is well, and she will be pleased to know that I spoke with you.”

“Where does she live now?”

“She is in France.”

“And what does she think about your coup?”

“She understands. After all, her father’s killer hails from this place.”

“What about your own father? Has he tried to contact you since this started?”

“Of course not. He would not want to run the risk of the world knowing that I am his son. And even if he did, I would not speak to him. I owe him nothing, just as he apparently felt that he owed me nothing when I located him after my escape.” He paused. “Are you still in contact with Abrams?”

“Yes. In fact, he’s the one who urged me to call you.”

Bane remembered well the taciturn man who had lived in the cell next to him. Abrams had avoided relationships of any kind when he had first arrived in the pit, but after the death of Bane’s mother, the man had gradually taken an interest in Bane, though nothing overt like Hans’s relationship. Instead, Abrams had been more subtle and quick to withdraw, but he had become dependable, and Bane and Talia had considered him a dear friend by the time Rā’s arrived in the pit. His name, along with Hans and Temujin, had been on the short list of those Talia insisted her father spare from his eradication.

“Abrams considered trying to contact you himself,” Hans continued, “but he felt I would be more diplomatic.”

A small grin pulled at Bane’s lips. Abrams had always been far more volatile than Hans, far more cryptic in his advice and responses to Bane’s impetuous actions in prison. A curmudgeonly uncle, Hans had once called Abrams. The two men had gone to Germany together after their liberation and had wished Bane had accompanied them, but of course they knew his devotion to Talia would never allow him to leave her at such a tender age.

“You must give him my regards,” Bane said.

“I will. Needless to say, you shocked the living hell out of both of us when we saw you in Gotham Stadium. We tried to call each other at the same time, wondered why we couldn’t get through.” Hans almost laughed but then recovered his sobriety.

“Did he ever marry?”

“No. Never did. He didn’t recover as well as I did from prison. He prefers not to remember those days. Well, except for you. He always kept track of you through me, you know. I think it always bothered him, knowing what you suffered at the end and how you refused to leave Talia for treatment.”

“She wasn’t my only reason, you know. At the time I feared that I would only end up back in prison once any caretakers found out that I was considered an escaped convict.”

“He never came right out and said this until after we saw you in that stadium, but he really regretted that he didn’t somehow force you to come with us. You meant a lot to him, Bane, more than he’s ever told me. I think he partly blames himself for what you’re doing now. He believes your life would have been better and that you would not be where you are now if he had dragged you with us.”

An unexpected catch in Bane’s throat made it difficult to swallow. “Abrams is a good man. And you must tell him that there is nothing anyone could have done then to separate me from Talia…or to alter me from who I now am. In truth, it is who I have always been.”

“I don’t believe that, Bane, and Abrams certainly doesn’t either. Hardship and pain have molded you into this. You can’t tell me that your mother would disagree with me. She didn’t raise you to be this.”

Indignation swelled in Bane, and his grip tightened on the phone. “I will not dignify that with a response. The debt I owe you for your friendship in our old life will stay my tongue, but do not misinterpret my restraint as any manner of agreement. Do not speak of my mother again.”

Hans faltered, sighed once more. “Very well. But I hope you’ll consider everything I’ve said to you, Bane. You’ve taken a terrible step on a journey that will only lead to your ruin. I wish there was something I could do or say to convince you. Unlike the rest of the world, I see more than a masked terrorist on the news. That’s not how I want to see you. That’s not what I want to remember you as. Neither does Abrams.”

Bane settled, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the mask’s medicinal vapor before responding with his former calm. “I am flattered that you both still think enough of me to reach out to me, but know this. I am where I need to be. Perhaps one day you will understand. But from here forward, you should not contact me, Hans. If the media wolves get one sniff of our connection, your world will be turned inside out. I don’t want to draw that kind of attention to you or Abrams, and certainly not to Talia.”

“Still protecting her, I see,” Hans said with a mix of admiration and melancholy.

“Always.”

“But how will you protect her from the grave, Bane?”

Bane smiled. “I will find a way. Now farewell, old friend.”

Fifty-five

The depths of winter had settled upon Gotham. The night beyond Bane’s window was starless, moonless, like the heart of the pit prison. A thin blanket of snow upon the streets and rooftops provided a slight contrast to the darkness. Artificial lighting throughout the city was spotty due to enforced brown outs. Here in Bane’s room, only a single lamp beside his bed, used for reading, provided illumination.

Alone for the first time all day, Bane basked in the seclusion and thought of Talia as his gaze roamed the city, his kingdom. He hoped she was warm and well-fed and not lonely. How he longed to see her. Soon, he reminded himself, for less than a month remained until they and Gotham saw their end.

As the weeks of the siege crept by, he had grown more and more reclusive, being seen only when he needed to be, whether making an appearance for the media or for the morale of his men. He had withdrawn even from Barsad, a change commented upon by his ever-intuitive second. Bane dismissed his concern, told him that he simply required solitude for the many decisions he needed to make on a daily basis. There was truth to that, but more so he just wanted to be alone.

Turning back to his bed, he stripped to his underwear. He removed his long-sleeved brown shirt and replaced it with the khaki t-shirt in which he normally slept. When he sat on the queen-sized bed, the mattress and frame protested his weight. Like the room itself, the bed was unadorned, just a simple headboard and a single dull gray blanket beneath Melisande’s colorful blanket. His men had brought the bed along with a desk, a nightstand, and a bookshelf to this room, which had once been the office of a city official. The lavish furnishings that had originally resided here were long gone, enjoyed by someone else. Bane would have no part of such trappings. His Spartan lifestyle had led to admiration from some of Gotham’s more compliant residents, his willingness to shun luxury when he was certainly in a position to acquire any comfort he so desired. But there was only one comfort he longed for, and she was beyond his reach.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had skipped supper. The requirement of morphine injections for the times when he needed to remove the mask irritated him more and more. Stronger and stronger doses were required to override his ever-increasing tolerance of the drug. He was tired of the struggle, of the frequent pinpricks, the physical reminder of his Achilles’s Heel.

Upon his nightstand were stacked several manila folders containing various reports from his officers. Although he knew he should read them, he reached instead for the book that lay beside them. He needed an escape from his responsibilities, even if just for a few minutes, and Charles Dickens could always provide it. With a smile of anticipation, he took Great Expectations into his hands and lay back against the pillows, pulling Melisande’s blanket close. Then he began to read about the orphan Pip and the surly convict who happened upon him grieving over his parents’ graves.

Just as Bane reached the end of the first chapter, an urgent knock sounded upon his door, followed by Barsad’s voice, “Bane, are you awake?”

“Come in.” He did not set aside the book as Barsad hurried in, nor did he move from his comfortable spot, annoyed with his lieutenant’s timing.

“We have a problem,” Barsad said breathlessly, as if he had run all the way up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

Bane sat up, his first thoughts going to Talia, as usual; an unrelenting instinct. “What is it?”

Barsad carried a large manila envelope. “We just received intel from our man at the Pentagon about a team of Special Forces they’re sending here.” He handed the envelope to Bane, concern aging his scruffy face. “They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“And we are just now learning this?” Bane scowled at Barsad as he unclasped the envelope’s metal fastener.

“He just learned of it himself. He transmitted the information as soon as he had it. Those are the dossiers for the three-man team. They’ll be smuggled in on a supply truck tomorrow. We can halt the shipments altogether or have men ready at every drop—”

“No, let them come.” Bane scanned the photos of each of the men, paying particular attention to their commander, a handsome African-American, one Captain Mark Jones. Highly decorated, with tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. “If we intervene too early, our Pentagon operative could be compromised. A three-man team poses no physical threat. Their mission will be intelligence gathering. Their primary focus will be to learn about the bomb and any weaknesses that may be exploited. And to that end they will seek out those who can provide such information.” Bane lifted his stare pointedly to Barsad. “That is where we shall intercept them.”

“Won’t that put her in danger?”

“She will be briefed ahead of time, and we will ensure that she escapes us.”

“Us?”

“Yes. I will be leading the assault. I will ensure that none of these men elude us. They will be made an example, should Washington be foolish enough to try a second attempt at infiltration.” Bane spread the dossiers upon the bed, already envisioned the men dead at his feet. “Have our analysts find out everything they can on these operatives. Bring the information to me as soon as you have it. Notify Umarov to assemble a team, the best men he’s got.”

Bane’s stomach emitted a particularly loud protest to which Barsad cocked an eyebrow.

“You haven’t eaten,” Barsad stated with a scowl. “Again.”

“Your spies are reporting regularly to you, I see.”

“I don’t need spies to hear the howling in your stomach right now, brother.”

“I just gave you orders, Barsad,” Bane said coldly as he studied the dossiers. “It seems to me you should be executing them. I don’t want to see you in here again unless you have something to report from your findings. Understood?”

Barsad stewed for a moment but wisely left, saying nothing more.

###

The building where Talia lived was owned by Wayne Enterprises and once housed various businesses, including a bank on the ground floor. Now it was a refuge for various citizens, among them the men and women who had run Wayne Enterprises, including Lucius Fox. Of course such people had no homes to go to; Bane’s revolution had reduced such holdings to public property.

Bane stared at the structure from his location in a building across the street. Around him, Barsad and Umarov waited with the tactical team. Bane’s attention drifted upward to the floor where he knew Talia lived. Though he had never been there, he knew the layout as intimately as he had known the floor plans of her penthouse, such information provided by Yemi. Yemi, however, was not in the building with Talia. He had quietly withdrawn his men, using an excuse that Fox would believe, to be unavailable as Talia’s security force when Captain Jones and his Special Forces showed up as expected.

Bane knew he would not see her. Once the shooting started, she would flee, and of course she would escape. All on the tactical team were League men who knew to be careful where their bullets flew once they opened fire.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to take at least one prisoner?” Barsad asked in a low voice.

“No,” Bane rasped, never turning from his view of Talia’s building.

With a frown, Barsad withdrew.

Within minutes, their coms crackled. “They’re headed your way,” Abraham reported from his vantage point down the street.

As Jones and his men came into view, Bane spied a man with them who did not match the photos in any of the dossiers. Softly he growled to himself, then said, “Who is with them?”

