Forty-six

Bane’s gloved hands flexed against the BMW motorcycle’s handlebars. He glanced at his watch. Just a couple more minutes.

The late day sun sliced down the busy street where he sat his sport bike at the curb, his dark clothing absorbing the warmth. People flowed by on the sidewalks, completely oblivious to him, his visage hidden by his helmet’s full, dark shield. He wore a Downtown Courier Service vest over his Belstaff jacket; just another faceless worker in Gotham’s financial district.

Bane had purposefully chosen the color of his motorcycle helmet—red. Not only would such a color make him easily seen by his men later on the streets, but it would make him stand out to those watching on television and to the police who would chase him. The choice had also been inspired by the scarves Barsad and many of his brothers wore, not to mention the elements of power, blood, and fire symbolized by red.

He had not ridden a motorcycle in years, not since that fateful day in Shanghai when Temujin had been killed. As if it were just yesterday, he remembered his frantic dash through the congested streets, desperate to reach the warehouse where Temujin was, undercover as a member of the robbery gang to which Bruce Wayne then belonged. Bane’s team commander, Damien Chase, was at the location, and when the sound of gunfire crackled over his com, Bane knew instinctively that Temujin was in trouble. Fearing Chase had no intention of helping the Mongol, Bane had risked life and limb to get to the warehouse. But no matter his breakneck driving, he arrived too late and found Temujin dead in the street, surrounded by police. He had managed to recover his friend’s body and escape on the motorcycle.

Now checking his watch again, Bane fired up the bike, drove the two blocks to the Gotham stock exchange’s rear entrance. There he parked beside three other sport bikes. With resolute strides, he mounted the stone steps, his fists momentarily clenched in anticipation. He had no weapon except his hands; not only did he feel no need for such, but a gun would be immediately discovered by the first guard if he was patted down. He needed the security force at the entrance to be as complacent as possible, as they most surely would be this late in the day.

One guard stood on the near side of a metal detector, looking bored. Bane, still wearing his helmet, lumbered up, barely paused as he dropped the courier bag on the table in front of the guard for inspection. It was empty, of course, as the man would soon learn, too late. Bane continued without hesitation through the detector, which the metal components of his hidden mask instantly set off.

“Hey, rookie,” a female guard on the other side said in annoyance, gesturing to her head. “Lose the helmet. We need faces for camera.”

It was not easy to remove the helmet, of course, because of the mask, and Bane purposefully showed no sign of urgency.

“C’mon,” the woman said impatiently. Then when she beheld the mask, her entire expression opened in shock. But the immediate smash of Bane’s helmet against her face wiped away both emotion and consciousness.

The guard to his right lunged for him. Seamlessly Bane wheeled and blocked the man’s blow with his left arm, bashed him in the head with the helmet in his right hand, sending him senseless to the floor. Like a graceful dancer, Bane turned to the left to meet the third guard, this one with a pistol in hand. Bane clutched the large man’s arm to keep the muzzle away, slammed the helmet into the man’s gut, driving out his breath. Smoothly he ducked under the guard’s arm, shifting his hand to the pistol, his eyes now upon the guard on the other side of the detector. That man’s pistol was raised, pointing, but he held fire out of fear of hitting the guard in Bane’s grasp. Bane’s powerful fingers compelled his victim to squeeze the trigger and kill the foolishly cautious guard. With lightning speed, Bane forced his opponent’s arm backward, cracking the man’s own fist and pistol into his face, dazing him. Using but one hand, Bane whipped the man around in front of him and finished him with a roundhouse blow from the helmet.

Though it had taken mere seconds to dispatch the four, it had been enough time for all stock exchange employees who had been near to scatter in every direction with terrified screams. Bane ignored it all, turned away from the carnage as if he had done nothing more than flick a few insects from his jacket.

With unhurried, measured strides he started for the doors leading to the main floor of the exchange. Just then his three operatives inside opened fire with their Uzis, bullets spraying everywhere, people diving for cover, monitors and security cameras demolished by the gunfire, popping and sizzling, sparks flying. Bane smiled with cold satisfaction. Salim, Braddock, and Jennings had been posing as simple, unassuming service workers, ignored and marginalized by the traders in their suits who controlled ungodly sums while employees like janitors, delivery men, and shoeshiners scrabbled for pennies to pay the bills. Well, those suits were looking at those three a little differently now, and they were about to be introduced to an even bigger nightmare.

Opening one of the glass doors, Bane stepped into the suddenly frozen mosaic of the stock exchange proper where just moments before all had been noise and movement. Wide eyes turned to him, to the mask, the familiar terror on people’s faces as they now cowered even closer to the cold floor. Bane breathed in the satisfying smell of fried circuitry, his glance taking in everything at once, making sure all was as it should be, as he had planned it. When his attention swung toward one of the trading desks—one of the islands in the middle of this ocean of greed—he found a man in a dark suit and tie who had retained his seat, whether from shock or courage Bane was unsure. He approached him, but the trader did not flinch.

Bane shoved his motorcycle helmet into the arms of a trembling man wearing an orange jacket who sat near the trader. The orange-clad worker was too petrified to do anything but stare at the masked intruder and dutifully embrace the helmet.

As Bane reached to check the trader’s ID badge to determine his clearance level, derisive arrogance rang in the voice of the clean-cut young man, “This is a stock exchange. There’s no money you can steal.”

Bane matched the man’s disrespectful tone, “Really? Then why are you people here?” He grabbed the trader by the tie, close to his throat, and wheeled him and his stool several feet toward the online trading desk. With one fling, Bane sent the trader and stool crashing into the desk. The trader looked back at Bane, the arrogance replaced by fear, and gaped, speechless now. With the quickness and deadly power of lightning, Bane pounced, both hands driving the trader’s head into the desk with a sickening crunch. The young man never moved again, his upper body resting on the desk as if he were merely asleep.

Almost casually, Bane inserted the trader’s ID badge into the desk’s card reader, gaining access for Salim to initiate their program. Quickly Salim knelt next to him, setting his Uzi and laptop on the desk. He was a skilled technician. Bane knew he would work quickly and efficiently. But the clock was ticking. Bane could already hear the wail of GCPD sirens outside.

Bane began a slow stalk around the large room, like a wolf circling a frightened herd of deer. He emitted a growl as he twisted a kink out of his neck from his dispatch of the guards. Then he nodded encouragement and appreciation to Braddock nearby. As he moved he looked directly into the eyes of his hostages, unblinking, the fierceness that lurked within keeping them all to heel.

Pushing his cuff back, he glanced at his watch. His man should be in place now, his cement mixing truck blocking off the narrow street that would be used for Bane’s escape, a tactic to slow down their pursuers. By now the police would be raising the automated street barricades, something that would stop a car but not a motorcycle. And all of those motorcycles that had been parked out back had by now been brought into the rear of the building by his other men who would have then melted away before the police arrived.

The GCPD had surrounded the building quickly. Bane felt the weight of the force: SWAT teams as well as every available unit in the area. Snipers on rooftops, unknowingly targeted by Bane’s operatives stationed in surrounding buildings. The colorful strobes of police cars danced against the exchange’s windows and doors. Images of the whole crisis would already be flashing across televisions and the internet, all over Gotham and the world. His father would be watching. Talia would be watching. Maysam would be watching. The two women would worry for him. The thought of their concern made him smile, made him forget his father.

Not much time had passed before Salim informed him, “They cut the fiber.”

Bane nodded. Of course the authorities would first disable the fiber cable. It would be easiest. This was expected.

“Cell’s working,” Salim assured.

“For now.” He glanced toward one of the windows, then turned, his hands clasped together in thought and an effort to keep his restless fingers still.

A few minutes later he calmly asked, “How much longer does the program need?”

Salim glanced up at one of the screens on the online trading desk then at Bane. Concern etched deep furrows in his forehead, the gray of his heavy stubble seeming even grayer than usual. “Eight minutes,” he replied.

Bane waved a hand at Jennings who was watching the hostages closely. “Time to go mobile,” he ordered nonchalantly.

At that, Jennings shouted, “Everybody up!” and fired his Uzi into the air. Screams echoed in the cavernous room once again.

Salim flipped the monitor of the laptop and closed it so the screen was now on the outside, visible so the progress of the running program could be easily monitored. Then he dropped it into his backpack and took up his Uzi again to help Jennings and Braddock select their human shields.

Bane stepped over to the employee who still clung to the red motorcycle helmet as if his life depended upon it. Or perhaps he thought it could serve as protection against the flying bullets. When Bane reached for it, the man was still too petrified to let go, and Bane had to give it a second tug to free it, doing so almost gently, with no irritation. Turning away, he said, “Thank you.”

They brought the sport bikes onto the floor and herded the cowering masses toward the front doors.

“None of you will be hurt,” Bane assured, “as long as you do as you are instructed. You will exit the building slowly, with your hands held up, all as one, tight together. We will be behind you. If anyone deviates from these instructions, you will be shot.”

Bane mounted his BMW and fired it up. Standing next to him, his female hostage trembled, his hand encircling her wrist like a manacle. She had been pleading with him to let her go, staring beseechingly with teary eyes at the shield of his helmet, but now the motorcycle engine drowned her out. With inexorable power, he pulled her in front of him on the bike and revved the engine, smelling her fear, sensing no warmth in her body, nothing but frigid terror.

On his command, the exchange workers crowded toward the front doors, barely moving, so obviously concerned with being shot not only by the men behind them but by the tense police force outside. The first ranks opened the doors and started slowly down the steps, arms dutifully raised. Bane could feel the weight of dozens of aimed weapons. Smiling behind the mask, he revved the bike again, waited a moment longer until more workers had filed out. Then he gestured forward with one hand as a signal to his men behind him, also revving their engines, their excitement as palpable as that of the exchange employees’ fear. Salim, Jennings, and Braddock also had hostages on their bikes, shields for when they appeared outside, shields that would be cumbersome but necessary only for a critical moment.

Bane gunned the accelerator, startling the people in front of him, some of their screams making it to his ears. Unconcerned with running any of them down, he plowed forward. The herd split before him, and the bike bounded down the steps, his men close behind. Police cars and SWAT trucks everywhere. But all of those men were powerless to use their weapons for fear of hitting the hostages on the four sport bikes.

They roared past poised policemen. In a flash, Bane recognized Deputy Commissioner Peter Foley behind a police car, walkie talkie in one hand, pistol in the other, shouting, “Hold your fire!” Then another face, less known, but familiar somehow. His sharp mind flashed back to the news report about Gordon’s rescue, the fresh-faced officer who had saved the commissioner. John Blake.

Bane turned right, shoving his hostage off as he did so. The woman tumbled to the pavement with an outcry barely heard over the noise of the motorcycles.

One of Daggett’s construction men had his cement mixing truck right where he had been told to have it—blocking the street onto which Bane had turned, affording him cover as he sped away from the main force of police. Ahead of him the raised street barriers, short steel ramps. No obstacle at all for the sport bikes, but impediments that would slow the closest pursuit cars, for the barriers raised and lowered ponderously. Accelerating, Bane leapt his BMW over the first barrier and the hood of a squad car. A second barrier lay directly ahead, only a few meters, giving Bane enough time to recover balance after landing off the first one. Police cars parked at angles beyond the second barrier, but they had foolishly left enough room for Bane to fly over the barrier and between them, for they had not anticipated the criminals’ maneuverable mode of transportation. It was all over in an instant, the cops obeying the order not to fire. Now all that lay before Bane was an open street in the encroaching twilight. But the chase would be on.

He thrilled in the exhilaration of the moment after so many weeks underground with very little physical activity. The adrenaline raced through him, strengthened him even more as he glanced back to see Salim, Jennings, and Braddock close behind. Jennings and Salim still had their howling hostages on their bikes, but Braddock had dumped his.

They followed their pre-planned route, staying together for now, racing through the darkening streets of Gotham. With occasional glances behind he saw police units chasing them, an outrageous display of flashing lights painting the sides of buildings. But unwieldy squad cars were no match for lithe sport bikes, so Bane and his men easily eluded their pursuers. Even if they closed with them, the police would remain reluctant to take shots at the bikes.

They passed into the lower section of a double-tiered freeway, the ceiling low and claustrophobic. One police car had drawn closer, the screams of its siren filling the cement structure. The motorcycles dodged in and out of the cars and taxi cabs. Jennings lingered in the back now, for his hostage was behind him on the seat, providing the perfect human shield, hands cuffed behind him to discourage any thoughts of leaping from the bike or attacking his captor. Even now the fool kept pleading for his freedom. Bane pulled ahead, checking the clock in his head. Still needed a couple of minutes more for the program on Salim’s laptop to finish running.

Suddenly the lights that illuminated the freeway flickered then went out. Bane’s motorcycle sputtered and choked. The lights came back on, then went off again. Some strange anomaly, Bane thought. Hopefully nothing that would interfere with Salim’s laptop.

He glanced behind. Whatever had interfered with the lights had disabled Braddock’s bike, and the hostage leapt off, fleeing, while Braddock drew his pistol. Bane turned forward, never looking back again. Braddock was lost, and no doubt Jennings, too, for he had fallen behind, too, the anomaly affecting his motorcycle as well. They did not matter; Bane knew if they were taken alive they would never betray the plan. Salim carrying the laptop was the only one who mattered.

The two sport bikes cleared the structure and emerged into full night, onto a broad, two-way street. Bane pulled even with Salim and his still-screaming hostage to reach into Salim’s backpack. He removed the laptop long enough to check the time remaining on the screen. Ninety seconds. So close to Wayne’s financial downfall. He needed to distract the pursuing policemen for less than two minutes.

He throttled back on the bike, hit the brakes as Salim swung past him and continued on. Putting his foot to the pavement, Bane spun the bike around in the opposite direction with a squeal of tires, then gunned the BMW straight at the approaching police cars. They would know by his red helmet who he was, and hopefully they would pursue him instead of Salim.

The motorcycle shifted swiftly, smoothly as he hurtled faster and faster toward the cars. But just a short ways from being among them, he identified a strange, dark shape, low and quick, in the vanguard. A motorcycle? No, it was too close to the ground…and something billowed crazily from the rider’s back. In the next instant they passed one another close, and both he and the other rider looked over their shoulders at one another.

Bane could not deny a moment of shock. There was no doubt. He had seen that black flash before on television and newsreels. Of course he would show up now, now after hearing about the Masked Man in the sewers and at the stock exchange.

The Batman had been roused back into action.