It was Abraham who answered, “We’re not sure, but we think he’s one of Gordon’s cops. He’s been with them all day, leading them around, no doubt sharing intel, observing the trucks.”

The reactor had been loaded on an armored truck, one of three identical vehicles that roamed the city, protected by Tumblers. A shell game. The true content of whichever truck was carrying the reactor was protected from government eyes from above by lead-lined roofs.

Bane put a pair of field glasses to his eyes and honed in on the policeman in his civilian attire who walked next to Jones. Clean-shaven, boyish…familiar. Bane’s photographic memory placed him after only a moment: John Blake, the officer who had rescued Gordon from the sewer. How often was this boy going to interfere?

The small group tried to appear casual, hands shoved in pockets, loose gaits, but Bane’s sharp eyes saw through their front. His fingers twitched with his mounting need to kill someone, to eradicate these brazen fools who thought they were up against only a force of mercenaries, not the League itself. Soon the U.S. government and its people would be reminded that they bowed to his whims, not the other way around.

When Jones and the others disappeared into the building, Bane glanced at his watch.

“Ten minutes,” he said, “then move into your positions.”

Bane imagined them passing through the lobby, riding the elevator up to Talia’s floor, all the while ignoring the citizens hunkered in the cold building, warming themselves over open fires fueled by gathered scraps of furniture and other things. Talia would be prepared, Bane knew. She would perform flawlessly. Miranda Tate. Jones would think her noble and brave, and he would be correct, of course, but not for the reasons he believed.

Another glance at his watch, then, “Go,” a command delivered with a metallic chill.

His men slipped out noiselessly. Barsad remained next to Bane, automatic rifle in hand, then dropped in behind him as Bane left the building with measured, unhurried strides.

Bane crossed the street well behind his men, never picking up his almost leisurely pace. He sensed Barsad’s familiar irritation, for he was always concerned whenever his commander moved about in the open. There was the perpetual threat that someone with a hero complex and a gun could take a shot at him, and while his torso was protected by his armored vest, his head was bare.

The team slipped inside the building. There they took up concealed positions in the lobby and waited for Jones to ride the elevator back down. Bane hoped Gordon’s man remained with them. An opportunity to stamp out one of the Commissioner’s underlings should not be missed.

Just as Bane stepped through the double bank of glass doors, shots rang out, the first one dropping one of the Special Forces men just outside of the elevator as they emerged. One of Bane’s men fired his automatic rifle into the air to frighten the squatters who all began to scream and flee, creating instant chaos that would hopefully disorient Jones. The captain and his remaining team member took cover behind pillars and returned fire, but in short order the second man died, and when Jones dashed out into the open, pistol barking, he was shot as well.

In the eerie quiet that followed, Bane made his way to where Jones lay on his back, bleeding onto the marble floor. Bane lightly bumped him with the toe of his boot, and Jones opened his pain-filled eyes to see his executioner looming above him.

Near a hoarse whisper, Jones defiantly stated, “I’ll die before I talk.”

In an unconcerned tone, Bane said, “I’m on your schedule, Captain,” and dropped to his knees atop the hapless officer. Bane would not sully his hands by throttling this one; instead his right knee pressed into the man’s neck. Weakly Jones attempted to shove Bane’s leg away, but he had no more the strength of a child, and Bane simply waited as life drained from the man’s bulging eyes.

Umarov drew near, said, “There were people living upstairs.”

“Round them up for judgment.” Bane got to his feet. Of course he already knew this information through Yemi. With angry disgust, he pointed to Jones, ordered, “And hang them where the world can see.”

When he turned away, Barsad hurried up, brow wrinkled, perturbed. “The cop got away.”

“How?” Bane growled.

“He was protecting her,” Barsad said, leaning even closer. “Our men couldn’t take the chance of shooting at him when he was so close to her.”

Something dark and ugly stirred the sour feeling that was already in Bane’s belly. Someone else was protecting Talia, someone other than their brothers, other than him. Though, in truth, she needed no protection, the mere image that Barsad’s words brought to him fired his blood, made him long to kill Blake himself.

“Find Gordon,” Bane growled accusingly at his lieutenant. “Pull whatever resources you require. It’s time we rein in the Commissioner and his merry band once and for all.”

Fifty-six

“Our sister has sent news,” Finn Donnell’s thin voice came over the phone when Bane answered it just after he had settled into bed.

If the call did not have to do with Talia, Bane would have been irritated by the disturbance. The day had been a long one, one of only two remaining. He craved rest, something that increasingly eluded him the more time ticked off the countdown clock that he kept beside his bed and on his phone. In hopes of coaxing sleep nearer, he had just indulged in a stronger dose of analgesic, a weakness he was neither proud of nor would reveal to anyone.

“What is it, Finn?”

During the occupation of Gotham, Finn Donnell had maintained his civilian cover, one that allowed him to move freely among the populace and gather intelligence.

“She has sufficiently gained enough trust from Blake that he’s going to take her to Gordon tomorrow as a volunteer. She will offer to help him mark the truck. She said Gordon’s force has dwindled to nearly nothing, but they’ve acquired Geiger counters.”

Indeed, most of Gordon’s men had slowly given up on the plan to save their city and instead remained at home with their families to enjoy what little time they had left together. The thought of family always made Bane’s ravaged lips twist with irony and bitterness.

“Gordon can mark the trucks however he can,” Bane growled. “Without other resources, such tagging will be pointless.”

“Just to be safe, she will purposefully tag one of the empty trucks to throw off Gordon’s scent should he have resources we are unaware of to interfere with the detonation.”

Bane nodded, his hand brushing over Melisande’s blanket. “Our sister is overly cautious, but I cannot fault her for that, with so few hours left. But I have no fear of Gordon any longer. It is too late for him.”

Over the three weeks since the Special Forces had been hung from one of Gotham’s bridges, Bane’s men had doubled their efforts to locate Gordon, Blake, and the other insurgents, but Gordon had displayed an admirable ability to elude them, always just one step ahead.

It was John Blake, however, whom Bane wanted just as much as Gordon. After Jones’s plot had been foiled, Blake had taken Talia into his own home to offer her shelter. Bane rankled at the thought of her living closely with the detective. Until now, Blake had kept from her the details of his involvement with Gordon and the other subversives. Obviously Talia had been working her charms upon the fool, wearing down his instinctive caution, or perhaps Blake was simply desperate with only two nights remaining before the death of his city and himself.

Finn interrupted Bane’s dark thoughts and stayed his twitching fingers, “Are you saying you want me to discourage our sister from joining Gordon?”

“No. Her plan is a sound one. Let it proceed. Tell her to inform us when Gordon and his men are marking the truck, and Barsad will be standing by to take them into custody.”

After finishing his conversation with Finn, Bane sat up with a soft groan. Swinging his bare feet to the chilly floor, he remained a moment on the edge of the bed, a thumb and fore finger rubbing his tired eyes. Then he left the dark room and crossed the hallway to Barsad’s quarters.

As always, Barsad’s door was open in order to keep an eye on his commander’s room should any threat or need arise. One dim light near Barsad’s bed was lit, surprising Bane, for he had expected his friend to be asleep by now. The bed, however, was empty, Barsad’s rifle propped against his nightstand. Just as Bane entered, he heard the toilet flush in the adjoining bathroom, and Barsad emerged in t-shirt and boxers. At the sight of Bane, his eyebrows raised.

“Something wrong?”

“No, but I just got off the phone with Finn. I have a task for you tomorrow.”

Barsad sat on his bed and gestured to a nearby chair in invitation. The way he avoided his commander’s gaze piqued Bane’s curiosity and told him that something was troubling his lieutenant.

Sitting, Bane relayed Finn’s news about Talia and her plan to offer assistance to Gordon. Barsad listened attentively, but Bane could easily see something else working behind the scenes in his friend’s mind.

“You will take Talia into custody with Gordon and his men,” Bane said.

“Her orders or yours?”

“Mine. I want her close to us should you be able to get her out of the city before the blast.”

Barsad looked away, frowning, his jaw clenching. “Yeah…about that…”

“What is it, brother?”

Barsad sighed and turned back to Bane with obvious effort. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“Not willingly, no. You and I have already discussed this.”

“Yes, we have. And the other day, she and I discussed it.”

Bane scowled. “Why? You were not to share—”

“I didn’t. She guessed it. Not too hard for her to do, you know. She knows you, Bane, for God’s sake.”

“What did she say?”

“She threatened me.”

“What do you mean?”

“She said she wouldn’t let me take her out of the city, that either she would kill me if I tried or that her men would kill me. She’s already given orders to them, to stop me if necessary.”

With a small growl of displeasure, Bane stood from the chair and began to pace, fingers restless. This news did not completely surprise him. As Barsad said, Talia knew her protector well; she would have figured that he would not easily let her forfeit her life. But for her to threaten Barsad, to say she would kill the man who had served both of them so well for so long… Perhaps it had been a bluff, Bane allowed. He frowned, disturbed that he did not know for sure. Again he cursed Gotham’s effect on Talia.

“What do you suggest I do now?” Barsad asked with quiet exasperation.

Bane paced in silence for a moment longer, staring at the wood flooring, clasping his hands behind his back to keep his fingers still. “She is even more resolute than I expected,” he murmured at last, halting near a frosted window. “The fact that she threatened your life bespeaks something desperate. I don’t like it.”

“Yeah,” Barsad grumbled, “I wasn’t too thrilled about it either.”

“Don’t be angry with her, brother. This cursed city and Talia’s zeal for vengeance for her father have corrupted her in ways I don’t like to contemplate; this threat of hers makes that plain to me. You know you are dear to her, but the mission always comes first. You know that as a soldier of the League.”

Wearily Barsad nodded. “Still took me by surprise. She meant it, too. It was plain to see in her eyes.”

So, not a bluff. Bane felt a hollowness in his heart. “She has her father’s single-mindedness, and as Miranda Tate some of Gotham’s ruthlessness has increased her own, natural resolve. It’s a transition I am not wholly comfortable with, as you are aware.”

“I’m sorry, Bane. I should have told you earlier; she talked to me yesterday, but I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up to you.” Barsad’s frown deepened. “I didn’t want to let you down.”

“You have not let me down, brother.” Bane drew closer to his friend. “You believe Talia’s threat is not a hollow one, so I will not put you or her in a position to force her to act upon it.” He drew in a long breath to try to rally his strength. “Once she is in our custody, I will speak to her directly about this. If there is anyone she will listen to it is me, though I realize my influence on her is far, far less than it used to be.”

Barsad nodded sadly. “She has changed. I’ve seen it for a while, but I didn’t want to say anything to you.”

“You should never hesitate to speak freely to me. I appreciate your desire to spare my feelings, but truly there is no need for it. I would rather be aware of all things when it comes to our sister.”

“Maybe if Maysam spoke with her, especially now when Talia knows the end is so near…”

“I doubt Talia will take such a call, and I would hesitate for either you or I to contact Maysam in order to encourage such communication between them. I would deeply regret having her connected to us in any way should our phone calls somehow be discovered by our enemies.”

Barsad sighed. “You’re right, of course. Once we’re gone, the world will no doubt look for someone to take their revenge on. There’s nothing I’d regret more than for Maysam to suffer even more than just the loss of her grandchild…and all because of us.”

“I feel the same way. So we agree that she must be left out of this, no matter what it may mean for Talia’s survival?”

“Yeah.”

“Very good.”

Bane moved to the doorway where he paused. “Finn will contact you tomorrow when he hears from Talia about Gordon.”

Barsad nodded, as if too tired to speak any longer.

“Get some rest, brother. There will be no more time for it after tonight.”

###

Bane knew Barsad’s remorse over being rendered impotent when it came to secreting Talia from Gotham would ensure that he capture Gordon and his men the next day. And Barsad did not disappoint a second time. When he reported the success of his mission in person, Barsad could not hide his smug grin from Bane. Bane’s only regret was that John Blake had not been with Gordon at the time of his arrest. But he dismissed his silly vendetta against the young detective. Besides, on his own, what could someone like Blake do to stop Gotham’s inevitable destruction?

Together, Bane and Barsad headed the short distance through the biting cold to Crane’s makeshift courtroom to witness the sentencing of Gordon and his men. Barsad’s steps were light, and Bane was pleased to see that his friend’s gloominess of the night before had been alleviated by his success today. But what pleased Bane even more was the thought of seeing Talia.

The courtroom had more than the usual number of spectators. No doubt word had spread that the police commissioner had finally been apprehended, and men who had suffered in Blackgate, thanks to Gordon’s monstrous lie, were there to see true justice meted out at last. As soon as Gordon and his co-conspirators were led in, those men erupted in shouts of triumph, fists waving, curses flying. Only the presence of Bane’s men kept them from laying hands on Gordon.

Bane’s attention, however, was not upon Gordon. From where he stood in his usual spot, out of the way near a window, his yearning gaze went to Talia, and his heart skipped a beat. She remained close to Gordon, as if fearfully hoping the commissioner would protect her from the slathering, screaming hordes. Her clothing was dark—a pea coat over a shirt and slim-legged brown pants, that familiar, beautiful scarf with the pattern that reminded him of her mother’s blanket. She had pulled her hair behind her lovely, small ears, leaving the ends loose to tumble about her shoulders in a cascade of soft curls. The style made her appear much younger, her features so delicate, taking Bane back in time to her youth, specifically to his last night in the mountains before his banishment by Rā’s al Ghūl, when they had made love for the first time.

As Miranda Tate was prodded into the center of the courtroom by Barsad’s men, her eyes swept about the space, still portraying fear and uncertainty. Their gazes met only long enough for her to portray even more alarm at the sight of Gotham’s ruler at the hearing. For his own part, Bane made sure that he kept his stare hard and cold, something he convincingly managed by conjuring the image of her sleeping with Bruce Wayne.

With the clamor momentarily restrained, Dr. Crane, atop his mountainous perch at the far end of the room, proclaimed the charges against Gordon—espionage and attempted sabotage.

“No lawyer, no witnesses?” Gordon responded, his voice echoing. “What sort of due process is this?”

“Your guilt has been determined,” Crane said. “This is merely a sentencing hearing. Now what will it be—death or exile?”

“Crane, if you think we’re going out onto that ice willingly, you have another thing coming.”

Crane was unperturbed by Gordon’s defiance, pulled a flippant face, nodded. “Death, then?”

“Looks that way.”

“Very well.” Crane sobered with the coldness of a hardened killer. “Death,” he banged his gavel then paused dramatically before adding, “by exile.”

The onlookers exploded with satisfied roars.

Before any of the spectators could get ideas about roughing up Miranda Tate along with the male captives, Bane gestured to Barsad beside him, spoke loud enough for others to hear, “Bring her to me.”

Barsad obeyed, and Miranda Tate was pulled by the arm toward her captor, wide eyes looking back over her shoulder toward Gordon, mouth open, steps resisting. Gordon saw this, but offered nothing, perhaps relieved that she at least would remain alive longer than he would and that her eventual death would not be as heinous as his.

“What do you want with me?” Miranda demanded once she stood before him, leaning as far away as Barsad’s hold allowed. “Let me die with my friends. I am guilty of the same charges.”

“Very noble, Miss Tate, but you have far more value to me alive,” Bane said, then nodded at Barsad to take her away, to the lower level of City Hall where other prisoners were being detained.

“Let me go!” Miranda continued to protest as Barsad manhandled her out of the courtroom.

Behind the mask, Bane smiled slightly, pleased with Talia’s convincing act. Her scent lingered behind, sifting easily through the grating of his apparatus. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his smile growing, hidden from the world.

Fifty-seven

The night was crisp and calm, but a thin veil of snow clouds shut out the stars. Standing atop City Hall where he came most every night to clear his head before retiring, Bane searched for a bold star to peek through the gray net of clouds and falling snow, thinking of the night long ago when he had secreted Melisande from her prison cell into the shaft and showed her the stars. The memory made him smile. They had sat so close that they touched each other, both afraid for her safety yet filled with the thrilling bravery and recklessness of youth that emboldened them to risk her being discovered out of her cell by other prisoners.

“Something funny?” Barsad inquired as he drew close on the roof, as if eager for humor. He took a final pull on what remained of a cigarette before tossing its offensive nub to the ground and snuffing it under his boot.

“No. I was merely thinking of something pleasant from long ago.”

“Humph.” Barsad’s disappointed grunt made it clear that he knew his friend would not elaborate.

Not wanting his reluctance to share to discourage his lieutenant on this last night together, Bane teased, “Do you have plans to visit our Cat tonight? It seems it has been some time since you have done so. Lose interest?”

Barsad shrugged one shoulder. “Not in the mood.”

“Ah, what is it they say—live today as if it were your last?” Bane gripped the straps of his protective vest beneath his gaping coat and adopted his familiar stance. “Why not indulge one final time, brother?”

A mischievous spark brightened Barsad’s blue eyes. “Trying to get rid of me, are you?”

Surprisingly, Bane felt his cheeks redden. “If you are intimating that I have romantic plans with a certain someone, you are mistaken. However, it is time you fetch her from that crowded rat hole and bring her upstairs. I will not have her spending her last night in such a place of squalor and degradation.”

“I didn’t figure you would, but…” Barsad’s voice trailed oddly away as something caught his eye. He stepped around Bane as if to get a better view. “Ho-ly shit… Bane…”

Bane turned to find Barsad pale-faced and agape, staring off toward the nearby river. Then he saw it. At first the incongruous sight was incomprehensible. The tower of one of Gotham’s bridges was alight, blazing like a strangely shaped beacon. But how could brick burn? And the flames seemed purposefully confined, their outline shaped almost like a…

Bat.

“Impossible,” the word slipped through the mask before he realized he had uttered the reaction. Immediately upon the heels of his thoughts of Batman came thoughts of Talia, causing him to quickly recover from his shock. He turned to Barsad. “Keep her close. He’ll come for her.”

“But,” Barsad gestured toward the burning bat symbol, stammered, “you don’t seriously think it’s him, do you? Like you said, it’s impossible.”

“I won’t take any chances. Retrieve Talia immediately and bring her to my quarters. I will contact Finn.”

###

Leaving Barsad in her wake, Talia fairly flew into Bane’s room where he had just ended his phone call with Finn Donnell.

“We have been betrayed,” she fairly snarled, “by that damned Kyle woman.”

Her abrupt ferocity took Bane aback. This was not how he had hoped their reunion would go. Damn the Batman, if it were indeed him…

“She’s responsible for this,” Talia continued. “We had him in our grasp.”

Puzzled, Bane glanced at Barsad who had halted just inside the door, an agitated look on his face.

Barsad explained, “Talia just told me that a couple of our mercs arrested Bruce Wayne just a short time ago.”

Rage filled Bane. “Why wasn’t this reported to us?”

“To them, he wasn’t a threat; he was only Bruce Wayne,” Barsad reminded him. “Not Batman, as we know him.”

Keeping accusation from his voice, Bane turned to Talia who paced furiously.

“You saw him?”

“Yes. I spoke briefly with him before he and Fox were taken away by Catwoman,” she spat the moniker.

“You were unable to get word to us?”

“It was your men who arrested him. I assumed you were informed, and I was being watched too closely by the other prisoners to approach any of the guards to get word to you in case you weren’t aware.” Her fists clenched, and she whirled away from him.

Bane watched her stalk about like a caged lioness, the sight both worrisome and intoxicating.

“What did he say to you?” Bane asked.

“There wasn’t much time for talk before Kyle arrived. He said he wouldn’t forget about me, the fool. I had the distinct impression that he allowed himself to be taken in order to find Fox and rescue him. They plan on reconnecting the core to the reactor. Obviously Selena Kyle was in on this the minute Wayne returned; he must have sought her out.”

“So it would seem.” Bane gave Barsad a dark glance before approaching Talia. His bulk halted her pacing, and he gently yet firmly put his hands upon her shoulders. “Kyle and Fox are unimportant.”

“How can you say that?”

“Only Wayne has importance to us, to you. You were angry with me when I took him from you. Now fate has delivered him back here so you can have your revenge after all.”

She frowned in befuddlement.

“He told you that he would not forget you.” Bane smiled sadly. “Indeed, how could he? How could any man?”