A smug glow of satisfaction warmed Bane for an instant, but then his mind returned to the moment. In a blur he passed in a straight line through the speeding police cars, but none of them altered course. This surprised Bane until he realized they cared more about capturing the man accused of killing Harvey Dent than they were the unidentifiable Masked Man or Salim. No doubt Foley figured having Braddock and Jennings in custody would lead them to the Masked Man soon enough. First, Foley—a man Bane knew to be greedily ambitious—wanted a different feather in his cap. Very well, Bane thought, let the Batman unwittingly further the League’s plan by allowing him to escape. Batman might catch Salim, but it was already too late.

Bane dodged his bike down an exit, into further darkness. Pulling over, he watched the obscene flood of GCPD vehicles shrieking by, then he turned the bike and headed deeper into the shadows.

Forty-seven

Bane rode the elevator alone up to John Daggett’s penthouse. When he had boarded, he thought it odd that the usual security guard had not been near the elevator. A soldier’s sixth sense told him something significant was amiss. His fingers twitched. Perhaps he should have waited for Barsad to join him after the stock exchange operation, but Daggett had summoned him, and Barsad was a considerable distance away still.

Daggett’s invitation, communicated to him through Stryver when Bane had called to report the success of the mission, had surprised him. After all, though Bane was certain no one had tracked him after the police had dismissed him to chase the Batman, he had not expected such boldness from Daggett immediately after the operation; he had expected instead caution. The fact that Daggett felt immune to persecution bespoke his utter and complete arrogant self-confidence. No doubt he thought he was almost through with Bane, perhaps only another day for his grand scheme to be fully realized, then he would be through with the masked mercenary, and Bane would vanish, taking with him any connection between them that the authorities might try to exploit.

Bane, of course, had no desire to meet with Daggett, but for now he still needed to play his part as Daggett’s tool and act as if the billionaire’s goal and his goal were one and the same. Daggett probably thought his audacious, dangerous invitation to a terrorist whose strange visage had just been seen around the globe would remind Bane who had the bigger balls. At this, Bane chuckled darkly.

One possibility behind Daggett’s invitation could be that he had discovered the scope of Bane’s utilization of his construction assets. As with so many other aspects of Gotham, Bane’s men had infiltrated the construction companies in management positions, unbeknownst to Daggett. This gave the League the ability to move crews throughout the city and carry on projects that had little to do with construction and more to do with destruction, once the time came for the League’s fire to burn for the world to see. Yet even if Daggett had discovered how his employees were being manipulated, it was too late for him to reverse what had already been accomplished. If all went according to plan, tomorrow there would be no John Daggett to interfere.

When Bane emerged from the elevator, he found Philip Stryver sitting on the marble steps leading up to the posh room where he usually met with Daggett. One pant leg of Stryver’s suit was raised, exposing a flow of blood from a nasty gash on his shin that he was attempting to staunch with a linen napkin. His attention lifted to Bane, and the usual uneasy expression drained away the last of the color from his high cheekbones. Behind him came several armed men, Bane’s men assigned to Daggett. They looked to him instead of Stryver.

“That fucking bitch,” Stryver spat, wincing. “Look what she did to me.”

Bane ignored him, instead looking to one of his men. “What has happened?”

“Seems the Catwoman paid Daggett an unscheduled visit,” came the answer. “Grabbed him and went through the window in his office onto a window cleaning platform. We’ve already sent men after them. She took him onto the roof of an adjacent building.”

“She’d better not do anything to him,” Stryver said, then looked over his shoulder at the men and their guns. “Well? Go after them! That bitch needs to be taught some manners.”

The men continued to look to Bane who at last said, “Come with me.”

###

When Bane emerged on the roof with his men, he beheld a chaotic scene. The first security detail had engaged Selina Kyle in a swirling fury of violence, but Selina did not fight alone. An imposing caped figure in black fought alongside her. Bane smiled in amusement. So the Cat had indeed caught Bruce Wayne’s interest when she had stolen his fingerprints; Talia had been correct as usual. And obviously Wayne had no idea for whom Selina worked.

For a moment Bane held his men back. From his location on an observation deck, he was elevated higher than the rooftop to which Selina had taken Daggett. From this vantage point Bane watched the two dark figures fight off their numerous attackers. Easily Bane recognized the League’s training behind Batman’s technique, every move calculated and effective, swift and powerful. Selina was almost as impressive with her cat-like speed and flashing heels, no doubt the same heels that had ripped open Stryver’s leg. The image pleased Bane. She was indeed a valuable asset.

So interested in the battle was he that he barely noticed Daggett scrambling away from the melee, coming in his direction. Before descending nearby steps to meet the tycoon, Bane said to his half dozen men, “Frighten them off, but don’t shoot them.”

When the guns opened fire, Batman and Catwoman disengaged their nearly-devastated adversaries—no small feat, Bane knew—and bolted toward the opposite end of the flat rooftop. Without hesitation, Batman leapt off the building, disappearing into the night. Bane sauntered across the roof, hands lightly gripping the lapels of his jacket, mimicking Rā’s al Ghūl’s familiar posture. Selina glanced back once, hair swirling with her movement, then looked over the side of the building after Batman. In the next moment she jumped off, too. Bane did not quicken his pace.

The noise of a large engine, what sounded like an aircraft, had replaced the gunfire. A helicopter? Bane wondered. No, a different sound. Before he reached the edge of the rooftop, the vehicle rose before him, lit from within and without by discreet, muted bluish lights. Everything about the black craft’s design screamed stealth. Its forward beams drenched Bane in light, but he did not blink, did not take his gaze from the vehicle. He could see Batman in the cockpit. Their eyes met, unreadable at this distance, but Bane could feel the connection. At last. His chest swelled with satisfaction and anticipation of their next meeting. Behind Wayne, Selina Kyle sat as if the co-pilot in a fighter jet. Even through the glass—no doubt bulletproof—Bane sensed the fear in her eyes. She knew he had seen her.

Large rotors on the underside of the aircraft propelled it, guided by an interesting system of angled and overlapping elevons. Smoothly the hovering vehicle pivoted away from Bane. A marvelous weapon, Bane contemplated as his gaze ran over the high caliber guns mounted on either side of the cockpit. Yes, the advent of Batman’s latest toy was no surprise; the billionaire was nothing if not progressive in his pursuit of utilitarian modes of weaponized transportation. Bane had flown helicopters many times over the years and now wondered what it would feel like to pilot such an aircraft as this one. The vehicle angled itself with a brief whine so that its rotors now faced more rearward. Then with a deep-throated growl, it fled. Bane watched it maneuver over the nearby buildings until it was lost from sight amidst Gotham’s contrasting patchwork of darkness and dazzling lights, leaving him curious and secretly impressed. In time, that aircraft would be his, as would everything else Bruce Wayne held dear.

“Why didn’t you shoot them?” Daggett’s harsh voice broke into Bane’s thoughts, instantly irritating him. “Didn’t you see who that was? Batman has seen us together, for fuck’s sake.”

“You have no need to worry.” Bane at last faced him. “I doubt Gotham’s most wanted criminal would be believed if he tried to convince the police that one of the city’s wealthiest businessmen was colluding with a terrorist.”

“Easy for you to say; you have nothing to lose. I have everything to lose.” Daggett’s muddy eyes were nearly starting from his head, anger pulsing a vein in his neck.

Bane merely gave him a dismissive stare.

“That damn bitch,” Daggett’s tirade continued. “Next time I see her, I’ll shoot her myself.”

“I can guess why she was here. Did I not warn you about the perils of deceiving her?”

Daggett gave a harsh, brief laugh. “It was worth it to see the look on her face when I told her the Clean Slate is a myth. We don’t need her anymore; she’s outlived her usefulness. Get rid of her…permanently. Or I will.”

Bane glanced off into the night in the direction Batman had flown. “She is still useful to us.”

“She’s allied herself with Batman. We can’t trust her.”

“Trust? No, we could never trust her, Mr. Daggett. But that is not required. What is required is her continued cooperation if we are to see the complete downfall of Bruce Wayne.”

With a glance toward the men nursing their wounds from the skirmish, Bane moved past Daggett. Of course Daggett—doomed fool that he was—would assume that his use of the word “we” referred to the two of them. Thinking of Talia, Bane smiled behind the mask.

###

“Bring her to me,” Bane had said these words to Barsad an hour ago, and now Selina Kyle stood before him in the command post, trying to hide her anxiety over being summoned here to the inner sanctum where she had never before set foot. She could interpret in one of two ways his motives for bringing her to this covert CP: he trusted her—which she should be intelligent enough to know was not the case—or he felt confident in his control over her and would instantly kill her if this location was compromised. Added pressure on her, pressure that would keep her in check.

Bane sat at his desk, attention on the reports in front of him. He let the woman stand there and wait for him to acknowledge her. Barsad stood off to the side.

“You have my apologies, Miss Kyle,” Bane rumbled when he finally turned, his chair creaking under his weight.

These were obviously not the words Selina had expected to hear; her jaw loosened slightly in surprise. But she quickly recovered, and her cherry red lips twisted with a bit of cheekiness. “Apologies for what? Dragging a girl out of a nice warm bed to come down to this dank hole? I’m not sure I can accept that apology.”

Barsad’s gaze flicked to Bane then away, a tiny smile of amusement touching his lips. Yes, Barsad would enjoy Selina’s biting wit; after all, it matched his own. For a moment Bane wondered if Barsad had shared her bed yet. Would his lieutenant tell him? If he were asked, he surely would say, but Bane knew he should not be concerned enough to do so.

“No, Miss Kyle,” Bane continued. “I am referring to John Daggett’s failure to compensate you with the item I had promised in our original deal. I am an honorable man who delivers what he promises. But I was shortsighted in my belief that Daggett indeed had the Clean Slate. For that, I apologize.”

Smugness eased some of the tension from Selina’s body. She had forsaken her Catwoman costume for more practical clothing—a sweater under her short wool jacket and jeans. Tight-fitting jeans, the rearview of which Barsad admired unabashedly.

“I would like to believe he’s lying,” Selina said. “Maybe—since you’re such an honorable guy—you can find that out for me.”

“Perhaps. But I have more pressing matters at the moment, Miss Kyle, as you are well aware. I can, however, assure you that Daggett will never deceive either one of us ever again.”

Selina arched an eyebrow. “Sounds…ominous.” She smiled. “I like that.”

Bane got to his feet and drew closer to her. He sensed her strong desire to step away from him, but she held her ground. “However, you should not have threatened Daggett tonight, especially without my permission.”

“Your permission?” She scowled. “I delivered what you asked for, and I’m guessing you put it to use at the stock exchange. Our dealings should be done.”

“Should be? I’m afraid not, Miss Kyle. But don’t be vexed over it. After all, with what is coming to this city soon, it will serve you and your young friend well if you remain useful to us.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but she was wise enough to know that he could indeed safeguard her better than anyone else in the kind of life she led.

“Now, let us discuss the reason why I summoned you here.” He paused, allowed her discomfort in his nearness and his unknown motive to unsettle her more before continuing. “Why did the Batman come to your aid?”

Selina hesitated before answering, rallying her nerve in order to maintain her façade of unconcern. With a glance at Barsad, one corner of her mouth lifted. “Obviously he liked what he saw.” She shrugged one shoulder as if thinking better of her innuendo. “A crusader who came to the aid of a damsel in distress.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Miss Kyle.”

Caution killed her half-smile. “Okay. Have it your way. I’m not sure how he knew I was at Daggett’s, but I think he was following clues.”

“Explain.”

“Turns out the Batman is friends with Bruce Wayne. He was trying to find out why Daggett wanted Wayne’s fingerprints.”

“He said this to you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you tell him?”

She hesitated again, and he knew she was testing a lie in her head. But she wisely decided against using it. “I told him I didn’t know. I just said that Daggett seemed interested in what happened at the stock exchange.”

Bane continued to stare down at her, determining that she was being truthful. What she had divulged to Bruce Wayne could in actuality help their cause. Suspecting Daggett of a move against his company, Wayne would be even more motivated to seek an alliance with Miranda Tate.

“Very well, Miss Kyle. But I warn you against any further interaction with Batman or Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne? Who said I had any ‘interaction’ with him?”

Bane’s expression softened with conjured indulgence. “We are well aware of your evening at Miranda Tate’s masquerade ball, Miss Kyle, as we are aware of everything you do.”

Anger colored her porcelain skin and darkened her eyes, but she wisely offered no reproof.

“As penance for your recent lapse in judgment, there is something you must do for me, seeing as how you are such friends with the Batman.”

“I met the man once in a rooftop brawl. That hardly makes us friends.”

“I’m sure you left an impression on him…and his friend Bruce Wayne. And because of that, you will arrange a meeting between myself and Batman. He now knows you are connected to Daggett and that Daggett is connected to me. Because of that he will seek you out as a way to find me.”

“Why don’t you just go find him yourself?”

“Don’t be a foolish child, Miss Kyle. After what we did at the stock exchange, for now it is best if I remain underground.” He stepped back and extended his arms to either side. “And there is something down here that I wish to show to our mutual friend.” Concern flitted across Selina’s eyes, so Bane added, “No need to fear for the Batman. After all, he has yet to meet anyone who can best him, has he not? I am a mere mercenary while he is a legend.”

The displeasure on Selina’s face made it plain that she divined his sarcasm. “What if you’re wrong and he doesn’t ask to find you?”

“I am not wrong.”

She shook her head with a wry grin. “Well, when you are wrong, I want to be there to see it.”

“If you don’t do as I bid, Miss Kyle, you won’t be alive to see anything,” he growled. Then to Barsad, “Escort Miss Kyle back to the surface.”

But Barsad instead gestured to one of the nearby guards, “Abraham.” The black man stepped forward without a word, waited for Selina. When Barsad turned back to Bane, there was purpose in his eyes, one that instantly unsettled Bane.

Bane waited until Abraham had taken Selina from the CP before he spoke again, this time with forced teasing, “I expected you to jump at the chance to chaperone our Cat, brother.”

Surprisingly Barsad did not take the bait, and Bane turned away to make their evening tea, finding that he wanted to delay whatever it was Barsad appeared about to express. The tension and arduous activities of the day suddenly caught up with him, and he found that all he wanted was to crawl under Melisande’s blanket and sleep. Tomorrow would be another demanding day, as would all that followed until the end.

“Dr. Pavel has arrived?” Bane stalled.

“Yes. Finn’s men brought him down earlier.”

“Very good.”

Barsad shuffled closer. “Bane.” When he failed to draw his commander’s attention, he pushed on, “What’re you bringing Wayne down here for? That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Have you forgotten, brother?” Bane poured water into a kettle. “The plan has always been to punish Bruce Wayne for his many injustices against us. That is what I intend to do.”