Surprisingly, her cheeks colored, and her beautiful long lashes lowered to hide her self-consciousness. “Bane…” His words had successfully defused her anger.

Bane could not keep his fingers from brushing her cold cheek. “And so he will come back for you. He will come here. And we will crush him. This time, there will be no mercy.”

“He could interfere with the bomb.”

“The bomb is well-guarded, and time is running out. Besides, Fox showed you how to override the reactor, did he not?”

His calming voice and rational words settled her even more; he could feel her relax beneath his touch.

“Yes,” Talia said. “And he showed me how to activate the emergency flood as well.”

Bane nodded his reassurance. “There, you see? We have nothing to fear. Contingencies are in place. Things will proceed as planned, and we will make Wayne regret ever returning to Gotham.” Remembering Barsad’s uneasy presence, he turned to his lieutenant. “You will send teams out to search for our wayward prisoners as well as Ms. Kyle. We will take no chances.”

“Yes, sir.” With a glance at Talia, who nodded her agreement, Barsad left the room, closing the door behind him.

When Bane turned back to Talia, she appeared more at ease and said, “Papa once told me that the sign of a great leader is calm amidst all storms.” She offered a melancholy smile. “One of your many attributes that I sometimes foolishly forget.”

Bane returned her smile, longing to take her in his arms now that they were alone. “It is good to see you here, habibati, here where we can speak freely and privately.” He hesitated. “Where Miranda Tate has no need to exist.”

She surprised him by embracing him. “Forgive my outburst over our enemy’s escape. You’ve made me feel confident again, just like you always used to when we were together. I’d forgotten how good it feels to be near you, to feel assured and protected.”

Bane held her close, afraid she would soon let go forever.

“You restore my strength,” she continued.

“And you mine,” he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent.

“But do you think it wise having me here? If someone were to discover…they might suspect that Miranda Tate isn’t who she seems—”

“No one knows you’re here except Barsad. And no one will be allowed in here. You will spend your last night in comfort, though as you can see the comforts are few.”

She stepped back, smiled up at him. “Would those comforts include coffee?”

“Certainly. I will set some to brew.” When he returned from retrieving water and put the glass pot in the coffee machine near his desk, he said, “I will sleep on the floor; you will take the bed.”

Talia turned from staring out the window. “Nonsense.”

She drifted over to a chair in front of his desk; he sat behind it, though he regretted the distance. For the first time, he wished he had not gotten rid of the leather couch that had resided in this room when he had first arrived, for he could have slept there instead of on the floor. Of course there was the bed, but he would try his best not to entertain such thoughts unless Talia initiated an invitation. And he doubted that would happen. After all, she had not followed her comment of, “Nonsense,” with an alternative to the floor.

She shrugged out of her pea coat and draped it over the back of her chair. “Tomorrow I will shed the trappings of Miranda Tate and wear my tunic to reflect who I truly am. It’s here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you for seeing to that. Perhaps you think it silly of me to be concerned with what I wear tomorrow, but—”

“I do not. It is a fitting garment. It’s what Talia al Ghūl would wear, not Miranda Tate.”

She gestured to his coarse, open-neck brown shirt. “That’s like the ones you wore at the monastery under your tunic.”

“Yes. It reflects the League’s simplicity and its rejection of all extravagance. And it reminds me of those days and those who lived with us in the mountains,” his voice hardened, “and those who died there.”

She gestured toward the bed. “I see you have Mama’s blanket.”

“I considered sending it to your grandmother, but…I found that I could not bear to part with it.”

“Of course not. I’m glad you’ve kept it.” They fell into a brief, somewhat awkward silence before Talia continued, “It’s hard to believe that the final day is almost upon us. So many years of preparation, so much hard work and sacrifice by so many, especially you.”

“I was merely doing my duty.”

“And no one could have done it more magnificently. I wish you wouldn’t deprive the League of such a leader. You know you have my blessing to leave.”

“But I will not.”

“I know,” she murmured, then waited for him to banish his self-consciousness over her flattery and look at her. “I’m sure Barsad told you of our conversation about forcing me out of the city.”

“He did.” Bane frowned his displeasure. “Your threat wounded him.”

“I saw no other way to convince him. But you must know I would not kill him, nor would I truly order our brothers to do so, but I would stop him by any other means short of death.”

“Nothing would make me happier than to know the two of you were far from here tomorrow. If you wish to repay my services which you have so lavishly praised, won’t you do this for me? This one last thing?”

“You know I won’t, Bane. Please don’t ask me to forsake the honor of martyrdom.” She tilted her head. “Is that why you brought me here, to secret me out of Gotham either by agreement or force?”

“I brought you here for the reasons I already told you. I will not have you spend your last night downstairs on a cold, hard floor amongst the rabble of Gotham. And if anyone does learn of your whereabouts, they will only think the despicable masked terrorist is holding you hostage as a way to shield himself from further threats.” He chuckled softly.

But Talia did not reflect his mirth. Instead her gaze drifted across his mask. “I wish the world knew you as I do, knew all that you have survived and sacrificed for another human being, a child that was not your own.”

Again, unprecedented sheepishness caused him to look away from her. “I care not what the world thinks of me, good, bad or indifferent.”

“I know.”

“Your opinion is the only one that matters to me.”

She smiled coyly. “What about Barsad?”

“Well,” he allowed a small grin, “most of the time.”

“It’s always been comforting to me over these last years to know that he was with you and that he will be with you tomorrow.”

“He is invaluable.”

“I was afraid after Temujin that you wouldn’t allow another man to be close to you.”

The old pain pierced Bane’s heart. “Temujin…”

“Look.” Talia dipped a hand inside one of her coat pockets and brought forth the tiny ivory elephant that Temujin had given her so long ago. She set it on Bane’s desk. “You have Mama’s blanket, and I have Jin’s elephant. They are both here with us in spirit.”

“Of course. They give us strength. We should not be prideful and think we get it strictly from within ourselves.”

“There is one more talisman I require. I gave it to Yemi to safeguard before Captain Jones met with me.”

“Your father’s knife?”

“Yes.”

“I will have it brought to you by morning.”

“Thank you.”

When the coffee had brewed, Bane poured her a cup and set it before her, then returned to his chair. Smiling with infinite pleasure, he watched her gingerly drink.

“How I’ve missed you,” he said. “You may think this odd, but sometimes I almost long for our days in the pit, when I was whole and you were but an innocent, when we knew nothing of this corrupted world. Things were simple.”

“I understand.” As if suddenly remembering something, she set her cup on the desk. “Barsad said Hans contacted you shortly after the occupation began.”

Bane nodded. “He did.”

“And he tried to dissuade you from your path.”

“Of course.”

“I was glad to know he hasn’t forgotten you, and it was noble of him to take the risk of contacting you directly, however misguided his advice may have been.”

“He is a good man, one I never forgot. Him or Abrams.”

“Did he speak of Abrams?”

“Yes. He expressed Abrams’s similar feelings on the matter of our revolution.”

“I’m glad you were not swayed. I know you respect them both very much.”

“Indeed.”

They passed two peaceful hours in similar conversation, reminiscing over good times and bad, retelling stories of their days at the monastery, of old friends like Akar and Temujin as well as her father. Bane noticed that she was careful not to glorify her father overly much in front of him, not when their memories included the terrible day of his excommunication.

“How different things would’ve been had Papa not made such a horrific mistake. If you had been there when Bruce Wayne was recruited, you would have seen through Wayne’s weakness. You would have defeated him then; you would’ve killed him when he tried to betray Papa and our brothers who had so welcomed him into their fraternity. And this day could have been Papa’s triumph, as it should have been. I am a poor substitute.”

“You are nothing of the sort,” Bane growled. “You are a worthy daughter. Look at all you have accomplished.”

Talia frowned. “I regret that my accomplishment will cost you your life. My father wronged you, grievously, unforgivably. You have suffered enough.”

“To live without you would be a fate worse than anything I have yet endured.”

“You say that, you believe that, but perhaps you’re mistaken. Perhaps with me gone, without the obligation you feel toward me because of Mama—”

“It is not an obligation, Talia,” he bristled. “It is a choice. One I would make over and over, if needed.”

“I know you would. But I wish it wasn’t so.”

“I regret nothing. You have been the joy of my life, you and your mother and Maysam. It has been my honor to serve all of you, to love all of you.”

“But what you’ve received in return is inadequate compared to what you deserve. You deserve happiness, habibi. Perhaps with me gone, you could find that.”

An unexpected lump rose in his throat, for she had not used the Arabic term of endearment in a long, long while.

“With you gone, Talia, I would find only misery. Now, please. No more talk of such things. You would not want to make me angry on our last night together, would you?” he threatened idly.

Talia frowned. “As you wish.” She turned the ivory elephant over and over in her hands. A companionable silence stretched out for a moment before she continued, “I don’t want the morning to come. It’s been so nice just sitting here alone together. I’ve been Miranda Tate for so long, talking to Gotham’s boorish elite that I almost forgot how pleasant conversation can be, especially with you, my friend. I feel like I’m…home.”

He smiled. “It pleases me to hear you say that, habibati. I feel the same.” And if he had his way, he would take her far from here this very night and preserve her life. But he knew she would never forgive him if he tried. It would be one more transgression he had perpetrated against her.

Troubled, she studied him. “The mask… Does it continue to alleviate your pain well? And tell me the truth please.”

“It is sufficient.”

Skeptically Talia cocked an eyebrow. “Sufficient?”

“Yes. When it is removed, however, I admit that it takes much stronger doses of morphine than in times past. Nothing I didn’t expect, however; it is the nature of the beast. Ironically I am cursed with the same addiction as our old friend Doctor Assad.”

Talia’s lips twisted with deep regret. “Soon,” she said near a whisper, “you won’t have to suffer anymore. Back when you were freed from the pit, I regret that you didn’t allow Papa to take you to a hospital. So much of your suffering could have been alleviated or perhaps eliminated altogether. You could have lived in Germany with Hans, and you never would have been wounded by my father. You could have lived a normal life.”

“As I said, I have no regrets. Neither should you. They are worthless, now more than ever.”

She nodded and stared at her hands in her lap, allowing him a quiet moment to drink in her beauty. She had spoken of pain, he reflected, but if she only knew that the pain most acute to him had little to do with his physical injuries and everything to do with his separation from her over these past years. Their time together now offered more relief to his suffering than any syringe of morphine ever could.

“I had forgotten how stimulating it is to speak with a woman,” he said. “It seems that I have been with only men for so long that I hadn’t even realized the shortcomings of such exclusivity.”

“Well, I assure you, the women I’ve spent my time with here in Gotham had little of real interest and importance to talk about. Endless prattle at parties and meetings and charity functions. Perhaps that’s why I always enjoyed my talks with Finn and why someone like Dominic meant so much to me. There are so few engaging people in this wretched city.”

Bane winced inwardly at her mention of Dominic LePage and the rift his death had caused between them, but he had no desire to dredge any of that up or admit to her that her suspicions of his part in LePage’s death were well-founded. No, he wanted to forget the pain he had caused her, especially now when they had mere hours left.

He caught her yawning, though she tried her best to suppress it and hide it behind a hand.

“You are tired, habibati. I won’t keep you up any longer with my pointless ramblings.” He stood from his chair to encourage her to do the same.

“Nonsense,” she said around a second yawn. “I’m used to staying up late.”

Playfully he tsked at her and came around the desk to pull her chair back. “There is no use in fighting it, my dear, and there is no rudeness in retiring. It will give me great pleasure to watch you sleep.”

Talia stood. “What, you aren’t going to sleep? Barsad told me you haven’t been taking care of yourself.”

Bane chuckled and guided her by the shoulders toward the bed. “Let’s not concern ourselves right now with Barsad’s mother hen tendencies. You should not believe everything he says.”

He encouraged her to sit on the edge of the bed, and the fact that she so willingly obeyed confirmed his belief in her fatigue. Kneeling down, he removed her stylish dark boots the way he used to remove her crude prison footwear. His hands lingered upon her delicate ankles, briefly massaged them. She closed her eyes and smiled.

“I still remember how you used to tell me stories when we would lie together every night after Mama died,” Talia murmured. “Sometimes I would be so sleepy that I couldn’t even comprehend what the story was about, but I didn’t care. I just loved to listen to your voice and feel your strong arms around me, keeping me warm.” She opened her eyes, revealing her memories there. “Will you share my bed like that again? Or is it cruel of me to ask?”

“There is nothing that would please me more, especially if it will help you rest.”

“It will.”

For a brief moment she allowed her guard down, and he saw not the confident, hell-bent Talia al Ghūl but instead that small, vulnerable child who still lurked somewhere deep inside her, eternally there since the day she had been born into the pit.

Bane removed his shirt. “Here. Wear this to sleep in. You will not feel comfortable in those clothes, nor should you be naked, not unless you want to torment me.” He offered a teasing smile to hide the brutal truth of his desires.

She frowned and touched his mask. “Bane—”

“There is no need to apologize. You are tired, as am I,” he lied. He rested one hand on her knee. “If you would like to take a shower before you retire—”

“No, I’m too tired.”

“Very well.”

His fingers longed to remove her clothing for her, but he stood to give her space, moving to a dresser where he changed into a simple pair of linen drawstring pants. Turning back to her, he found her in nothing but his shirt, removing the pins that held her hair back from her face. Tendrils fell forward to frame her sculpted cheekbones as she trailed her fingers through the tresses like combs, restoring a semblance of tidiness. Only after summoning every ounce of self-restraint that his training with the League had taught him, Bane approached her. His shirt was ridiculously large on her, but she had the ability to make even that garment look alluring. And the fact that it was his made the sight more appealing. When she had first left for Gotham, he had felt such an enormous sense of loss, knowing she would never again truly belong to him, but seeing her now in his shirt restored some of his feelings of ownership. Again he thought of that little girl in the pit, clad in sagging rags yet somehow looking as bright and alive to him as the sun itself.

Sleepily Talia smiled up at him with a hint of apology, for she had no doubt seen the unabashed erection that fought against the confines of his pants. He returned her smile and reached past her to retrieve her mother’s blanket. Pulling the comforter back, he spread Melisande’s blanket beneath it so it would be against them as they lay. Then he held the bedclothes up so she could slide under them and be close to the wall while he situated himself between her and the vulnerability of the door. As he settled, her scent embraced him in a torturous web, and he had to swallow a groan of desire.

He lay on his back to keep his offending member away from her and opened his right arm to her. She cuddled close, smiling and producing a small hum of contentment, as if they had been doing this every night for years. With her head on his chest, she rested her hand on his substantial pectoral as he gently drew her mother’s blanket over them. The room was chilly, but he knew his furnace-like body would soon warm her. Since the pit, he could never bear the thought of her being cold.

Talia sighed and drowsily said, “When you first came to the mountains with Papa and me, remember how he forbade me from sleeping with you but I would sneak into your room regardless?”

“Of course. You were always courting trouble, my little mouse.”

“I never told you, but for a long time then I had nightmares. I begged Papa to let me sleep with you because I knew I wouldn’t have them if I was with you.”

“What were the nightmares about, habibati?”

“About you, about us being separated. And about what happened to you when I escaped.”

“That is why I always tried to keep you out of my room when Choden would remove my bandages and treat me.”

“It wasn’t the sight of your wounds; it was my part in them.”

“Talia—”

“I know,” she stopped his familiar words of comfort and dismissal over her feelings of responsibility for his injuries. “But that’s how I felt.”

And still do, Bane thought ruefully.

“Papa and Xing Lao helped me by teaching me meditation.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then that you were having such troubles?”

“Papa didn’t want me to. He knew it would upset you, and you were so sick then. He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you. He told me I had to be strong and learn to deal with things on my own, that you would not always be there for me.”

Talia’s words made Bane wonder if perhaps Rā’s al Ghūl had planned to get rid of him from the outset.

“The nightmares stopped for a while, but then when you were initiated and would go away on assignments, they would come back, the ones about us being separated. I had thought maybe you didn’t want me around anymore, now that you had started your new life.”

“You know that wasn’t true. I hated leaving you, every single time. Thinking of you kept me focused during my missions, helped me stay alive so I could come back to you, so I could protect you.”

“I know. That’s what Temujin and Akar kept telling me, and after a while I believed them, and the nightmares went away. But I’ll never forget how afraid I was that I would lose you.”

Bane stroked her hair. “But you never have, habibati. I will be with you till the last.”

She settled even closer, the coarse shirt depriving him of the feel of her skin but not the subtle weight of her breasts against him.

“I don’t deserve you, Bane.”

“You deserve more than me.”

“The life I’ve led here…I know it’s hurt you.”

“You did what was necessary. There is nothing for me to feel hurt about.”

She sighed in capitulation, her warm breath tickling his nipple, her fingers now absently caressing Melisande’s blanket.

“No more regrets, habibati,” he murmured. “Rest now.”

Talia shifted so she could look into his eyes, a million words in her blue depths. Her fingers trailed over the front of the mask, and she kissed it, a brief but loving caress, then she sank back down against him, sighed again and closed her eyes.

“You will be here when I wake?” she whispered as she began to drift off.

“Yes, my love. Always.”

And once she had slipped away into sleep, he surreptitiously turned on his side and drew her into the curve of his body, his arms fast around her, holding her safe and close as he had so many endless nights in the pit.

Fifty-eight

The night was both the longest and shortest of Bane’s life. He slept little. Though the wonderful warmth and proximity of the woman he loved tried to lull him, he not only feared that his snoring would disturb Talia should he sleep too deeply, but more importantly he wanted to watch her, to drink in the sight of her as long as he could before the sun rose on their fateful final day.

Talia slept well, and he liked to believe that he was the reason for it. With profound satisfaction, he enjoyed knowing that he would be the last man to share her bed, no matter how chaste the time had been. Though he surely would not have rejected any overtures had Talia enticed him last night, he found their abstinence fitting in a way, harkening back to their origins when they had been innocents. After all, those origins were what had ultimately led to this very day and its inevitable outcome. And though he had no delusions about her loving him the way he loved her, the fact that she had not offered herself sexually to him showed not a lack of affection but instead a deep respect. If she had made love to him after all this time, after Dominic LePage and Bruce Wayne, they both would have known it was more out of pity or regret than anything else. Bane wanted neither from her. He required no carnal consolation prize. Simply being with her was enough.

As dawn neared, he knew he should get up, but he was loath to disrupt Talia’s slumber, figuring that this had been her most restful night in five months at least. During her sleep she had entwined their bodies, inadvertently wrapping them together in the cocoon of her mother’s blanket. If he moved, he might awaken her; to crawl out of bed altogether would surely do the same. With a capitulating sigh, he remained, cursing his morning erection.

Eventually it was Barsad who disturbed both of them, poking his head inside the door and loudly whispering for Bane’s attention. Talia stirred in his arms, softly moaned a sleepy protest.

“I must get up, habibati,” Bane whispered, wishing away the mask so he could kiss her. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Sleep a bit more, if you wish.”

Still mostly asleep, she uttered a small, unhappy sound, and nuzzled his neck. “Stay,” she murmured dreamily. “Don’t leave me.”

“There’s nothing I want more than to stay with you, little mouse. But our brother seems rather insistent.”

“Tell him…to go away.”

Bane chuckled. “He won’t. Persistence is his middle name.” He slipped his pillow beneath her tousled head and caressed her warm cheek. “Sleep, habibati. There is still time.”

Then he struggled his way out of bed as seamlessly as possible and crept across the dark room. Barsad backed into the hall. Light from Barsad’s room spilled against his back, throwing his haggard face into shadow, but Bane could detect concern in his eyes.

Quietly Bane asked, “What is it, brother?”

“I heard back from Refai. He confirms that Wayne escaped the pit.”

“And the rest of the prisoners?”

“The ropes had been tossed down from the mouth of the shaft. They must have climbed after Wayne.”

“All of them, even the doctor?”

“Refai says there was no one there.”

Bane nodded with derision. “Of course Wayne would have liberated our enemies.” He scowled. “Has he been located?”

“No. We haven’t been able to find him, him or Fox. But some of our men were ambushed last night near the outflow pipe south of Ackerman Park, and someone blew a hole through the rubble at the mouth of the tunnel there, giving the cops an escape route.”