“How? I mean, blowing up his city with him in it is pretty strong punishment, I’d say.”

“Bruce Wayne must know who it is who is punishing him. Down here I will show him exactly how weak he has become, living off the lie he and Gordon have created. And when he witnesses the breach of his armory, I will see in his eyes the loss of the very things he thinks can keep him strong. When I am through with him, I will have destroyed his finances, his resources, his body, and his soul.”

“You’re gonna kill him yourself then?”

“No, brother. Death would only give him what he wants. No, he must be made to suffer, as we have suffered all these years. I will take him to the pit prison, and from there he can watch as the fire consumes his beloved city, a city he can no longer save. Then he will die.”

“Talia doesn’t know you plan to do this.”

Bane set the kettle on the hot plate and ignited the burner before turning to his lieutenant. “She does not. Nor will she find out until he is delivered to the pit.”

Barsad frowned, avoided his eyes and moved toward Bane’s cot. “Jesus, Bane…”

“It’s not that you disapprove,” Bane observed. “There is something else, something you aren’t telling me.”

Sitting on the cot, Barsad clasped his hands, restlessly rubbed them together, his thin lips tight with indecision. Bane knew by his friend’s struggle that this had to do with Talia, for with anything else Barsad would never hesitate to be forthright. The long moment stretched on, causing Bane’s fingers to twitch. Barsad, of course, noticed. Bane stilled the tic so as not to discourage his lieutenant from revealing his secret.

“You two,” Barsad said at last with a gentle rush of exhalation, as if he had been holding his breath. “Jesus, you’re gonna be the figurative death of me as well as the literal, you know?”

“What is it, John?”

Barsad frowned again. “Before you have Wayne brought down here, you need to talk with Talia.”

“I already told you that she will be informed when the time is right.”

“I know what you said. But you’re not the only one with personal plans of vengeance for Wayne.”

“Speak plainly, brother.” Bane angled his desk chair to face Barsad and sat to ease his back’s nightly protests. “Talia has shared something with you.”

“I wish she hadn’t.” Barsad ran one hand through his disheveled, short hair. “Naturally she made me promise not to tell you.”

Bane tried to make him feel at ease by offering a brotherly smile. “And you fear the consequences should she find out? Rest assured, I will protect you from her wrath.”

“It’s not her wrath that concerns me.”

“You know I cannot contact her, not now. Not with everything on the cusp. We are too close to risk jeopardizing a key component to our plan by communicating directly. That is what you and Finn are for. If you prefer, I will ask Finn to share the information with me.”

“Finn doesn’t know.” Barsad glanced toward the nearest guard who had moved out of earshot when he and Bane had begun their private conversation. “Talia couldn’t tell him, even if she wanted to, not with the agreement between you two to keep your relationship under wraps.”

Now Bane’s concerned curiosity grew to an unbearable level, and his iron stare would not allow Barsad to look away again. “Tell me, John.”

“I’ll tell you on one condition.”

“There will be no conditions.”

“God dammit, for this there will be.”

Bane’s stare did not relent. Any other person would have withered beneath it and babbled out all withheld secrets. But Barsad was the one man who would not. And the agitation swirling now in Bane made it impossible to outwait his friend.

“What condition am I to consider?”

“I want your word that you won’t go off your nut when you hear this. Talia needs you focused for tomorrow. That’s why she would rip my balls off and feed ‘em to me if she knew I was telling you this shit tonight of all nights.”

Bane considered, could not wait any longer, not when it involved Talia, especially if she were in danger. “You have my word, though your insinuation about any lack of control on my part is insulting, even for you, brother.”

“Well, we won’t get into another debate about that right now,” Barsad said wryly.

“Good. Now tell me about Talia.”

Barsad unclasped his hands, ran them along his thighs, rested them on his knees, back straight, feet firm upon the floor as if ready to flee if needed. He revealed deep sadness and regret through his hooded blue eyes, like someone about to deliver the news of a death to a family member.

“Like you, Talia wants personal revenge against Bruce Wayne. And also like you, she feels death is too simple and easy for him. She wants him to suffer and to know her father’s destiny was not only fulfilled but that his murder was avenged. So tomorrow, if things go according to plan and Wayne hands over control of Wayne Enterprises to her to keep Daggett out of play, she plans to cultivate a…an intimate relationship with Wayne, make him care about her, so when she reveals her true identity before the end, he’ll feel betrayed, like her father did when Wayne destroyed your home and killed your brothers.”

Propelled by instant outrage, Bane shot to his feet with a speed he had not known since his youth. Freeing a loud growl, he stalked toward the railing near the cataract. He gripped the metal with a fury so powerful that he could have bent the railing if he had tried. With burning eyes, he stared through the waterfall, his heart pounding through his shirt, hammering against the steel plate of his vest. Then, as if it were yesterday, he remembered his final, brutal argument with Rā’s al Ghūl, heard the echo of his own words: “She’s old enough to understand what you have planned for her. Tell her how she will become Bruce Wayne’s whore.”

“This is my fault,” Bane said, his chest heaving as he tried to control himself, his breath wheezing through the mask.

“What?” Barsad drew closer to hear him over the rush of water.

“I drove the wedge between Talia and her father. Her guilt over his death is because of that wedge. And now she’s trying to earn his forgiveness by following his original plan for her.”

“She’s not marrying the asshole.”

“No, but she is giving herself to him.”

“You’re reading too much into this, Bane. Talia’s actions are her own. You aren’t the cause of ‘em.”

“You are mistaken, brother. You know her well, but not as I do. She thinks this will purge her demons and achieve reconciliation. Though every fiber of my being desires to stop her, I can’t interfere again.”

“Damn right you can’t. It’ll just piss her off anyway, and it won’t stop her. She told me as much, if you were to find out.”

With a force of will, Bane conquered his rage, but instead of draining away, it simply morphed into a deep, penetrating, agonizing sadness. He took comfort in knowing that in only a few short months, such pain would be taken away from him forever.

Barsad rested his hand on Bane’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, brother. But after hearing what you said to Selina, I had to tell you. You can’t supersede what Talia has planned. It’ll only damage your relationship more, and I know that’s not how the two of you want to go out.”

Bane’s fingers relaxed on the damp railing. “I won’t get in her way. I will let her have her personal moment with her enemy. The memory of it will torment Wayne in prison.” The same way my memories of being in her arms torture me, Bane thought.

“Wait…what? Prison?” Barsad’s hand fell away. “Didn’t you hear what I just told you? You said you wouldn’t interfere—”

“As I said, she will be allowed her moment. But then I will have mine. And she will not have to debase herself again. Wayne won’t know our connection until after he’s had time to mourn his separation from his new love. Then, in time, when Talia’s true lineage is revealed to him, he will experience an entirely different form of pain.”

“You do this, she’s gonna know I told you. She’s gonna think you did it because of her sleeping with him. And she’s going to be pissed at you all over again. Don’t do this, Bane. Not now.”

“Your concern for our relationship is appreciated, brother.” Bane lumbered toward his cot. “But my plans for Wayne will go forward, regardless of what you’ve told me tonight. Later you may tell Talia that I had made such plans without knowledge of hers, if that will ease your conscience.”

“Dammit, Bane, this isn’t about me. We should all be sticking to the original plan. Messing with someone like Wayne isn’t the wisest move. He’s Batman, for God’s sake. He’s had the same training as you.”

“You fear that I cannot beat him?”

Barsad faltered. “If there’s one man on earth who has even a chance of besting you, it’s him.”

“You have nothing to fear, brother.” He settled on the cot with a low grunt of discomfort, thought of Talia’s large bed in her penthouse, saw her nestled amidst the blankets, her hair wild, her face peaceful. “The news you have just shared with me will fuel my strength. My hatred of the man, my rage over Talia’s sacrifice and my inability to protect her from such an injustice, will ensure that Batman will be no more.” Through his eyes, he conveyed a reassuring smile to ease Barsad’s distress. “For that, I thank you, brother. And I bid you good night.”

Bane’s soft stare allowed no further room for argument, and Barsad’s shoulders sagged with a sigh of capitulation. Mumbling, “Fuck,” his lieutenant shuffled out of the CP. Bane watched him go, then thanked Maysam for blessing him with such a loyal, invaluable friend.

He removed his clothing except his shirt, turned off the lights, and slipped beneath Melisande’s blanket. Closing his eyes, he allowed the white noise of the waterfall to calm him. But he knew he would not sleep, not with the thought of Talia in Bruce Wayne’s arms tormenting him.

Forty-eight

With deep satisfaction, Bane finished reading the article in the Gotham Times and dropped the newspaper onto his desk. He stared at the headline one more time: Bruce Wayne Doubles Down and Loses. Smiling, he flipped back to the front page and its main headline: Batman Back to Foil or Mastermind Stock Raid. Yes, Bruce Wayne had helped them in more than one way last night. The Caped Crusader’s reemergence at the same time as the stock exchange operation had led the media and thus the whole city to shift focus from Bane to Batman as the driving force behind the attack. This, along with the influence of Bane’s men inside the GCPD, had ensured a lackluster effort to locate the mercenary.

With a glance at his watch, Bane turned away from his desk. Impatience twitched his fingers and drove him from the command post out onto the catwalk. He glanced toward the top of the vast atrium, toward his men standing watch on the concourse. Then he stopped to observe the water rushing below.

Another check of his watch. How long would Talia’s morning meeting with Bruce Wayne take? Was the purpose of the meeting as they hoped—Wayne requesting that Talia take control of Wayne Enterprises and the energy program? Or was it something else? According to Finn Donnell, the invitation to Miranda Tate had been vague but urgent, something that needed to be attended to prior to the emergency board meeting at Wayne Tower. Finn had said that the private meeting was not taking place at Wayne Tower. An interesting detail. Considering Wayne’s sudden and dire financial situation and his fear of Daggett getting his clutches on WE, how could the meeting be anything but for the reason Bane and Talia desired?

The thought of Wayne and Talia alone together set his fingers dancing again until he clasped his hands together, irritated at the visible sign of unrest. He had slept little last night after hearing Barsad’s revelation. His mind had turned the situation over and over a hundred times or more, weighing different options, planning what he would do to Wayne and how he would explain it all to Talia afterwards. Of course she would be furious that he had again taken matters into his own hands without consulting her, but he had borne her ill will before; he would have to do so again, for her sake…and his, he admitted.

Though he fought against the images, he saw Talia now with Wayne. She would charm him, especially if they were indeed alone. Even the reclusive billionaire would be unable to resist her continued and dogged onslaught to gain his trust and more. No doubt she had dressed alluringly, wore an extra dash of her intoxicating perfume, and she would use the beauty of her expressive eyes to her advantage, as she had with Bane and so many others.

Bane’s fists tried to clench, but he resisted the impulse. How he looked forward to confronting Batman, to crushing him and condemning him to the pit. He would take him there himself; he wanted to witness Wayne’s reaction when he first saw his surroundings and fully realized his fate. Of course Barsad would argue against such an indulgence just when the fire was about to blaze, but Bane would turn a deaf ear; he would not be deprived of his moment of triumph. He would allow himself to enjoy this one, last bit of pleasure.

“Bane!” Yemi’s deep voice turned him.

The Nigerian strode with long, powerful strides along the catwalk, Barsad in his wake. Both men’s animated expressions foretold good news.

Seeing his ex-prison comrade so closely on the heels of his thoughts of the pit stirred Bane’s feelings of brotherhood. Their paths had only infrequently crossed since Yemi had come to Gotham years ago with Talia, as part of her personal security force. And even since Bane had arrived in the city, Yemi’s duties kept him away from his commander. Yemi had surely accompanied Talia to her meeting with Wayne, though Wayne no doubt allowed no one but Talia into the conference. Obviously Talia had entrusted the big Nigerian to deliver her report of the encounter.

“It is a pleasure to see you, old friend,” Bane greeted him with an undeniable smile, clasping his hand. “It appears you bring good tidings.”

“The best. Talia sent me straight from her meeting with Wayne.” He reached into a pocket to retrieve a small piece of paper.

“Has Wayne given her the authority we wanted?”

“Yes. And even better he allowed her to see the reactor itself.” He handed the paper to Bane.

Numbers written in Talia’s hand. Coordinates. The location of the reactor. Bane could feel Barsad’s grin, his lieutenant clapping Yemi on the back, Yemi returning the grin. Bane looked at the two of them, his own smile tugging at the edges of the mask. For a brief moment his breathing was clear and free, as if the mask did not exist.

“The maps, gentlemen,” he said and led the way into the CP. Several men had reported there, standing along the fringes, waiting for orders that would soon come. Bane only glanced at them as he hurried to his desk. Spreading out one of the maps of Gotham, he used the coordinates to pinpoint the reactor’s location. Yemi conveyed Talia’s description of the bunker that housed the reactor beneath the river, a location that allowed the chamber to be easily flooded if necessary.

Turning to Barsad, Bane ordered, “Get men over there to analyze the location and set charges. I will join you shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” Barsad hurried away, taking the newcomers with him.

“Talia is on her way to the board meeting,” Yemi said.

“Excellent. It won’t be long, then. Thank you, Yemi.” Bane rested a large paw on his friend’s shoulder. “It was right of Talia to honor you with relaying this news. You have served her admirably.”

“It has been my honor.” Yemi’s white teeth flashed again. “She’s come a long ways from that little girl in the pit. Now she rules over one of the most important men in the world and his entire empire.”

“Indeed.” Bane squeezed his shoulder then released him. “Tell me, how did she seem after the meeting?”

“Very pleased, of course.”

“Not worried?”

“No. Confident. Strong.” Yemi nodded. “Resolved.”

Bane returned the nod, smiled with pride.

“You made her that way, Bane.”

“No.” Bane’s gaze drifted to Melisande’s blanket. “Her mother did.”

###

Bane’s fingers fluttered in eager anticipation as he moved silently across Daggett’s marble floor. He heard the man’s angry voice coming from the far end of the room, having just returned from the Wayne Enterprises board meeting where he had lost his bid for control. Bane knew this from Finn’s triumphant phone call.

Daggett’s question boomed throughout the penthouse, “How the hell did Miranda Tate get the inside track on the Wayne board? I mean, had she been meeting with him? Had she been sleeping with him?”

Stryver wearily responded, “Not that we know of.”

“Clearly you don’t know much of anything, do you?” Daggett snapped. “Where’s Bane?”

“We told him it was urgent.”

With disgust Daggett sneered, “Oh, where is that masked—?”