Bane’s fingers twitched. “Yes, only the Batman would have such firepower capabilities.” He rallied his resolve. “No matter. Let the police come. They can’t stop us from detonating the bomb.” He glanced over Barsad’s shoulder into his room, to the barely disturbed bed. “Contact all units in our sector. Have the men assemble on Grand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And send someone downstairs to fetch breakfast for me and our sister.”

When Bane returned to Talia, he found her awake but still in bed beneath her mother’s blanket. She raised herself on one elbow as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The gaping neck of his shirt that she wore allowed him an appreciated view of her perfect breasts.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

He rested his hand on her hip. “We have received confirmation of Bruce Wayne’s escape from the pit. And now it would seem the Batman has freed Gotham’s subterranean police force. No doubt they will be marching on City Hall as soon as they can organize themselves. So you must get up, my dear. I have ordered breakfast. Why don’t you shower? By the time you are done, your food should be here.”

“Are you going to eat with me?”

“If you wish, I will dine with you.” He would need sustenance to bolster his strength for his confrontation with his nemesis. “Then I must get downstairs to greet our friends should they show themselves. You will remain inside with one of our brothers to guard you.” He glanced at the countdown clock on his nightstand.

Talia scowled. “I can’t confront Wayne if I am up here.”

“I will find him, and I will bring him to you once I have broken him again. You will have the honor of dispatching him after you reveal your true self and the detonator that will cost him his city and his life.”

Her smile chilled the room. “How I long to see the look on his face when he tastes my father’s blade.”

“As do I. Now, habibati, you must get up. Time is growing short.”

###

When Talia emerged from the bathroom, Bane saw that she was dressed for the day. Her hair was pulled back and French braided, her muted make-up accentuating her eyes. She wore her tunic made of ribbed, coarse brown fabric similar to that of his shirt. A narrow leather belt, which bore two buckles, was wrapped twice around her and drew attention to her tiny waist. Beautiful embroidery on the collar included subtle red flowers, like blooming poppies, as well as subdued gray and brown hues. The trim narrowed below the v-neckline as it trailed downward to the hem. The same design graced the broad cuffs which nearly covered her graceful hands. Her matching silk scarf hid any view of her shirt. As the day before, she wore slim-fit brown pants, almost leggings, with her short boots.

“Just in time,” Bane said, gesturing to his desk which served as their dining table. On it, covered plates with a light breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and tea awaited.

He, too, had dressed, wearing his usual militaristic attire except his protective vest which sat nearby.

As Talia drew near, he held her chair for her and exchanged a welcoming smile. After she had sat, he went around the desk to his chair. There he removed his mask; he had injected the smallest dose of morphine to get him through the meal; he had purposefully done so before Talia could emerge from the bathroom, for he did not want to hazard seeing her sadness over his medicinal requirement.

As he removed the covers from the dishes, he said, “I assumed you would not want a large repast.”

“No, this is perfect.” With teacup in hand, she nodded to the pot. “That’s the one Jiddah gave you, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“And the cozy, did you make it?”

“Yes, I have maintained my hobby. It has given me much solace over these past five months.”

Talia touched the crocheted cozy. “It’s lovely, Bane. It amazes me how your big hands can make such delicate things.”

“Thank you.” He picked up his own cup. “I’m afraid I cannot linger long here, habibati. Duty calls.”

“Yes, for both of us.”

They fell silent for a few moments as they began to eat. When Bane felt Talia’s attention upon him, he looked up from his food. Unexpectedly his face colored as he considered her final view of his damaged visage. He began to eat faster so he could soon hide the sight from her, but she reached over to place her hand upon his, halting his fork.

“Remember when you first came to the League?” she asked softly. “You wouldn’t eat with anyone, not even me. You were afraid of the reactions of our brothers, of me.”

“It was cowardly on my part.”

“No, not at all. You were so young, and you didn’t know anyone then. You were conditioned from the pit to believe that any physical defect was a sign of weakness that others would exploit. And of course you thought you were sparing our brothers from something you believed to be unpleasant.”

“It was Choden who convinced me to finally remove the mask to eat in the common room with the others. He reminded me that in their line of work most of them had seen sights much worse.”

“Choden was a wise soul.” She picked at her eggs. “I’m glad we can at last avenge him today.”

“Indeed. Him and so many others.”

“Are you concerned about the police?”

“Not at all. We are talking about men who have been living underground with limited rations for five months in the dead of winter. They will be weak. And what leadership do they have? Foley has been reduced to cowering in his home. No, my dear, they will be nothing but rabble, unorganized and weak. Our men and firepower, including the Tumblers, will make short work of them. And though we must assume Gordon escaped those fools down by the river who were incapacitated by the Batman, any further effort on his part will be nullified by the knowledge Fox provided you.”

“And Wayne? If he climbed the shaft, he must have regained his health. But how? I thought you had broken his back?”

Bane tried to hide his scowl. “I suspect our old friend Doctor Assad had a hand in Wayne’s recovery and no doubt his escape as well. That is the thanks you get for having pity on him all these years. I should have killed him when I delivered Wayne.”

“Surely Assad never would take the risk to defy your orders.”

“Apparently he was confident in Wayne’s ability to make the climb if healthy and facilitate everyone’s escape. And having seen the coverage on television of Gotham’s siege, perhaps Assad assumed I would be too dead to track him down after he betrayed us.”

Talia frowned. “I can’t really blame him, though; can you? Perhaps it had been a mistake to condemn the doctor to the pit all these years. If we had freed him—”

“He did not deserve freedom, then or now,” Bane nearly snapped. “What he did was unforgivable. Accident or not, he should have had his head about him, especially about something as crucial as the door lock.”

She reached for his hand again. “You know I understand your feelings on the matter, but if not for me, Assad wouldn’t have even been in Mama’s cell that day.”

“As usual, you assume his blame,” Bane grumbled, “instead of allowing it to rest where it truly should.” Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from beneath hers as he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “I must go. I have lingered too long as it is.” He reached for the mask.

“Wait.” Talia’s hand went to the apparatus. When Bane looked at her in bemusement, she said, “Allow me.”

She glided around the desk to stand next to where he remained seated, but she did not immediately pick up the mask. Instead she smiled mildly at him and took his battered face in her hands. Her thumbs caressed his scars and his cheeks, and all of his indignation and agitation vanished. For that brief moment, nothing else mattered, not the scars, the pain, or the mask. No other person existed in the world; it was just the two of them.

“Thank you,” Talia whispered, “for making it possible for my father’s destiny to be fulfilled, and for giving me the honor of vengeance upon our enemy.”

Bane could say nothing, too consumed by the power of her blue eyes, those eyes that were so much more like her father’s than her mother’s, in every way. Then she kissed his damaged mouth with the gentlest touch before resting her forehead against his as they had so often done as a gesture of love since he had first donned the intrusive mask. There were no words to be said, none were needed.

Tenderly, Talia fastened the mask into place. Then she kissed his forehead and embraced him, holding him gently against her bosom as his arms slipped around her. A long moment passed before he reluctantly pulled back from her and stood. Talia retrieved his support belt and protective vest before he could, and helped him into them.

“I feel like a squire preparing a knight for battle,” she said with a demure smile, “like those in the stories you used to tell me when I was a little girl.”

“Well,” Bane smiled, “no knight ever had a squire so beautiful.”

Talia gave a small, dismissive laugh as she finished with the buckles. “Your coat…”

“I will get it, habibati. It is a great beast of a thing, too heavy for you to place over my shoulders. But thank you.” As he shrugged into his shearling coat, he said, “You must finish your meal and enjoy it. I will send one of our brothers in shortly, and he will remain with you. Remember, do not reveal yourself prematurely. I will deal with the Batman when he shows himself.”

“I shall watch you. You deprived me of witnessing Wayne’s defeat in the sewers. I’ll enjoy seeing you destroy him today.”

“It will give me great pleasure and strength to know you are nearby, watching.”

She embraced him a final time. Bane held her as long as he dared, closing his eyes and breathing her in, allowing his sexual frustration to feed and thus provide even more fuel for the rage he would vent upon the man who had defiled her.
“I love you, habibati,” he whispered.

Talia gave him a final squeeze. “I love you, too.” She stepped back, trying to hide the hint of moisture in her eyes.

Bane smiled to give her strength, a gesture that brightened her a bit. Then, with a final touch upon her cheek, he left her behind.

Fifty-nine

Bane made one last visit to the City Hall command post. All was quiet there. Only one man was on duty, manning communications. The first vestiges of morning light streamed weakly through a window to fall on the merc’s weary face. When Bane entered, the man had respectfully gotten to his feet.

“You are to destroy the equipment immediately,” Bane ordered. “And burn all documents. Do not leave your post until you have done so. Do you understand?”

With a puzzled look, the merc stammered, “Yes, sir.”

Of course the fool would be bemused by the orders; after all, most of the mercenaries recruited by the League for this operation knew nothing about the true goal. They were told that Gotham would be held for ransom, that the U.S. government would eventually acquiesce to their demands, and when that occurred the mercs would share in a hell of a payday and their employer would help them escape from Gotham. No doubt the communications man longed to ask if the orders to destroy the CP signified that the government was giving in at last and the operation was soon to end. But of course the merc had not the nerve to pose such an impertinent question of his commander before Bane left the room and started for the elevators.

The impending detonation of the bomb made his orders to the mercenary superfluous, but a lifetime of caution caused Bane to be extra diligent. As flawless as he believed the League’s plans to be, the fact remained that both Gordon and the Batman were still at large. If something was to go wrong and the explosion did not wipe them from the face of the earth, he needed to make sure important information was obliterated.

When the elevator doors opened, he found Barsad alone inside.

“I was coming to get you,” he said in a voice that betrayed the elevation of his pulse. “The cops are coming down the street en masse.”

“Are our men in place to meet them?” Bane stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button.

“Yes.”

“Very well.” Bane spoke with no more emotion than he had while talking to the merc in the CP. “I will give the order for the attack.”