“Speak of the devil,” Bane interrupted flippantly, turning the two men, “and he shall appear.” He nearly chuckled to himself over the instant alarm on the men’s faces, knowing that they probably thought he was indeed the devil incarnate, standing there in the center of the room as if he had materialized out of thin air. No doubt they were amazed that such a big man could move so silently.

While Stryver froze in his tracks, Daggett advanced upon Bane, his outrage masking any fear, his terse question measured out, “What the hell is going on?”

With hands folded together to keep his fingers still lest his tic forewarn Daggett of his doom, Bane lightly responded, “Our plan is proceeding as expected.”

“Oh, really?” Daggett was close to a sarcastic laugh as he halted in front of Bane. “Do I look like I’m running Wayne Enterprises right now? Your hit on the stock exchange, it didn’t work, my friend.” His words took on a venomous tone. “And now you have my construction crews going around the city at twenty-four hours a day. How exactly is that supposed to help my company absorb Wayne’s?”

Any amusement Bane had felt toward the spewing little man died quickly away. He shifted his attention to Stryver who remained at the far end of the room, watching with near-panic in his eyes. “Leave us,” Bane told him.

“No!” Daggett turned slightly toward Stryver, raising a rebuking finger. “Stay here. I’m in charge.”

Bane gently set his left hand on Daggett’s shoulder, his palm toward the man’s neck. Ominously he breathed, “Do you feel in charge?”

Stryver abandoned all hesitation and fled. Bane was confident that he would not alert security; he valued his own neck too much and probably sensed that he was about to be in need of new employment. And even if he did fetch someone, Bane could easily escape with either his own skills or that of his men who were nearby.

With Stryver gone, leaving them very much alone, the bravado died in Daggett who rolled his eyes up at the mask. “I’ve paid you a small fortune.”

“And this gives you power over me?”

Near a whisper now, Daggett said, “What is this?”

Bane’s left hand drifted to the tycoon’s face, the back of his fingers almost caressing Daggett’s cheek before his massive paw cradled the side of his head. “Your money and infrastructure have been important…till now.”

Daggett’s respiration had increased, and he could barely get out the words, “What are you?”

“I’m Gotham’s reckoning. Here to end the borrowed time you’ve all been lively on.”

Daggett began to squirm, terror nearly choking off his final words, “You are pure evil.”

The mocking tone returned to Bane as he said, “I’m necessary evil.” His right hand crossed over Daggett’s blanched face, engulfed it. And as the man began to scream against Bane’s palm, Bane jerked his arm and snapped the tycoon’s neck.

###

“Selina just called,” Barsad said, hurrying into the CP a short time after Bane’s return from Daggett’s penthouse. “Wayne left her apartment a few minutes ago. Like you expected, he came to her to try to find you.”

“And when will our Cat be accommodating Mr. Wayne’s request?”

“Tonight.” Barsad swallowed hard, studied his commander, the excitement dying away. “Are you really going through with this?”

Bane tossed him a hard look. “Brother, you know I won’t deviate from my plan.”

Barsad frowned. “I’ll redeploy more men here.”

“There’s no need. Those assets are required elsewhere. I can dispatch Batman myself.” His eyes crinkled. “You may watch, if it will ease your mind, brother.” He pulled his ringing phone from a jacket pocket. “What is it, Yemi?”

“It’s Talia. She’s heading over to Wayne Manor. She wouldn’t say why, and she told me not to tell you. You know I normally would never go against her orders, but something doesn’t feel right. She’s insisting on going alone. I argued against it, of course, but she wouldn’t listen. I thought you or Finn might be able to talk to her.”

Bane’s blood ran cold. His jaw tightened, and he growled out the words, “No, brother. Leave her be.”

A pause. “What?”

“She has her own mission to complete. I am aware of her reasons, rest assured.” And her reasons turn my stomach. How he wanted to stop her, to rush over to Wayne Manor and intervene, to kill Bruce Wayne right then and there in front of her. But he had to think of the larger picture, of making Wayne suffer much deeper, much longer, and to allow Talia her moment of personal revenge. She deserved that.

“Stay close should she need you, Yemi, but do not interfere.”

Slight confusion colored Yemi’s response, “Yes, sir.”

Bane disconnected the call, his thoughts blinding him to his immediate surroundings, taking him from the CP to Talia. He closed his eyes, willed his thoughts to reach her, to stop her from debasing herself, to keep her from sleeping with the man who least deserved such exquisite pleasures, such privilege.

“Bane,” Barsad’s voice drew him back, opened his eyes. Deep concern lowered Barsad’s brow. “Are you all right?”

For a moment Bane stared at him, almost looked through him. Then he turned away, not wanting to allow even Barsad to see the pain that ripped through him. “When our guest arrives later, you will not interfere. Do you understand? Your men will stand down.”

“But what if—?”

“There will be no ‘what if.’ I will break him. I will tear that mask from his face. Make sure my jet is ready for my departure immediately afterwards.”

“You’re gonna leave…right now?”

“As I told you before, I will accompany Wayne to the prison. I will be there to tell him of his fate, of the fate of his city. Then I will fly back.”

“I’m going with you. Talia would want me to.”

“No. You will stay here in command. You will make sure we are ready to gain access to the reactor, that Dr. Pavel will be ready. As soon as I return, we will pay our visit to the Wayne Board, as planned.” And he would see Talia again, knowing what she had done and knowing he had displeased her once again. “Say nothing to Talia. I will tell her of Wayne’s fate myself.”

The worry lines multiplied on Barsad’s worn face. “That’s not gonna go well.”

“No, it will not. But there is no help for it.” He glanced back at his friend. “Now leave me, brother. I need to prepare myself physically and mentally for our visitor.”

Forty-nine

Far above Bane’s lair, night fell, ushering in torturous hours that progressed at a crawl, hours Talia was spending with Bruce Wayne. Bane kept himself occupied first with work, with preparations for their soon-to-be-realized plans for Gotham, then with meditation and exercises to prepare for his confrontation with Batman, then with crocheting to keep his hands busy and his mind calm. But no amount of discipline and training could overpower the storm of emotions within him.

He berated himself for his jealousy. As much as he liked to think of Talia as his emotional and sexual property, he knew he had no such rights to her, not now, not since Gotham had consumed her. Yet it was that consumption that drove some of his anger over tonight’s situation. He should have protected her from Gotham’s influence, from the influence of obscenely wealthy men like Wayne and those before him. But how? Talia’s interactions with such men over the years had led to the League’s ability to wage this war on Gotham. A necessary evil. His own words mocked him.

After pondering the various scenarios of how he might have spared Talia from her current life, the only viable option was one he had never before considered.

He should have killed Rā’s al Ghūl.

If he had done so before Talia had learned of her father’s unsavory plans for her future, then she would never have felt the guilt and obligation to uphold her martyred father’s wishes years later. True enough, if Talia had learned of the assassination, Bane would have suffered her hatred. But it would have been a sacrifice worth making to save her from the life of lies she led in Gotham. Perhaps through a much different path she could have found love, married and had children, as her mother had. A peaceful, happy life of which Melisande would approve and welcome for her only child. And if Bane had kept hidden his hand in the murder, perhaps he could have stayed closer to her than his current life allowed. He could have protected her always.

Thinking of such things was a foolish waste of time, he rebuked himself. Temujin had often admonished him about wishing for things that the past had already erased. And besides, how could he truly have killed the man responsible for rescuing him from the pit and providing Talia with a home and family? A man who had taken him in after his own father had rejected him.

Yet when images of Talia having sex with Bruce Wayne invaded his thoughts, he did think of murder. What if Talia fell for Wayne’s charm? The man was, after all, well-versed in attracting beautiful, powerful women. What if, instead of duty, it was attraction that had driven Talia into Wayne’s arms? After all, he had a face women craved, a face that lacked Bane’s deformities and grotesque mask. True, Talia had never shown even a hint of hesitation or repulsion over the mask and what lay beneath, yet now that she was older, more experienced, and had been away from him so much…

You are weak, he silently snarled at himself. Yet he could not hate that weakness, for that weakness was his love for Talia. Other times in his life, it had strengthened him, but now it tried to destroy him but distracting him at a time when he needed all of the focus he could muster.

Bane forced his attention to his watch. It was nearing midnight. Midnight, when the Cat had said she would deliver Batman. Taking in a deep, sustaining breath, he pushed away his troubling thoughts. But not too far away, for he would use his hatred as fuel. He stood and removed his shirt, donned his protective vest, along with his support belt. Then he left the CP and climbed the stairs to the next level, his steps ponderous but determined, his boots echoing on the concrete.

He stepped onto the concourse and toward the catwalk. The flowing water of the aqueduct far below reflected the atrium’s halogen lighting upward, spackling the ceiling, bouncing against the walls near Bane. Men were stationed throughout the atrium; Barsad had increased the force by a few men, against his commander’s orders, of course, but Bane allowed his friend this small act of insubordination. Besides, when he was through with Batman, these extra men would be available to enter Wayne’s armory once breached.

Barsad stood near the catwalk, Abraham nearby. For a moment Bane thought his second-in-command meant to block the entrance to the catwalk, for he wore a worried yet determined expression on his scruffy face, and his hands formed into loose fists.

“The charges are ready?” Bane asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who has the detonator?”

“Riley.”

Standing now at the railing, Bane looked downward to find Riley near the entrance to the lower catwalk, opposite the CP.

“Bane.” Barsad stepped close, away from Abraham who dutifully moved back toward the shadowy wall. Keeping his voice low, Barsad continued, “You don’t have to fight him. We can just take him to the plane after he sees us blow the armory—”

“Brother,” Bane’s quiet but forceful word silenced Barsad as he placed a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. With confident assurance, he smiled. “Even weakened as he is by the passage of years, he is strong enough to escape if whole. I must break him.”

Barsad sighed in frustration, shifted his weight.

“You will give me your word that you will not interfere, brother.”

“You’ve already taken my gun from me. Isn’t that enough?”

“No.” Bane nodded toward Abraham. “You might acquire another, if Abraham or one of the others are foolish enough to disobey my orders. And so I require your pledge.”

Barsad was as close as he could be without his nose touching the mask. “God dammit it, Bane, you’re the one being foolish here. You’re taking an unnecessary risk. There’s too much at stake.”

Bane’s hand dropped away, but his small smile remained. Somewhere in the distance he heard gunfire. “Our guest approaches,” he murmured and held his friend’s gaze with sharp authority. “You will remain at your post, brother. Give me your word, or I will have you removed from this place.”

Barsad’s jaw clenched, his stare unflinching but full of many emotions, things that took Bane back to their time as prisoners of India’s intelligence agents. They remained there, toe to toe, for a long moment. The brief gunfire in the tunnels died away.

“Barsad,” Bane rumbled.

His friend’s lips tightened briefly, then he softly snarled, “You have my word, you God damn stubborn fool.” Begrudgingly he allowed Bane space to step onto the catwalk.

Bane halted just a few feet out, saw shadows approaching on the concourse across from him, nearing the opposite end of the catwalk. Figures cloaked in black clothing, one slim and sleek, the other large and almost ethereal. With a deep inhalation, Bane cleared his mind, briefly closed his eyes, opened them with a cleansing exhale. He straightened his damaged back and lightly gripped the straps of his protective vest, adopting Rā’s al Ghūl’s common stance. Would Bruce Wayne remember his mentor’s familiar pose?

From the shadows Batman stepped onto the catwalk, and one of Bane’s men activated a grated door which then slammed down behind the Caped Crusader, right in front of Selina Kyle, separating the two dark figures. Batman immediately whirled back toward Selina. Bane did not move, merely waited, breathing evenly, softly through the mask, listened to Selina’s words of regret to Batman.

“I had to find a way to stop them trying to kill me.”

In his guttural, false voice, Wayne told her, “You made a serious mistake.”

To which Bane replied, “Not as serious as yours, I fear.”

Slowly Batman turned. Their eyes met. Bane released a final long breath, his outer calm hiding his inner delight over finally coming face to face with the man responsible for so much of Talia’s pain as well as his own.

“Bane,” Batman growled.

“Let’s not stand on ceremony here,” Bane said glibly, “Mr. Wayne.”

Behind Batman, Selina’s face opened with shock at hearing of Batman’s true identity.

Bane lumbered forward, his heavy, cadenced steps on the grated bridge telegraphing his power and weight, his head bobbing slightly side to side with his movement, revealing the relaxed nature of his body. His hands remained on his vest, his entire posture emanating calm and confidence as his enemy approached with the same conservative gait. But then Batman attacked. He landed a punch to Bane’s left side, followed by a two-handed blow to the mid-section. Bane made no move to defend himself. An uppercut blasted against his chin, drove his head back. A backhanded blow to the mask snapped Bane’s face to the left.

Enough!

Bane’s left hand flashed up like a great eagle claw, clamped down on Batman’s driving right, froze the blow mid-swing. Bane’s attention shifted from their joined fists to his opponent’s surprised eyes, the skin around them blackened to match the cowl. Frowning, Bane taunted, “Peace has cost you your strength.” His other hand blocked and held Batman’s left. “Victory has defeated you.”

He smashed Batman’s own hand into the cowl, staggering him. Bane’s powerful kick to the mid-section drove his opponent even farther back as he went on the offensive, hammering Batman with a flurry of blows. Batman ducked under one of them and got behind Bane who instantly wheeled to meet him. Finally Batman blocked one of his devastating punches and smashed a head-butt against Bane, growling again. Worthless vocalizations that Bane knew would sap his enemy’s stamina.

Bane drifted backward, vaguely aware of Barsad now in his field of vision, Abraham between Barsad and the catwalk entrance. With continued snarls, Batman came at him, and Bane allowed it, hands loose at his sides. Four blows, alternating hands, directly against the mask. Bane let him experience how solid the mask was against his attempts to dislodge it. When Batman attempted a sideways kick, Bane easily blocked it, then drove a swinging backhander against Batman’s head and a thunderous kick to the chest that sent his opponent cartwheeling off the catwalk. Batman’s memory fabric cape acted like bat wings, breaking the man’s fall and allowing him to land on his feet at the bottom of the atrium, next to the aqueduct. Fluidly Bane swung over the railing and used a vertical chain to shimmy quickly in pursuit.

Batman barely had gotten to his feet when Bane grabbed him with one hand and swung him around into a thick steel stanchion. But Batman recovered quickly, turning just in time to deflect Bane’s right-handed blow, then he broke the hold Bane’s other hand had on him and struck with a flashing left to the mask. Though the force of the punch turned Bane, it did not stop him. He sledged a right into Batman’s chest, forcing him back a step. Bane swung again, but Batman ducked beneath his arm, but not low enough to elude Bane’s left hand which grabbed the back of his neck, keeping him close. With his forearm, Batman blocked another right-handed drive. Bane maintained his hold on Batman’s neck, trying to drag him closer to minimize the man’s reach and thus his power.