The portico was crowded with his men, all armed to the teeth, stoic and prepared to defend their headquarters. Most did not look at Bane and Barsad as they came into their midst. Instead their dutiful attention was aimed down Grand Street, toward the enemy. A gentle snow fell as if in a snow globe, like the one Bane had once bought for Talia when he had been on one of his first missions with the League, with Temujin. The snowfall was half-hearted at best; it would not last, for the sun was rising beyond the tall buildings, throwing faint, long shadows. Bane breathed deeply of the frigid air, reveled in the invigoration it provided.

The rumble of a Tumbler and the deep-throated shouts and howls of his men massed down below on the street, facing the approaching police, filled the morning with unearthly noise, bouncing off the concrete buildings and echoing down the manmade canyon. After five months of siege, with little of sustaining interest to amuse them, the mercs were primed for some action and bloodshed. The confidence of well-fed, well-armed soldiers with a charismatic leader surged through them.

From a bullhorn, one of Bane’s officers warned the police, “Disperse! Disperse or be fired upon!”

Two more Tumblers arrived from either side of a cross street, halting as a shield in front of Bane’s advancing ranks of gun waving mercenaries. Many eyes turned Bane’s way, and he recognized the fire of pride and respect there…and perhaps a touch of fear, for they would not want to fail in front of him.

Bane, however, had no plans to stay and watch the slaughter; he had made an appearance only to offer his fighters confidence and inspiration. It would all be over in a matter of minutes, for the Gotham police were badly outgunned. He wanted to return to the CP and make sure his orders were being carried out swiftly and efficiently there. Once the gunfire began, he did not want his communications officer to become distracted.

He stood there now, thumbs casually hooked in his vest, unarmed as usual but with Barsad standing on his left, automatic rifle in hand. His friend’s face showed some concern at the dark blue wave of hundreds of police officers marching slowly but resolutely their way. At the front of the dense ranks strode one man in full dress uniform, the morning light accentuating the gold braid on his left shoulder. Gordon? Bane peered closer. No. Foley. Well, the man had balls after all.

Bane figured the meddlesome John Blake was somewhere behind Foley. Well, if the two were not struck down by bullets, they would soon be turned to ash by the bomb. They and their comrades would never again lift their weapons.

One of the Tumblers activated its turret gun, the double-barrel muzzle pivoting toward the insurgents.

In a dismissive tone, without raising his voice, Bane said to Barsad, “Open fire,” and began to turn away as his lieutenant lifted a signaling arm to their troops.

A sudden mechanical roar took everyone by surprise, including Bane who wheeled at the sound, just in time to see the Bat swoop down and disable one Tumbler’s gun with a cannon blast. Then the oddly-shaped black vehicle flew off down Grand, as nimble as the creature it was named after, speeding right over the heads of the cheering policemen. Ignited with sudden hope, the blue wave came crashing toward Bane’s men who in turn leaped forward like water breaking through a dam. Pistol shots and automatic gunfire erupted, blending with the animal-like war cries of the men.

Police and mercenaries collided, no time to reload weapons, time only to attack and defend hand-to-hand, a swirling river of violence amidst the placid, drifting snowflakes.

Bane took in the scene, Barsad fidgeting beside him and urging, “You should go back inside.”

“I will do nothing of the sort. The Batman will come.”

“He’ll come, all right, flying back in the Bat with guns blazing. You saw how he took out that Tumbler.”

“No, he will come on foot, for our sister. He made a promise to her…just as I have.”

“Dammit, Bane. You can protect her better inside. Wait for him there. Too much lead flying around out here.”

“My men will not see me cower inside, as if I fear the Batman and his flying contraption. You may withdraw, if you wish. I prefer you are with her rather than with me.”

“Like hell. I’m not going to abandon my post.”

“Very well, brother. Then shall we wade into the fray?”

Bane’s calm voice, raised just enough to be heard over the battle, betrayed little of the rage boiling within him, screaming for release, fired by the sight of his enemy’s flying machine. His fists clenched in anticipation, his muscles tensing beneath his heavy coat, his blood heated and racing.

The fighting had consumed even the portico now, roiling around them, but no one among them was brave enough to confront Bane directly. Together he and Barsad descended the steps. He needed to find the Batman; his fury demanded release. Bruce Wayne’s escape from the pit had humiliated him; he would make the insolent pup regret it. Then he would take him to Talia and throw him at her feet, and Wayne would realize the enormity of his failure.

At the base of the steps someone charged them from the left, and Barsad tried to strong-arm the man aside. The attacker drew Barsad away, sucked him into the maelstrom, as another cop came directly at Bane. Without hesitation, Bane grabbed the policeman with both hands and head-butted him, knocking the assailant, senseless, to the pavement. Another cop dove at him, but Bane ducked under the man’s guard, latched onto him and flung him away like so much trash.

Bane removed his burdensome, confining coat. A policeman tried to take advantage of this momentary vulnerability, but Bane was prepared, stopping the smaller man by grabbing him by the hair like a spoiled child. Just then another cop came at Bane, but he drove the man back with a boot to the gut, then slammed the man still in his clutches, face first, into his upward driving knee. Others followed, but none could stand against Bane. They were insects to him, to be swatted out of his vision so he could see what he really wanted to see. And soon he was rewarded.

Out of the melee came a tall man in black, the pointed false ears of the bat cowl an incongruous sight amidst the police uniforms and military garb of the fighters. Batman stood for a moment in a small circle of calm, the battle raging around him and Bane but reaching neither of them. Seeing his enemy in full daylight gave Bane pause, for he could not recall ever seeing Batman operate beyond the cloak of night. The Caped Crusader was breathing hard from his struggle through the conflict. No doubt he had already wasted some of his strength. Bane would not give him time to recover.

Inclining his head imperiously, Bane gave his nemesis a snide smile as he mocked, “So you came back to die with your city.”

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

Bane threw the first punch, but Batman blocked the blow then knocked Bane back with a two-handed uppercut. Instantly recovering, Bane swung again. With a speed lacking in their sewer fight, Batman deflected the blow. Furious, Bane connected with a left to the face, followed by a low blow with a sledge-like right. Another left to the cowl sent Batman staggering away. A merciless juggernaut, Bane delivered several unanswerable punches, driving his foe back to the steps of City Hall. A sideways kick to the mid-section knocked Batman onto the steps, but he caught himself from falling and scrambled to the top of the first flight, his long cape swirling about him as he wheeled to face Bane again. An angry, determined scowl lined what could be seen of his face, a face paled by his days spent in the darkness of the pit.

Taking his time, oblivious now to the hundreds of men fighting around him, Bane climbed the steps. At the top it was Batman who went on the offensive. With a roar, he swung a roundhouse left. Bane blocked it before it could connect with the mask, turning his enemy so he could drive a fist against his back, right where it had been broken months earlier. Batman cried out in pain. As he tried to recover, turning toward Bane, Bane’s left hand slammed into his sternum, knocking out his air and driving him backward.

Batman recovered quickly, straightening as Bane pursued at his same leisurely but relentless gait. Bane shot out a right arm to try to grab Batman by the neck. Two flashing, gauntleted arms foiled him. His enemy pressed in close to limit the range and power of any further blows. Bane’s left-handed attempt for his adversary’s neck was thwarted as well, their faces so close now that he could feel Batman’s breath on his cheeks. A black fist sought Bane’s mask, but Bane clamped onto it, stopping it short. Unflinchingly, Bane stared back at the growling Batman as their arms each sought to win the struggle. A stunning new strength was behind Batman’s grip, one that had been lacking in the sewer, but Bane refused to be concerned.

With his left arm wrapped around his foe, Bane tried to unbalance him while their hands remained locked. But the Batman managed to remain solidly on his feet. Now instead of his hand pressing toward Bane, it shifted unexpectedly outward, altering Bane’s own balance and breaking their hold. With lightning speed, Batman blasted him with a staggering uppercut. Bane’s left arm, however, maintained a tenuous hold, even as a follow-up blow rang against the mask, followed in rapid succession by another. A driving elbow slammed into Bane’s chest, pushing him downward enough to at last break his grip. Batman grappled to keep him bent over, but Bane reared up and drove his head into his adversary’s chest like a charging bull, forcing him back, gasping for air.

Police and mercenaries continued their own personal wars all around them on the steps of City Hall. One such battle came between Bane and Batman, but Bane flung the cop to the side, never looking away from his foe or halting his pursuit.

Bane brought his guard up, deflected another left-hand blow from Batman, but the blur of a right-hand follow-up surprised Bane, snapped his head to the left. Before he could recover, the same black arm flashed back toward him, and the row of metal, jagged, retractable fins on Batman’s gauntlet raked the mask with painful force. A depressurized hiss assaulted Bane’s ears, sent instant terror through him.

No!

An outraged bellow echoed through the mask. With a quick glance downward, he could see several of the metal tubes on the left side of the mask separated and askew, could feel the flexible tube that ran along the left side of the mask to the canister dangling. Instinctively his hands came up to reach for the damage, but he knew there was no time for repairs. Batman lunged for him. All Bane could do was throw him against a nearby pillar, all the while emitting enraged growls of pain as his precious vapor began to fail him. Bane’s trembling fingers frantically tried to reconnect the small tubes. But there was no time. The Batman came at him again, determined to keep him vulnerable and broken, to exploit the mask’s vulnerability.

His enemy swung again, but Bane roared back with an outstretched right backhand. He followed with a desperate left, but struck only air. He staggered, again scrabbled to stifle the escape of the vapor. No time. He needed to end this before the mask’s canisters were depleted. Heart pounding with fury, he aimed a right at the cowl, but his opponent blocked the effort. Bane’s thunderous body blow drove out Batman’s breath before Bane tossed him toward another pillar then charged before the man could recover. Pinning him there, Bane battered him in every region, blinded by pain and rage, so blinded that he did not even notice his prey had finally ducked beneath the blows and escaped. Automatically Bane’s punches continued, this time against the pillar before he realized and wheeled to pursue his opponent who had backed toward the glass doors of City Hall.

Talia! She was inside. He could not violate his promise to break their enemy; he could not fail her.