An unexpected uppercut flung Bane nearly off his feet, but he maintained his hold, even when Batman’s extended right attempted to break his grip. Bane bent him forward, tried to unbalance him, but the man had his feet firmly planted, and now he had his hand on the back of Bane’s head, using the same tactic, both men battling to overpower and drive the other to the floor. Batman’s left slammed into Bane’s protective vest, and while the blow did not hurt, its energy drove Bane backward. Another blow, then another and another; Bane allowed it, put up no resistance, inviting his enemy to expend more precious energy that he could ill afford. Batman finally broke Bane’s hold and joined his hands behind Bane’s neck, pulled him into his chest, drove a knee upward against Bane’s brace which absorbed the blow.

With a bull-like twist of his shoulders, Bane broke Batman’s hold, surprising the man. Displaying the incongruous agility of a ballet dancer, Bane used his inertia to jump and spin at the same time. His swinging left arm knocked away Batman’s aiming right while his right fist came down like a sledgehammer, dropping Batman to the grated flooring close to the aqueduct. Drawing in a renewing breath, Bane stepped toward his gasping enemy, unhurried, knowing Batman could not get up. He kicked the man in the gut, eliciting a cry of pain. Again he waited while Batman crawled up the steps to the bridge over the aqueduct. Bane followed at his leisurely pace, allowing Batman to gain his feet.

With an enraged, wounded roar that echoed throughout the atrium, Batman brought his fists up in a defensive posture, mouth open as he struggled to breathe. Bane could see desperation in his dark eyes, the dawning realization that here was someone who might actually defeat the vaunted Batman, the legend, Gotham’s savior. This desperation made his next attempt to strike wild and impulsive, opening himself up to a devastating body blow that doubled him over. Bane freed his own rage then, nearly driving Batman to his knees with a left-hand blow, followed by two alternating blows that completely overwhelmed his opponent, pushing him to the opposite end of the small bridge. Bracing one hand on the railing, Bane blasted Batman with a boot to the chest and sent him hurtling off the bridge onto the floor where moisture from the aqueduct rained down upon him, glistening upon the batsuit.

Lying on his back, Batman scrabbled at his utility belt, flung several flash-bang devices at Bane. They exploded in sparks, smoke, and noise around Bane who did not flinch, still standing like a conqueror on the bridge, looking down at his enemy with cool disdain.

“Theatricality and deception,” Bane repeated words Rā’s al Ghūl had once said to him and no doubt to Bruce Wayne. “Powerful agents to the uninitiated.” He started down the steps, footfalls heavy and ominous, unrelenting, as Batman regained his feet. Bane continued, his voice dripping with superiority, hoping his words had reminded Wayne of the man he had betrayed, “But we are initiated, aren’t we, Bruce?” He drew closer. “Members of the League of Shadows.”

Still not finished, Batman charged him with surprising speed, but Bane ducked and bobbed like a prize fighter, avoiding blows then delivering one himself into Batman’s gut, driving out his air, and folding him down into his waiting grip. Bane’s right hand closed around his opponent’s neck, lifted him off his feet like a doll. As Batman choked and sputtered, prying at Bane’s hold to no avail, Bane carried him several steps, illustrating his superhuman strength.

“But you betrayed us,” Bane continued.

“Us?” Batman gasped. “You were excommunicated by a gang of psychopaths.”

The words should not have surprised Bane, but the derision behind them cut him deeply, increased his hidden rage and sliced him with sadness when flashes of memories of his friends like Temujin, Choden, and Akar blinded him. All within a second, as if time stood still, coupled with a flashback of his final argument with Rā’s al Ghūl when he had been banished. Talia’s tears that night; her fight with her father; her fear of losing the one constant in her life. How dare Bruce Wayne, of all people, mock such a brotherhood, the only family Bane had ever known?

He released his rage, slamming two devastating body blows into Batman with a power not even the batsuit could absorb completely. Then Bane threw his enemy to the ground several feet away, close to the aqueduct where water spilled over the sides from the force of the waterfall. Completely winded, Batman slowly regained his feet as Bane recovered his self-control.

With an acerbic, mocking, almost joyful tone in his voice, Bane spread his damp arms out to either side like the wings of a condor, and said, “I am the League of Shadows, and I am here to fulfill Rā’s al Ghūl’s destiny!”

As Bane expected, this pronouncement inflamed Batman. After all, he had thought that he had destroyed not only the League years ago when he killed Rā’s but had thought Rā’s’ plans for Gotham’s destruction had died with him. Yet another failure on his part.

Batman flew at him with a savage cry of outrage. His impetus and weight slammed Bane to the floor, Batman atop him. Again Bane allowed his enemy to strike him, five times against the unyielding mask as he lay on his back, letting the man tire himself further. Then with the speed of a viper, he smashed his forehead into the cowl and dismissively threw the stunned Batman several feet from him once again.

“You fight like a younger man,” Bane allowed as he stood, “nothing held back.” Unconcerned, he turned away from Batman’s gasping form and shuffled a couple of feet away before looking at him again. “Admirable, but mistaken.”

There was little left in Batman, but he rallied enough of his mental faculties to activate an EMP via his utility belt. The lights in the atrium died. Bane smiled wryly, imagining Barsad’s panic at this unexpected occurrence, his commander hidden from him. Bane, however, was unaffected.

“Oh,” he crooned to his enemy, “you think darkness is your ally.” He began to move deliberately but leisurely, no fear, searching for the darker shadow that would reveal Batman’s location. “You merely adopted the dark. I was born in it, molded by it. I didn’t see the light till I was already a man, and by then it was nothing to me but blinding.”

With the last word, he wheeled toward the stanchion which Batman had assumed masked his presence, blending together into one black structure. Bane grabbed him by the neck with one hand, drew him away from the stanchion, smashed a blow that sent him tumbling again into the sloped side of the aqueduct. This time Batman did not arise. The atrium lighting flashed back on, glimmering upon him where he reclined against the wet metal, desperately panting, helpless.

Bane advanced, growling out, “Shadows betray you, because they belong to me!”

Then he was upon his enemy, sledging right-handed blows, the most powerful ones yet, again and again into the graphite cowl until at last it cracked and opened around Batman’s left eye. Still the man lay unmoving, spent, now concussed as well. With no fear of counterattack, Bane moved several steps away, more toward the middle of the atrium where he could clearly be seen by his men from above.

The flippancy had returned to his tone as he addressed his dazed enemy, “I will show you where I have made my home whilst preparing to bring justice.”

As Batman’s weary gaze lifted, Bane gestured to Riley on the lower catwalk, who tossed him a small detonator.

“Then,” Bane announced to his opponent, “I will break you.”

He pressed the detonator. In the blink of an eye, charges went off, sparks flying upward in lines all around the atrium, racing to the ceiling where the strongest explosives had been rigged, where the cement was the thickest…for good reason. With the roar of thunder, the ceiling collapsed in a huge fall of cement, girders and rebar, crashing down not far from Bane who had not moved an inch. Amidst the rubble sat a desert camouflage-painted tumbler, sitting there in surrender to torment the staring Batman.

“Your precious armory!” Bane crowed in triumph. “Gratefully accepted. We will need it.”

Above him, his men were already climbing up lines into the gaping hole that had gained them access to Wayne Enterprises’s Applied Sciences. Batman would now realize Bane had ironically made his home directly beneath Bruce Wayne’s empire, Wayne Tower and the many machines of war that lay in the massive warehouse of Applied Sciences. No longer tools for Batman’s protection of Gotham but instead the League’s means of destroying it.

The desperate reality of the situation breathed the last vestiges of life into Batman, and he groaned his way to his feet, haltingly approached Bane.

“Ah, yes,” Bane mocked. “I was wondering what would break first…”

He tossed away the detonator just before Batman lunged at him with a roar. But Bane’s casual stance had been a ruse; he had been ready for his enemy. He easily ducked Batman’s wild, wet swing and drove a breath-robbing right into his gut, doubling the man into a vulnerable position. With a huge left-handed swat to the head, he drove Batman to the floor. There the man floundered about in a vain attempt to regain his feet.

“Your spirit…” Bane continued his taunt, latching both hands onto the batsuit and lifting the groaning Batman above his head like a prize, “…or your body.”

Then Bane dropped him, directly onto his raised knee. A sickening crack signaled the fracturing of Batman’s spine, and he tumbled to the floor. There he lay unconscious, as unmoving as Temujin’s dead body outside the Shanghai warehouse where Bruce Wayne had been arrested.

Bane bent over Batman and removed the broken cowl, exposing the defeated visage of Bruce Wayne, prince of Gotham no more; he had been deposed by a new ruler. Straightening with his broken graphite trophy, Bane scornfully studied it. Then he walked away from the wreckage of his enemy, moving with fluid, triumphant strides; swagger, as Barsad always called such a gait.

Thinking of Talia and Temujin, Bane dropped the cowl as if it were nothing more than a piece of garbage.

Fifty

Bruce Wayne was lowered into the gaping maw of the pit prison like a gutted deer. His body was limp, his mind unaware of his circumstances. Bane had ordered him sedated for the flight from Gotham to Jaipur and the journey by truck to the prison. Perhaps the sedation had been unnecessary since the agony of Wayne’s injuries possibly was sufficient to keep him insensible, but Bane wanted his enemy to know nothing of this place’s location, including the length of the journey to arrive here. And even more important, he wanted Wayne’s first waking moment to be in his cell, with the man who broke him looming over him.

Bane, of course, knew the physical torture Wayne experienced during the desert passage. After all, he had made a similar passage by truck with a broken back after falling during his last escape attempt. Easily he recalled how each bump the vehicle encountered filled him with unbearable, nauseating pain, the kind that had made him want to scream, though he had managed to deny the display. Yet his own familiarity with Wayne’s torment did not generate one ounce of sympathy from him.

He stood at the top of the stepwell, four armed men with him, watching Wayne’s upside down descent, facilitated via rope by Bane’s men at the mouth of the shaft. The single hemp line served as a second reminder of Bane’s last fall. He could still feel the safety rope around his torso slamming him to a halt before the sabotaged line snapped, followed by the horrifying plummet to the bottom of the stepwell. Nothing more did he remember from that trauma until he awoke in his cell, his back on fire, every nerve screaming, every muscle in spasm. Then the worried voice of Melisande in the next cell, trying to console Talia who was sobbing and begging him to awaken.

Bane shook himself from the memory, surprised by its strength after all this time. He focused on Talia back in Gotham and how what he was now doing would protect her from the taint of Bruce Wayne. It was worth the discomfort caused by returning here. In anticipation of such unpleasantness, he had allowed a slight increase in the dosage of his inhalant. Not enough to impede him physically but enough to give his psyche a subtle calming effect, a balm that would see him through this short visit.

Prisoners had come from the corridors to gawk, all of them staying well clear of Bane and his menacing cohort. Most stood silently watching Wayne, no doubt wondering what made this inmate so important that the Masked Man of legend was here himself to usher in the new arrival.

When Wayne reached the top of the bawdi, Bane gestured toward the open door of a cell across the shaft, one that looked out upon the stepwell, and ordered two of his men to take him there. Bane had considered throwing the current inhabitant out of his former cell and putting Wayne there, but he did not want the man living in the space where Talia had dwelt.

Wayne moaned through the sedation when the men picked him up. Bane watched them carry him around the cylindrical shaft, then turned to look for the old man whom he had spotted sitting in the stepwell when he had first arrived. The prisoner had not moved, had not reacted to the murmuring discussion of the other inmates or the limited conversation between Bane and his men. Was he deaf by now? Bane wondered. How old was he? Surely well into his seventies.

Doctor Assad sat on the highest level of the stepwell, undoubtedly hoping some of the warmth from far above might find him. Warmth, however, was a relative term down here. His clothes, while ragged, had less wear than the other prisoners. Talia’s kindness toward the doctor had continued over the years, allowing the man more comforts than the others, though Bane ensured that nothing given him was too lavish. What remained of his hair had turned gray, matching the stubble on his cheeks. The milky film over his eyes that Bane had first seen years ago was thicker now. What little light lived here in the pit was forever sealed off from Assad.

The old man cocked his head as Bane and his men approached. Not deaf after all. When he spoke, it was obvious he had recognized Bane’s mechanical-sounding voice echoing in the stepwell, and if he had not, then he now could hear the rasp of Bane’s breathing apparatus close by.

“What brings the Masked Man back to the pit?” Assad’s hoarse voice was dull, hopeless. Unlike last time, it seemed he no longer entertained any hope that his former friend might have pity on him and remove him from this hell.

“I have brought a new prisoner.”

Assad shrugged beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders. “Many prisoners have come over the years since you took control of this place; I’ve never known you to accompany any of them.”

There was a new element to Assad’s tone, something close to contempt or sarcasm. Had he at last come to hate the man who had left him here to die? Bane did not care. Like Wayne, Assad deserved to be here, paying for his sins against Talia.

Assad continued, “What makes this one so special?”

“He is the man who murdered Talia’s father.”

Assad’s furry eyebrows arose, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost tender. “Talia… How is she?”

“I did not come here for a social call, Doctor.”

“Yet you are here talking to me.”

“I want your recommendation.”

“For what?”

“I wish to employ one of the prisoners.”

“Employ? As in compensate?”

“Yes. I need a man who will stick to task, preferably an older man. An ex-soldier perhaps.”

“Someone who knows how to follow orders,” Assad nodded his cynical understanding. “I will be better able to recommend someone if you tell me what the task will be.”

Bane crossed his arms, the leather of his Belstaff jacket gently creaking; the jacket kept away the worst of the prison’s chill. “He will be a caretaker for the new prisoner.”

“Caretaker? Is the man injured?”

“Yes.”

“Then he requires medical attention?”

“What I require is for him to remain alive, at least until he is given permission to die, as he would no doubt prefer. I am not concerned with his comfort. He deserves the suffering that he endures. You will not help him in any way, medically or otherwise.”

Assad waved at his own eyes. “As you know, I am no longer a capable physician. There is another now who tends to those who need care.”

“Yes, and he will be forbade from ministering to the new prisoner. I will be speaking to him as well. But just because you lack vision and youth, I would not put it past you to try to aid this man. That will not happen. Not if you wish to honor Talia’s desire, her need, to know this man is suffering for what he has done to her family. And if you want her benevolence toward you to continue.”

The corners of Assad’s downturned mouth sank even lower as he frowned.

“And if you truly care for her and wish to finish your days in peace, you will continue to abide by her wishes—and mine—that you never speak of her to anyone here, especially this new prisoner. To do so could jeopardize her safety, her very life, and thus your own. And if you put her in such a position, I will ensure that when your life is ended, it will be in a most unpleasant way. Do you understand?”

His frown deepening, Assad nodded.

“Now,” Bane gripped the lapels of his jacket, “give me a name and where to find him.”

Assad considered for a moment, and Bane could see him mentally flipping through a list of the prison population. At last he nodded as if to himself and said, “Josip Novak. Do you remember the cell where Aaron Spencer used to live?”

Easily Bane remembered the cell of the Canadian inmate with whom he had once traded for antibiotics to treat Talia when she had been gravely ill. He led two of his men there now, traveling down a corridor on the same level as Bruce Wayne’s cell. Darkness nearly swallowed them but was kept at bay by guttering oil lamps affixed to the walls at wide intervals. They passed cell after cell, some empty, some occupied by men who slept, others containing inmates who stared in fear and mistrust at the unusual trio marching past.

They found Novak napping on his charpoy. He was gray-haired and craggy, easily in his sixties, and when he opened his brown eyes, they drooped with apathy, even when faced with a stranger in a bizarre mask, flanked by armed men.

“Josip Novak?” Bane asked.

Without sitting up, Novak spoke in a gravelly voice, “That depends.”

Bane did not attempt to open the cell. Surely it was locked anyway. He watched Novak sit up, an inmate with more flesh on his bones than most in this place. This told Bane that here was a man of cunning, a man who knew how to acquire extra food for himself.

“Doctor Assad recommended you to me.”

“For what?” He eyed Bane through the bars. “I know who you are; I’ve heard the stories of the man who wears the mask, who escaped from here.”

Bane could not place Novak’s accent. Something Eastern European. A Croat perhaps. “I have just delivered a new prisoner. He is physically disabled. I need a caretaker for him.”

“I am no physician,” Novak grumbled, getting to his feet but staying well out of Bane’s reach.

“You only need to ensure that he continues to live. He requires no medical care from you.”

“I assume if I refuse then you will kill me.”

“There is that. However, I am prepared to pay you well for your services. And, rest assured, I will know if you are not upholding your duties.”

Novak gave a small, coughed laugh.

“Come, and I will show you where I have placed him.”

Novak’s attention turned to the gunmen.

“We will not harm you,” Bane growled. “Unless, of course, you do not come out of that cell.”

With a sideways glance, Novak turned to retrieve his blanket and wrapped it around him, then slipped into his shoes before hesitantly unlocking his door. Bane started back toward the shaft, Novak falling in behind him, the gunmen bringing up the rear, always vigilant. Though Bane had the utmost confidence in his security detail, he always was aware of Barsad’s absence. It often left him chilled, as if he had forgotten to wear a coat.

Perhaps fear kept Novak from speaking again; that or his practiced apathy. Bane could tell the man had no hope left in him. Assad had chosen well. Here was a man whose only concerns were with maintaining what would be considered a comfortable existence down here, and what better way to do that then to acquire a benefactor on the outside, especially when that benefactor owned the prison?

Bane’s men stood watch outside Bruce Wayne’s cell, the door closed, the broken, unconscious man inside, lying on a bare charpoy. Novak studied Wayne through the bars.

“American?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Novak’s gaze flicked toward an old television set that had been installed high upon one of the stone walls outside Wayne’s cell. Satirically the Croat said, “I figured as much, loving television as they do.”

“The television is here for one purpose,” Bane said. “And tomorrow at 1 p.m. Eastern time, you will turn it on and ensure that our guest is awake to watch it.”

Novak arched a wily eyebrow. “Any sports stations? I’ve missed football. Or soccer, as you might call it.”

Bane ignored Novak’s levity. “One station. GCN. You will turn it on and leave it on.”

“Until?”

“Until there is nothing more for him to watch.”

“So the world is ending?”

A cold smile eased Bane’s expression as he stared at Wayne. “For him, yes.”

“Who is he?”

Bane knew it was pointless to deny Wayne’s identity. After all, the billionaire would spew that information first thing, in the hopes that it would somehow gain him privilege or rescue from the men who resupplied the prison.

“His name is Bruce Wayne. Are you familiar with the name?”

“I have been here for over twenty years. I know nothing of those beyond this hole. Those I knew before, I have forgotten.”

“He will lie to you of his wealth in the hopes of bribing you, but rest assured he is penniless; I have made it so.”

Novak nodded absently, but Bane could see the wheels turning in the older man’s eyes. Curious about Wayne, but not overly so.

“You are to ensure that he remains alive by any means necessary. Once the television shows him his final defeat, then your task is over. Whether he lives or dies after that is of no consequence.”

Novak glanced at the television. “And how long will this…task take?”

“Five months. You will be paid at that time, if you have succeeded in keeping him alive.”

“Is he ill?”

“No. He has suffered an injury. But it is not his body that will try to kill him; it will be his mind. That, too, has been damaged, and will be damaged further soon.” Bane waited until Novak turned to him again. “You will keep him alive.”

Novak’s gaze drifted across the mask. He did not look pleased but neither did he appear particularly concerned about his situation. “I will keep him alive,” he assured with a slight nod.

###

After dismissing Novak, Bane entered Wayne’s cell. He sat on the edge of the charpoy and watched consciousness slowly return to his victim. Wayne’s sedative had worn off, and thus the agony had increased, dragging him back to reality.

The charpoy creaked beneath their combined weight, the feel of it reminding Bane of the infinite nights he had slept upon the one in his cell. First as a boy snuggled into his mother’s warmth, his body small enough to allow them both to fit on the cot, then as a teenager after his mother’s death and Melisande’s arrival, then as a young man following Melisande’s murder, growing, always growing until his limbs hung over the sides. The addition of Talia in his bed after Melisande’s death had further challenged the simple piece of furniture, and Bane often had to repair the fraying, strained webbing.

Wayne had not been cleaned up since the fight in the sewers. His bruised and swollen face, that handsome face Talia had kissed, was marred by dried blood. The cut above his left eye where Bane had broken the cowl was deep enough to eventually leave a scar. Of course Wayne had been stripped of his batsuit, and now all he wore was a dirty t-shirt and the coarse, gray pants most of the prisoners wore, his feet bare. No more thousand-dollar, tailored business suits. One of the world’s most powerful men now figuratively and literally brought down to the same level as a common criminal.

The prison had settled into relative quiet, save for the screams of a man down one of the corridors. Any number of horrors could be taking place. Bane remembered countless variations when prisoners would prey on one another. Sometimes, when he was a boy, his mother used to cover his ears with her hands and draw him close on their cot, often singing privately to him in a vain attempt to block out the screams, curses, and shouts that would make her cringe and tremble.

Wayne’s eyes moved beneath their lids, as if he were dreaming of something that agitated him. Bane leaned close, waited. Wayne gave a small outcry, waking himself. Slowly he focused on Bane, stared for a moment, as if disbelieving his sight, then he closed his eyes as if doing so would erase the image.

“Why…” Wayne began near a whisper then had to pause to rally more strength, “…why didn’t you just…kill me?”

“You don’t fear death,” Bane said, his voice especially raspy as it was whenever he spoke softly, “you welcome it. Your punishment must be more severe.”

“You’re a torturer?”

“Yes. But not of your body.” His unblinking gaze shifted a moment. “Of your soul.”

Wayne opened his eyes now, wider, taking in his immediate surroundings. “Where am I?”

“Home,” Bane fabricated a light, almost proud tone as he stood, “where I learned the truth about despair…as will you.” He moved to the partially opened door of the cell and stood there with hands on his hips, looking out upon what he now owned. “There’s a reason why this prison is the worst hell on earth: hope.” Bane’s gaze traveled up the looming shaft, up to the bright desert light. “Every man who has rotted here over the centuries has looked up to the light and imagined climbing to freedom. So easy, so simple.” He turned back to the bed. “And like shipwrecked men turning to sea water from uncontrollable thirst,” he sat on the charpoy again, “many have died trying. I learned here there can be no true despair without hope.” His focus returned to the shaft. “So, as I terrorize Gotham, I will feed its people hope to poison their souls. I will let them believe that they can survive so you can watch them clambering over each other to stay in the sun.”

With disdain, Bane returned his attention to Wayne’s disbelieving face then looked up at the television. “You can watch me torture an entire city. And then, when you have truly understood the depth of your failure, we will fulfill Rā’s al Ghūl’s destiny.” His unrelenting gaze returned to Wayne’s tortured face. “We will destroy Gotham. And then, when it is done, and Gotham is…ashes…” he nodded in satisfaction to himself, imagining the fire as he stared out at the shaft’s light before turning back to his victim for the last time, “then you have my permission to die.”

To aid himself in standing, he put his hand to Wayne’s chest and pressed into him. Wayne howled in agony, writhing on the cot. Bane shuffled out of the cell and never looked back.

###

Talia’s phone call came as no surprise. Bane’s jet had just reached cruising altitude when he answered the phone and heard the indignation in her voice.

“Where are you?”

“I am flying back to Gotham.”

“From where?”

“India.”

“And why would you make such a journey at this critical time? I am meeting with the board tomorrow.”

“Finn was instructed to tell you that I had left, and that I would be back in time for the board meeting.”

“Yes, but he couldn’t tell me where you were or why you had left at such an inopportune time. Barsad knows, of course, but he wouldn’t tell me. Orders from you, of course.”

This brought a small smile to Bane.

“I’m assuming it’s safe to say your disappearance at the same time as Bruce Wayne’s is not a coincidence. What have you done, Haris?”

“What is necessary.”

“Tell me.”

“I have removed our enemy from the city.”

“Without my orders. To where have you removed him? The pit?”

“Yes. He will live long enough to witness the fire.”

“We never agreed upon such action.”

“Indeed we did not. But I believed him to be too much of a threat to allow him to remain in the city during our operation.”

“Penniless and without his toys?”

“Never underestimate your enemies, Talia. Your father and I both taught you that. Often the wounded ones are the most dangerous.”

“Why didn’t you discuss this with me?”

“Because I knew your emotions would cloud your judgment.”

“And yours have not?”

“We both hate the man, true enough. But I knew your plans were to keep him in the city and that you would not agree to removing him, even though it is the only viable course of action short of killing him. You wanted your revenge to be personal. I understand that, and I’m sorry that you may feel deprived of that privilege for your father’s sake. But we must remove ourselves from the equation and see the larger picture of your father’s vision for Gotham. Wayne was not to be trusted, no matter what tactics you may have used in an attempt to gain his trust.”

“And what do you know of my tactics, Haris?”

Bane faltered only briefly. “They were clear enough; I know Miranda Tate. But you will still reap the same results, have no fear. The man will remember his night with you always, I have no doubt. The memory will torment him till the end of his days. And when his city burns, he will think that he failed not only Gotham, but his lover as well, the only woman who could make him forget his precious Rachel Dawes.”

“I wanted him here to witness his failure, to know at last my true identity, my vengeance. But you’ve robbed me of that. And you had no authority—”

Anger rose in Bane, indignation, and he thought of her as a child—his child—in the pit. “No authority? In the League, I may be subordinate to you, Talia, but when it comes to you personally, we both know I will always protect you, even if you do not seek such protection. I will always honor my promise to your mother, even if that means defying the League itself. You know this.”

“You can say this yet accuse me of being blinded by emotion? You may hide behind your position in the League, Haris, but I know what motivates you to ‘protect’ me, and it’s more than your promise to my mother.”

Bane forced his anger to cool. He did not want to fight with her, especially now with the League’s plans at stake and with their days together numbered. “Of course, habibati. I cannot deny my love for you. And I will admit the thought of you in the arms of our enemy turns my stomach, to say the least, but regardless of those personal feelings, I believe my actions are justified from an operational standpoint. He should not be allowed anywhere near Gotham during our revolution.”

Talia fell silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, she was calmer. “How did you get him away?”

“He had the audacity to seek me out through Ms. Kyle.”

“And what did you do to him?”

Bane tried to decipher the motivation behind her question. Did she have some hidden concern for her lover’s well-being? Or was she hoping her protector had punished the billionaire severely?

“He attacked me, and I broke him. Even if he conjures the will to climb the shaft, his body is too damaged to allow such an endeavor. Besides,” he allowed himself a small, proud smile, “only one has ever had the strength and skill to climb that shaft.”

Talia said nothing for a long moment, but when she did speak, she kept her disapproval apparent. “You have defied me twice, Haris. This is not what our brothers should see in my second-in-command.”

“Only a handful know that he has been removed from the city. The others who witnessed the fight know only that I have crushed the man. That is what they will remember, habibati. Few beyond Yemi and Barsad know that you had other plans for our enemy. You will see that I have caused no damage to your image as their leader. I would never do that.”

“There are difficult times ahead, Haris. You will promise me that you’ll make no deviations from our plans again without my consent.”

“As you wish.”

Talia’s faint sigh and prolonged silence told Bane that she was trying to determine if she could believe him.

Finally she spoke in a tired, terse voice, “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow…when the fire shall truly rise.”
_____________________________________

Happy holidays to my readers!

A little holiday interlude. One of my readers requested that I write a Bane/Talia Christmas story, so I did. I thought it would be a nice way to say thank you and merry Christmas to all my faithful readers, old and new, who have been reading my Bane trilogy here and elsewhere online.

The link below will take you to the story posted on my Tumblr. It is also available at Archiveofourown.org and FanFiction.net. It is simply titled: A Bane and Talia Christmas Story.

http://leagueofbane.tumblr.com/post/106 ... tmas-story

Fifty-one

When Bane returned to the Gotham command post, his ears were assaulted by a wide variety of noises. The atrium, from top to bottom, was a hive of activity, an abrupt transformation from the secluded haven Bane had left a short while ago. Dozens of men were busy modifying and preparing weapons from Bruce Wayne’s armory. Camouflaged Tumblers and arms of every kind, large and small. Boxes and boxes of ammunition and other ordnance cluttered the corridors. The air was electric with anticipation of the day to come. Commanders barked at any man whom they thought was not working fast enough or diligently enough to meet today’s operational deadline.

Barsad was in the command post, conferring with several of his men. They all turned when their commander arrived, but their faces remained impassive, dutiful, except for Barsad’s, which revealed a definite measure of relief.

“Get to it,” Barsad said to the men, dismissing them.

They filed past Bane who paid them no heed. He did his best to hide his fatigue as he moved to his bed and dropped his small pack there.