Snarling furiously, Bane swung almost without seeing, never coming close to his target, his eyes beginning to water and sting from the rising tide of agony. Everything he aimed at the blurred black shape gained nothing. He felt Batman grab his right shoulder, steady him then slam another explosive punch into the mask, spinning Bane so that he was now closest to the doors. Another blow followed. Bane’s flailing flurry of defensive punches missed or were blocked, but Bane would not relent, not until yet another side-arm swing of Batman’s gauntlet raked the mask and an uppercut flung him nearly off his feet. With a determined roar, Batman’s kick to the chest sent Bane backward, crashing through the doors of City Hall.

Bane landed on his hands and knees at the top of a short flight of steps. He could not breathe, no matter how much he gasped for air, and so he could not stand. Another kick flung him down the bruising marble steps to tumble across the cold lobby floor. Distantly he was aware of a secondary struggle, heard blows, wondered vaguely if Barsad had arrived.

Through the blur, Bane saw a small dark figure off to the side. No mercenary that small. No, it was Talia, awaiting her moment. But how could she overpower Batman on her own? He had failed to weaken their enemy for her final triumph. Failed her, just as he had failed her mother…

“Cover the doors!” Batman’s gravelly voice bounced around the cavernous room as Bane realized he was talking to Miranda Tate.

Bane rose shakily to hands and knees, but another well-aimed kick rolled him onto his belly, up against a marble reception desk.

“Where’s the trigger!” Batman demanded.

Though he knew there was no escape for him now, no hope, Bane instinctively tried to crawl away from the source of torment.

“Where is it?” The verbal and physical assault continued as Batman dragged Bane to his feet, slammed him face down against the desk. Gauntleted hands urgently frisked Bane, seeking the detonator that was not there. “You’d never give it to an ordinary citizen! Where is it?”

He whipped Bane onto his back, continued to shout his question. Even if he had wanted to, Bane could not respond. Unconsciousness hovered close, but he would not succumb. He needed to reconnect the tubes, needed to breathe in his strength so he could protect Talia; she could not take the Batman in the man’s current powerful state.

Yet Bane was nearly powerless, weakened by the crashing waves of agony that flooded him, tried to drown him. A final, devastating blow to the mask snapped his head back, and the apparatus gave another ominous hiss. If he had had the strength, he would have screamed against the consuming pain. A brief flash came into his mind’s eye, a vision of the beating he had suffered in the pit prison when Talia had escaped, that overwhelming crush of men, the suffocation and endless blows, the utter helplessness.

Forcing away the flashback, Bane made one final, futile effort to reach the damaged mask, but Batman mercilessly knocked away his every attempt. When finally freed, Bane fell to the floor again, crumpled and spent, uttering a single, tremulous moan, the weakest sound he had ever made, the sound of incomprehensible defeat.

Those black gloved hands grasped him again, sat him up against the desk. Bane could barely focus on his foe even though their faces were mere inches apart.

“Tell me where the trigger is,” Batman ordered, quieter now, breathing hard. “Then, you have my permission to die.”

Those words. Bane’s own words. Mocking him. Arrogant. But Bane could only stare at him, for a moment his vision clearing. Behind Batman, Talia approached, and Bane knew all was not lost. He needed to keep their enemy’s focus on him, not on the knife that was coming nearer.

“I broke you,” Bane struggled to say. “How have you come back?”

“You think you’re the only one who could learn the strength to escape. Where’s the trigger?”

It was time the Batman knew the truth, the truth that was now slipping silently up behind him. A truth too late to save him. “But I never escaped,” Bane croaked out with his very last ounce of strength. He enjoyed the surprise in his enemy’s dark eyes—Doctor Assad had not shared Talia’s secret; he had remained loyal to the child whose mother he had betrayed.

“But the child,” Batman uttered, “the child of Rā’s al Ghūl made the climb…”

Then Talia was there, kneeling beside Batman, saying, “But he’s not the child of Rā’s al Ghūl.” With smooth precision she drove her father’s blade between the protective panels of the Batsuit. Batman cried out, grabbed Talia’s left shoulder. “I am,” she finished her revelation, twisting the blade that was buried to the hilt. “And though I’m not ordinary,” she displayed the trigger in her right hand, “I’m a citizen.”

Batman made a weak grab for the glowing detonator, but Talia smugly pulled it beyond reach, her cold, triumphant eyes never leaving his.

“Miranda…why?”

“Talia.” Her expression softened as she spoke of Melisande, “My mother named me Talia before she was killed, the way I would’ve been killed if not for my protector,” her gaze grew mild as she turned to her helpless protector and spoke his name with tenderness and appreciation, “Bane.”

But Bane could barely see her now, barely hear her as the pain pulled him away from her, toward unconsciousness. He felt her gentle touch against the mask and realized she was reconnecting the tubes as she continued with her narrative, as calm as if they were alone back in his room.

“I climbed out of the pit. I found my father…and brought him back to exact terrible vengeance.”

Bane returned to that day, felt again the light touch of Rā’s al Ghūl upon his arm where he had sat in the shaft, swathed, tormented and awaiting death. The sound of gunfire throughout the stepwell, his future brothers arriving to save him.

“By that time,” Talia’s melodious voice continued from afar, taking on an edge of pity and anger, “the prisoners and doctor had done their work to my friend, my protector.”

While she spoke, her reconstruction continued on the mask. What was left of the vapor began to flow stronger, surging through Bane like a balm. His sight began to sharpen, and he could see her clearer now, so close, so strong, looking only at him. She was bringing him back to life. His protector.

“The League took us in, trained us. But my father could not accept Bane. He saw only a monster whose very existence reminded him of the hell he had left his wife to die in.” Her tone hardened. “He excommunicated Bane from the League of Shadows.”

Against his will, a tear escaped Bane’s right eye, trailing hotly down to the rejuvenated mask. A tear of pain, both physical and emotional, drawn out by her quiet account, by the memory of that terrible day in the mountains and all those since.

“His only crime,” Talia continued, “was that he loved me.” A smile curved her lips ever so slightly, her gaze tender, the love reflected there renewing his strength and resolve. “I could not forgive my father.” All warmth instantly fled from her when she turned back to Batman as another tear trickled down Bane’s cheek. “Until you killed him.”

Bane rallied, willing his body to respond, to act, to do what was necessary to finish this. It took a Herculean effort, but he struggled to his feet, his eyes now on the sawed-off shotgun beside the prone League member whom Batman had rendered unconscious. He staggered toward the man as Wayne responded to Talia’s words about her father.

“He was trying to kill millions of innocent people.”

Bane retrieved the shotgun—he would not have the strength to kill his enemy with his bare hands as preferred—and gathered up a length of dark rope beside his fallen brother, then lumbered back to Batman as Talia countered the man’s ridiculous defense.

“Innocent is a strong word to throw around Gotham, Bruce.”

Bane set aside the shotgun and began to wrap the line around his victim’s throat and wrists.

“I honor my father by finishing his work.” Talia’s thumb slid the safety away from the detonator’s trigger as Batman gasped and watched helplessly. “Vengeance against the man who killed him is simply a reward for my patience. You see,” she said in almost a sensual whisper, “it’s the slow knife, the knife that takes its time, the knife that waits years without forgetting, then slips quietly between the bones. That’s the knife that cuts deepest.”

Her thumb hovered tantalizingly above the trigger, and Bane drew in what he figured would be his last breath. He was prepared; they were here together, their betrayer defeated at his feet. Soon the pain would be gone forever.

“Please…” Batman tried one pitiful supplication.

Talia pressed the trigger. Agonizing seconds passed. Nothing.

Nothing!

But Talia remained calm, even as angry disappointment turned her face toward the windows, as if searching for the blast that had not come.

“Maybe,” Batman panted, “the knife was too slow.”

Talia glared at him.

Just then Barsad came rushing through the shattered front doors, gun at the ready. It was about time his lieutenant showed up, Bane thought.

“The truck is under attack,” Barsad said, sounding winded, alarmed.

“Gordon,” Talia crooned sarcastically at her caped victim. “You gave him a way to block my signal. No matter.” She yanked her father’s blade out of Batman’s side, and the man wilted. The blood would flow cleanly now. “He’s bought Gotham eleven minutes.” With that, she got to her feet and addressed Barsad whose eyes were on Bane. “Prepare a convoy. We must secure the bomb until it detonates.”

Reluctant, Barsad held Bane’s gaze as he backed away, as if to make sure this was what his brother wanted. Silent, Bane allowed him to withdraw, knowing it would be the last time he saw his friend.

Talia stared down at Batman with pure disdain then lifted her eyes to Bane standing behind him, the rope secure. “Don’t kill him,” she ordered before addressing their enemy again. “I want him to feel the heat, feel the fire of twelve million souls you failed.”

Then she stepped close enough to reach over Batman as if he were no longer there and touch her fingers gently to Bane’s mask. Bane could do nothing but hold her haunting gaze and interpret the dozens of memories and emotions there. How he wanted to take her from here, far away to someplace safe, to fulfill the obligation he had accepted since the day of her birth.

“Good-bye, my friend,” Talia said.

In that familiar gesture of affection, her finger brushed horizontally across the mask’s grating, and Bane swore his lips could feel her touch. Then she turned away and marched resolutely through the door, out into the bright winter light, away from him. Barsad stood on the portico, waiting to escort her. After one final glance toward Bane, he followed Talia. Bane thought of his plan to have Barsad safeguard Talia out of the city, but even if Barsad attempted it, there was not enough time remaining for success. At least his friend would be there to protect her to the end, to do what Bane could not. Talia would not be alone when she met her death.

The final sight of those he loved fanned the flames of Bane’s hatred and rage against the man kneeling at his feet. His attention went to Batman, and he reached for the shotgun. For a moment, he watched the doorway to be sure Talia would not return and see him disobey her direct order.

“We both know that I have to kill you now,” Bane said calmly to his enemy.

Rage flared up and empowered his depleted body to kick Batman over, as he had done to him moments ago. Bane pointed the shotgun in the masked man’s face and snarled, “You’ll just have to imagine the fire!”

A flash of light, as brilliant as the sun. A deafening explosion that sent Bane hurtling through the air. He felt himself falling, falling as he had long ago when he had tried to climb the prison shaft. But this time there was nothing to stop his downward plunge back into darkness.

(STAY TUNED for the final chapter, loyal readers. Coming soon.)

Oh sob! I can't bear the ending!