“We have two hours,” Barsad said. “You should get some rest.”

“I slept on the plane.” Bane pulled Melisande’s blanket from the pack and lovingly spread it on the cot. “I could use some tea, though.”

To afford as much privacy as possible, Barsad waved away the security detail that had escorted Bane here from the airfield. Then, as Bane unpacked, Barsad set a kettle to boil.

Settling in the desk chair, Barsad said, “You told her.”

“Yes.” Bane sat on the bed, allowed himself these minutes of respite while the tea was prepared.

“What did she say?”

“Everything you imagine she would.” He gave his friend a sly look.

Barsad grinned and shook his head in disbelief at Bane’s light attitude. “And Wayne? How did he like his new digs?”

“I’m sure he feels they are a bit below his standards.”

“I’m sure.” Barsad’s attention drifted to Melisande’s blanket. “Too bad you didn’t have time to check on Maysam. Such a shame to be so close to her but not see her…one last time.”

Bane studied him, his amusement drifting away, the background noise fading. “There is still time for you to go, brother. I would prefer you not die here with us. I’m sure Maysam feels the same way.”

“Well,” Barsad sighed with a dismissive smile, “we’ve already had that discussion, haven’t we?” He reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, remembered himself, left them there. “While you were gone, Selina Kyle was arrested.”

Bane scowled. “How did this happen?”

“She eluded our surveillance and went to the airport where the police caught up with her first. Seems she was leaving town. They charged her with kidnapping Congressman Gilly, among other things, of course. She’s in Blackgate now.”

“I doubt she will be foolish enough to tell the police what little she knows of us.”

“After watching you beat Batman to a pulp in front of her, I think she’s been sufficiently convinced not to mess with you in any way, brother.”

The kettle had begun its heralding screech. Barsad removed it from the burner and poured a small amount of water into Maysam’s gifted teapot to warm it, then returned the kettle to the burner. Draining the water from the teapot, Barsad then spooned in the tea leaves. Once the water was again boiling in the kettle, he poured it into the pot, then covered it with a white and blue tea cozy that Bane had crocheted. Then he returned to his chair.

“Well,” Bane said, “soon enough our Cat will be free of her cage. It is just as well she is there for now, if she was indeed trying to escape us. No doubt her services will be required again once we take over and her escape routes are blocked.” He studied his friend, saw something on his face, something in the way he avoided his gaze. Bane smiled. “You have slept with her?”

Barsad looked up in surprise.

Bane chuckled.

“After you left the other night,” Barsad stammered, “I thought it best to check on her. You know, make sure she understood that she wasn’t to share anything she’d witnessed.”

“And,” Bane raised a teasing eyebrow, “did you…persuade her, brother? Or was it your lovemaking that drove her to attempt flight?”

Barsad allowed a small grin. “I think I persuaded her pretty good.”

“A willing partner?” More of a teasing question than a serious one, for the men of the League were no rapists; if there was one crime Bane loathed above all others, it was rape because of Melisande.

Barsad shrugged. “Ms. Kyle realized the value of staying in our good graces.”

“Well, you’ll have five more months to persuade her some more, brother. Perhaps in the cold months ahead, she will be more welcoming of your warmth and blithe personality.” He indulged in one last grin as he patted Melisande’s blanket. “I will not share your secret with Maysam. She will think you have lowered your standards far too much.”

“Very funny, brother. Sounds to me like the jetlag’s already affecting you.”

Bane chuckled again, removing his jacket. “Enough talk of your amorous activities while I was gone. Let us speak instead of the rising fire.” With that, he reached for the nearby stoker so he could tend to the fire in the brazier. “Tell me how the operation progresses. Is everything in order?”

“Yes, the charges are set, and our men are in place inside Wayne Tower. We won’t have any trouble gaining access to the boardroom.”

“Have you spoken with Talia today?”

“Yes, first thing this morning.”

“How is she?”

“Still pissed off at you, of course, but she’s also focused on what she has to do today.” Barsad considered him closely, and Bane could not help but look away. “It’s not gonna be easy for you, seeing her today after so long, especially after what just happened.”

“There are many things in life that are not easy. This will be but one of them. There is no reason for you to fear that either of us will compromise the operation.”

“I’m not afraid of that.”

“Then why mention it?” Bane left the brazier, the fire sufficiently flaring, and returned to his cot.

Barsad frowned. “Because I know you’re human, brother, though you try to make others believe—hell, even yourself—that you’re something else, something robotic and unfeeling. I know there’s shit you won’t tell even me when it comes to you and Talia. Don’t get me wrong; I respect your privacy, but sometimes it’s best not to bury everything, especially from yourself.”

“No one understands my…feelings for Talia better than I, I assure you, John.”

“Feelings? See what I mean? You can’t even say it to yourself, you big, damned lump.”

Bane scowled. “What is it you are looking for from me?”

“You’ve made this suicide pact, the two of you, but there’s all this shit between you, because of LePage and Wayne. I believe you’ll think clearer over these next months if you aren’t sitting here brooding about the rift between you.”

“The rift is my fault, so it is my burden to bear, brother, but one that will not interfere with our work. My life’s purpose has been to protect Talia, as you know. I have no regrets for what I have done; speaking candidly again with Talia will not change anything. I would do the same all over again, and she—again—would disagree with my actions. And you are mistaken to think it is our differences alone that trouble me.” He clasped his hands, his forearms resting on his thighs. “I have given it much thought on the flight back to Gotham.”

“Given thought to what?” Barsad scowled. “I already don’t like the sound of this.”

“To Talia and this suicide pact, as you called it. As you know, I tried to talk her out of this at the outset. But there may still be an opportunity, toward the end, for her life to be spared.”

“What’re you talking about? She’s not gonna listen to anything you say about it.”

“No, she won’t. But that is where you come in, brother.”

Barsad raised his hands, palms toward Bane. “Oh, hell no. I’m not gonna be able to convince her any more than you.”

“No, you will not. But if an opportunity arises, you will safeguard her—and yourself—out of the city, against her will if necessary, which no doubt it will be.”

“She’s not gonna give up that detonator.”

“Then you will acquire it by force and give it to one of our brothers or to myself.”

“I already told you—I’m going down with the captain and the ship. That’s my duty.”

“Loyalty and dedication have always been admirable traits of yours, John, and Talia will need those qualities from you once I am gone. Talia’s protection will be your priority, your only priority. She is too young to die, too valuable to the League and to her grandmother.” Bane paused, stared at his hands. “Maysam says I am like a son to her. Well, what sort of son would I be if I let her only grandchild, the only thing left of her daughter, be taken so senselessly and so young. Talia deserves happiness, and she will find that after Gotham is destroyed and Wayne is dead. You will see to her happiness and her protection.”

Barsad shook his head as if in disgust and stared at Bane. “You’re off your nut, you know?”

“You will vow to me, brother, that if an opportunity arises before the end that you will do everything in your power to remove her from this evil place. If I have your word, the five months that lie before me will be endured more easily. It is her premature death, the fact that I cannot keep her from it that troubles me far more than her current enmity toward me.”

“Why the hell don’t you get her out of the city?”

“Because I am needed here. I am the figurehead in this. I am closer to the day-to-day operations than Talia; her role requires such distance. I am the one who should press that button. As I’ve said before, I am the reason behind this headlong mission of hers to avenge her father.”

Barsad dropped his gaze in capitulation and shook his head. “You’re so full of shit, brother.”

“Then why do you follow me?”

“Because I’m a soldier.” Barsad lifted his head, his hooded eyes locking with Bane’s. “And because you’re my brother. After seeing my own brother die and living without him all those years, living with the guilt and second guesses, it’s not something I want to do again.”

“There is no reason for guilt should you survive this, Barsad. If you survive, it will be because I’ve asked you to, as my brother, as Talia’s brother, to protect her. That is a far nobler task than dying here with me. This city is not worth your blood.”

Barsad blew out a frustrated sigh and got up to pour the tea.

“Can I count on you, John? If there is a chance to get Talia out of the city, you will take it?”

Barsad stepped over to hand him a steaming cup. “Don’t ask me to do this, brother.”

“I already have.”

Barsad’s jaw twitched with tension as he turned back to retrieve his own cup. Then he stared at Bane. At last he grumbled, “I’ll do it…if the opportunity arises. But until then I’ll be at my post, protecting your God damn flank, as always.”

Bane bowed in acknowledgement. “Thank you, John. I will rest easier knowing that.”

“Humph,” Barsad scoffed. “Somehow I doubt that.” He glanced down at his tea. “Think I’ll drink this elsewhere.”

Bane said nothing, allowed his friend to leave the command post. Then he reached for his field kit and the injectable morphine there, so he could remove his mask and enjoy his tea.

###

When Bane stepped into the Wayne Tower boardroom, all of the members were there except Miranda Tate and Lucius Fox. Expensive suits drinking coffee, some standing, some sitting at the elongated, glass table. Sunlight reflected through the floor to ceiling windows in the long, austere room, magnified by the mirrored ceiling, making the environment far too bright for Bane’s eyes. Fortunately this side of the building did not face the sun.

When the board members saw the hulking mercenary and his armed escort, gasps and outcries filled the space. Those seated at the table jumped to their feet. Instinctively, like sheep before wolves, they all backed away or bunched together.

“No brash moves, gentlemen,” Bane calmly said, moving toward the head of the table, his boots treading where only pricy shoes had previously tread. “My men have plenty of firepower, as you can see, and plenty of bullets to go around. I prefer this to be a bloodless meeting, as I’m sure you do as well.”

“What is the meaning of this?” one gray-haired older man demanded.

Bane recognized Douglas Fredericks, one of the most senior members, a dear friend of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and a champion of Bruce Wayne. Fredericks stood straight-backed and defiant, a brave man.

“Please,” Bane gestured to them all, sarcastic gentility dripping from his tone, “take your seats. Although this will not take long, you might as well be comfortable.” He glanced at his watch. Talia would have purposefully timed her arrival with Fox to bring them here after all of the others had already gathered. Any minute now…

Two of his men stood near the entrance that led to the small elevator lobby, off to one side so when Fox stepped from the elevator he would not see the mercs until he was in the room. Barsad and the others confiscated everyone’s electronic devices. Bane watched, hands behind his back. His razor sharp gaze sliced from pale face to pale face as he thought of John Daggett once sitting at that table, his body now rotting in a Gotham dumpster where it belonged, left there as a message to Gotham PD, one they would understand too late. If Bane had his way, everyone at this table would be dead with Daggett. All in good time, he reminded himself.

He heard the chime of the elevator, followed by the deep tones of Fox’s voice. Bane gripped the lapels of his jacket, drew in a sustaining, quiet breath. Then he heard Talia’s voice in response. No, he berated himself, Miranda Tate. Bane had told himself to think of Talia in that way when they faced one another, had meditated upon it, visualized it as a way to help control his own emotions, as Barsad had warned. But when she strode confidently into the room in high heeled shoes that tapped rhythmically upon the floor, wearing a long brown coat and a dark print scarf over her black blouse and short skirt, it took every ounce of Bane’s training to show no reaction.

Their eyes met across the room. Bane did not even blink. Talia skillfully portrayed nothing but horrified shock, an expression he had once witnessed in genuine reality when he had been rescued from the pit and she had first seen the bloody swathes of bandages covering his face, a face forever lost to her.

“So good of you to join us, chair, president,” he said glibly, his voice echoing in the room. “All I need now is one more ordinary board member. Mr. Fox, would you like to nominate?”

“No,” Douglas Fredericks’s gravelly voice drew everyone attention as the older man stood. “I will volunteer.”

Bane started toward the door, toward Talia, but he would not allow himself to look at her again. As he drew closer, he smelled her perfume, felt her presence as clearly as if he held her in his arms.

“Where are you taking us?” Fox demanded.

Bane said nothing more and moved past Fox and Talia on his way to the elevator.

Fifty-two

With Barsad bringing up the rear, Bane led his three prisoners to his home—the underground atrium—and past the dozens of men working there, preparing the spoils of Bruce Wayne’s armory for the liberation of Gotham. No doubt the sights and sounds filled Lucius Fox with despair and a horrible feeling of culpability, having helped design and create many of the weapons that would now be used against wealthy men like himself.

Beneath the mask, Bane smiled as he imagined Talia’s own satisfaction and pride over the physical manifestation of his efforts. This, of course, was also the first time she saw where he had been living. Did it make her think of the pit, of their humble, anonymous beginnings, a time when all they had was each other?

Farther on through the tunnels at a leisurely pace. Perhaps his two male prisoners were wondering if they would ever see the sun again, if they would die down here. The dimness would not frighten Talia. Indeed, was there anything she feared? No, he decided, nothing but the memories of her mother’s brutal death. The terrible event still haunted her, he knew; she had told him as much, and he had witnessed it a couple of times when they had slept together. In one horrible way, that tragedy had benefited her, for she knew there was nothing she would face in life that could possibly be worse to endure than that day. Bane felt the same way. Yet another thing that they shared, that defined and bonded them.

He glanced at his watch. Soon his men would leak the news of the board members’ kidnapping to the authorities, and Deputy Commissioner Foley would realize his blunder in not previously taking Bane’s presence in his city seriously. To make up for that mistake, Foley would overcompensate by throwing every man available into the sewers to seek him out. Then Bane would spring the trap.

At last they arrived at the excavated tunnel that would allow them access to the fusion reactor’s bunker beneath the river. A large number of his men were already there, including the demolition team, the tactical team that would secure the bunker and transport the reactor, and the men who were guarding Dr. Leonid Pavel. The Russian scientist, looking thinner and even more haggard than the last time Bane had seen him, sat nearby on the mechanized dolly that would soon carry the reactor. Pavel stared with desolate, hollow eyes at his captor. Bane strutted past without acknowledging him, fingers twitching in anticipation of seeing the reactor at long last. Barsad jogged forward to take command of the demolition. Behind Bane, Talia’s high heels clicked on the pavement. Both joy and satisfaction filled him to know that she would be here with him to witness their triumph.

Bane halted several yards from the excavation, gripped the collar of his protective vest through the opening of his jacket. All eyes were upon him, awaiting his command. He simply nodded.

“Fire in the hole!” Barsad cried, and everyone cringed in anticipation of the explosion…everyone but Bane. He stood without flinching, eyes straight ahead, making sure his body was directly between Talia and the explosives. The C4 rocked the tunnel, showering everyone with small bits of dirt and debris, sending roiling dust outward. Bane smiled again. The sound would have charged through the tunnel network and been heard by the police who would be entering the sewer system by now. It would intrigue them, heighten their fear, their need for urgency. They would be running headlong down here now.

Bane marched past his dusty men and climbed over the rubble into the bunker. The concrete chamber was spacious, with a low ceiling, and in the middle, suspended within supporting framework, was the metallic fusion reactor, like a black pearl inside a glistening oyster. Beneath it was a shallow channel of river water. The entire chamber, Bane knew, could be flooded in an instant. Behind him, his men and prisoners followed closely. Soon mercs were crawling all over the framework, preparing to free the reactor.

Bane mounted a steel platform on the near side of the structure where a computer terminal glowed blue in the dim light. The security system required the biometric handprints of three members of the Wayne board, thus his trio of hostages.

As the prisoners, including Dr. Pavel, were herded over by Barsad, Bane pointed at Fox and commanded, “Turn it on.”

Fox gave a slight but defiant shake of his head. An expected but infuriating response.

Bane glared at Barsad, gestured toward Fredericks. Barsad drew his pistol from his protective vest with one hand while his other forced Fredericks to his knees.

“I only need one other board member,” Bane said, pointing upward. “There are eight others waiting.”

But Fox remained stalwart. “I won’t do it.”

Bane jabbed his finger toward Fredericks, and Barsad clicked the safety off his weapon.

“All right, stop,” Talia desperately intervened. She turned to Fox. “Lucius, you’ll kill this man and yourself, and you’ll barely slow them down.”

Resolutely, portraying more bravery than any of the male prisoners, Talia ascended the steps. For a mere instant her eyes met Bane’s, and his chest swelled with pride for her convincing performance. Bane stood inches away, towering over her, again gripping the vest’s collar beneath his jacket in a display of self-confidence but also as a way to keep his restless fingers occupied. He also hoped his stance reminded her of her father, as if Rā’s al Ghūl were here with her. While Talia bent to place her hand on the display screen, he considered holding his breath so he could not smell her but knew his mask would betray such an incongruous stoppage of respiration.

After the machine recorded her biometrics, Talia looked commandingly at Fox before she descended and made room for him to repeat her actions. Once Fox’s prints were accepted, the screen lit up with a diagram of the reactor, and when Fredericks’s hand was read next, the surrounding machinery stirred to life, a warm hum filling the bunker. Dr. Pavel, his eyes now filled with reverent awe as he stared at the reactor, slowly stepped toward the machine.

“Go on then,” Bane sardonically said to Pavel and gestured with one hand. “Do your work.”

With his glance reflecting hate and fear, Pavel shed his worn jacket and approached the device that he had only dreamed about during his life’s work, a goal that now mocked him.

Bane swung his outstretched arm dramatically back to his hostages and ordered his men, “Take them up to the surface. People of their status deserve to experience the next era of Western civilization.” Bane accompanied his sarcasm with a tilt of his head.

Barsad took hold of Talia’s arm to escort her after the others. She looked up at Bane, nearly expressionless. Her eyes, however, betrayed her. Momentarily she slipped through Miranda Tate’s veneer, showing her concern for Bane and that upon which he was about to embark. It was his face that the world would see, that the world would revile and hunt until his dying day, if the League’s plan for Gotham failed. He was taking all of the risks while she remained protected by him and her alter ego. For that instant her displeasure over his recent decisions was replaced by her anxiety for him, by that shadow of guilt that once again the sacrifices would all be his, for her. And she knew that he accepted all of this without hesitation or regret.

Then she was gone, and Bane knew he would not see her again for many long months.

###

Dr. Pavel worked as quickly as possible under many watchful eyes, reprogramming the reactor’s safety parameters and neutron flux allowances. Next, adjustments to the magnetic coils and plasma containment units, among other things, all tasks that he and Bane had discussed several times in preparation after Talia had gained access to the reactor’s schematics. Bane had been well schooled in nuclear physics over the years in anticipation of this operation, and he had learned even more from Pavel himself during the man’s extended captivity.

“It’s done,” Pavel’s fatigued voice broke into Bane’s thoughts some time later. “This is now a four megaton nuclear bomb.”

Bane, sitting on the steps leading to the platform where Talia had stood, nodded at Pavel’s words. In his restless hands, he now held the detonator to the bomb. He waggled a finger toward the reactor.

“Pull the core out of the reactor,” Bane commanded his men, and when they jumped to their duties, he bent over once again, pensive because of the emotions that lingered after seeing Talia. Again his fingers toyed with the detonator.

“No,” Pavel protested, “you cannot. This is the only power source capable of sustaining it. If you move it, the core will decay in a matter of months—”

“Five,” Bane said evenly, “by my calculations.”

“Then it will go off!” Pavel was fairly shaking in his effort to make Bane understand. But Bane understood all too well, amazed that Pavel had entertained delusions that the reactor’s purpose was for anything less.

“And for the sake of your children, Dr. Pavel,” Bane reminded him of his captive family as he laboriously got to his feet, “indeed I hope it does.” With one last glance at the horrified scientist, Bane headed toward the ragged opening in the end wall.

He led Barsad and his security detail back to the command post. During the short journey, no one spoke to him, all gripped by the gravity of the situation. Bane reflected upon the image of Barsad escorting Talia away from him, its symbolism moving him. Hopefully if the opportunity arose for Barsad to safeguard her from Gotham, she would be as compliant as Miranda Tate had been just now. But Bane smiled sardonically, knowing full well that Barsad would have the fight of his life on his hands to remove her. But he was confident in his lieutenant’s abilities. After all, Barsad cared for Talia as well. True, she sometimes frustrated Barsad with her singular ways and the trouble she often caused his boss, but Bane did not doubt Barsad’s devotion to her as both his sister and his commander.

Once Bane arrived at the command post, he did not linger. He took the time only to remove his Belstaff jacket and replace it with a favorite old cold-weather coat from his days in Chechnya.

“The revolutionary has arrived,” Barsad said with a wry grin, teasing him as he always had about the coat.

The tan sheepskin shearling coat was well worn and heavy, reaching to his knees. Two over-sized pockets and loop closures added to its style, along with its tall collar, which Bane wore turned up. He had always hated wind blowing against the back of his neck; it reminded him of the cold drafts that use to snake their way through the pit prison. Its design had first put Bane in mind of great historical military figures like Napoleon and Patton, whom he admired greatly.

“I wish you’d put a pistol in one of those big-ass pockets,” Barsad gestured to the coat.

“I have no need of a gun. That is what you are for, brother.” Bane darted a playful look at his friend, then led the way out of the command post.

###

Bane knew Gotham Stadium would be filled with thousands of football fans on this crisp fall day. By now all would be in their seats or making their way there, arms filled with vile, over-priced concession food and drink. Boisterous and excited for the Rogues’ game against Rapid City. Oblivious to the horde of armed men surging up from below.

The widespread excavations that Bane’s men had accomplished throughout Gotham’s underbelly included gaining access to a boiler room in a sub-basement of Gotham Stadium. In this way Bane and his forces poured up from the depths and fanned out through the various corridors beneath the sparkling new football stadium, eliminating anyone in their way with weapons equipped with silencers. Bane moved at a more sedate pace, allowing his men time to reach their designated positions.

The stadium itself had grown silent save for a single, angelic voice. As Bane reached the level of the playing field, he easily made out the words of the National Anthem being sung by a young boy. He halted in the shadows just short of the mouth of the corridor, his back to the wall, hands clasped in front of him. Before him, sunlight bathed the field’s green turf, brightening the yellow stands and the people in them even more. Thousands of spectators, all on their feet, eager for the song to end and the game to begin. Modern-day sports, Bane scoffed. This venue is a pale reflection of the glory of Rome and its Coliseum. He had gone there once, had marveled at the ancient ruins of the arena, had imagined the power of the Caesars. This place, at a cost of 300 million dollars, had been the keystone of Mayor Garcia’s urban renewal program. Such a waste of money. People were starving on the streets of Gotham, but the richer citizens needed their professional sports.

He waited for the song to end, listening silently, almost respectfully, staring at the concrete wall across from him. As he admired the singer’s ability, he remembered the sound of his own voice as a young boy, singing songs his mother had taught him, first with her, then with Talia when she was old enough to learn. But once he had donned the mask, he had never sang again. As an adult, free of the prison, he had grown to appreciate music even more, particularly the classics. Music had always calmed him. Some of his fondest memories of his training days with the League had been evenings in the common room, in front of the fire, listening to Passat’s violin. The sweet, emotional language of the instrument had nearly brought him to tears on several occasions.

More to himself than to Barsad or any of his men nearby, Bane said, “That’s a lovely, lovely voice.”

Barsad cocked a bemused eyebrow at him.

His lieutenant’s expression pulled Bane from his reverie, snapped him back into focus. It was time. His forces would be in position. Suddenly impatient, he waggled his fingers at Barsad, silently demanding the detonator that would set off the charges beneath the stadium, the first fruits of their labors. Barsad handed it over, his expression now grave.

The crowd roared in anticipation of the opening kick-off, and music blared over the public address system.

“Let the games begin,” Bane said and pushed the button on the detonator.

The earth rumbled beneath them as multiple charges went off. Bane glanced at his watch. All over Gotham, other explosives were being detonated beneath buildings and streets. Chaos would be erupting everywhere. The authorities—what was left of them above the surface—would not know what catastrophe to address first. The police who had charged into the tunnels in search of Bane would now be faced with collapsing tunnels, meters and meters of concrete to kill and imprison them. The bridges and tunnels connecting the island to the mainland would also collapse from explosions, isolating the city.

The cheers of the stadium spectators for their beloved, overpaid players turned to screams of terror as the ground beneath the footballers’ feet collapsed. An explosion high above in the stadium sent glass and flames flaring and showering people. Mayor Garcia’s luxury box, blown to oblivion, along with the Mayor himself. The first of Gotham’s authority figures to die. Others throughout the city were being assassinated right now as well, including Commissioner Gordon in his hospital bed.

Bane started toward the field, still moving at his usual swinging lumber, portraying nothing but cool confidence. As he stepped out into the sunlight, the shrieks took on a new urgency as dozens of armed mercenaries flooded into the stadium from every access point, automatic weapons aimed, covering each section of the stands. Behind Bane, he heard the rumbling of the motorized dolly which carried the fusion reactor.

Like a conqueror surveying his spoils, Bane squinted against the light and looked all around the stadium, saw with satisfaction the results of the complete implosion of the playing field. The bulk of it lay in crumpled heaps far below where Bane came to a halt, the concrete of the stadium’s foundation broken and intermingled with that of the tunnels that had been beneath it. The bodies of football players lay strewn amidst the rubble, twisted and torn. A couple showed signs of life, but there was nowhere for them to go in the smoldering debris.

Attention had started to turn to him, and new shouts went up, fingers pointed, looks of horror. At his feet lay an unconscious official in his black and white uniform, a headset near at hand. Bane retrieved the device, tapped the microphone to ensure it was live. Behind him, the jumbotron broadcast his image. The whole world would be tuning in, including Bruce Wayne. They would instantly recognize him from the stock exchange heist. None of them would ever forget him. Bane would make sure of that.

“Gotham!” his metallic voice echoed around the massive stadium, drawing everyone’s attention, forcing silence. “Take control.” He raised a quieting hand. “Take control of your city.” He turned momentarily toward the reactor being wheeled out for all to see. “This…this is the instrument of your liberation.”

Dr. Pavel was brought forward and roughly shoved to his knees before Gotham’s liberated. With trepidation, like a rabbit caught in a snare, he helplessly stared up at Bane.

“Identify yourself to the world,” Bane commanded.

Breathing heavily with fear, Pavel said, “Dr. Leonid Pavel. Nuclear physicist.”

“And what,” Bane pointed to the reactor, “what is this?”

“It’s a fully primed neutron bomb with a blast radius of six miles.”

“And who is capable of disarming such a device?”

Pavel shook his head. “Only me.” He said it with a thin veil of confidence that this exclusive skill would save his life.

“Only you,” Bane repeated almost pensively, looking toward his own image on the jumbotron. Then he turned back to Pavel, said, “Thank you, good Doctor,” and unceremoniously snapped the man’s neck.

Screams once again filled the stadium, people shrinking back, disbelieving what they had just witnessed. But Bane did not wait for their shouts to die down.

“Now, this bomb is armed. This bomb is mobile.” His tone was not overtly threatening but instead almost mocking and light. “And the identity of the triggerman is a mystery, for one of you,” he pointed at the crowd, “holds the detonator. Now we come here not as conquerors, but as liberators, to return control of this city to the people. And at the first sign of interference from the outside world or from those people attempting to flee, this anonymous Gothamite, this unsung hero will trigger the bomb. For now, martial law is in effect. Return to your homes, hold your families close, and wait. Tomorrow you claim what is rightfully yours.”

Bane kept the microphone near his mouth for one final, dramatic moment, everyone watching frozen and silent, trying to comprehend the ramifications of what he had just presented to them. Then he tossed away the headset with a ringing crash over the public address system and headed back into the darkness of the tunnel from whence he had come, leaving a stadium full of people and the entire world in shock.

Hold your families close. The phrase rang over and over in Bane’s ears. He thought of the family he had once had: his prison family—his mother, Talia, and Melisande—and his brothers in the League in their old mountain home. All gone now except for Talia, taken from him by unjust, evil men. Well, now such men would answer for those crimes and the many other injustices they had wrought upon those less fortunate. Their reckoning had come at long last.

Fifty-three

“I think you are enjoying this a bit too much, brother,” Bane said to Barsad with an amused glint in his eyes.

Barsad grinned. “Well, it’s not every day you get to drive a Tumbler.”

“Indeed, it is not,” Bane allowed, returning his attention to the sheaf of paper in his hands. “But you will be able to enjoy your boyish indulgence for months to come. Right now we must focus on the business at hand. You are quite certain the most important media bloodsuckers will be there?”

“Yeah. Every media outlet in Gotham was notified that you’d be making a statement outside Blackgate. You’ll have a sufficient audience for your performance.” Barsad gave him a sly glance. “I think you’ve found your indulgence as well—you love the limelight more than you ever thought you would. Theatricality. You deserve a fucking Oscar for that performance in the stadium yesterday.”

Bane dismissed Barsad’s observation with a grunt, scanning Commissioner Gordon’s speech, the one he had confiscated in the sewers before Gordon had escaped. “Any word on Gordon’s whereabouts?”

“No. But don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“It’s fortunate that the men who were sent to execute him died at Gordon’s hands; he saved me the trouble. Fools.”

Barsad frowned. “Well, we know one thing—he’s still in Gotham.”

“Yes, and able to mount a resistance,” Bane grumbled.

“If he does, he runs the risk of exposing himself.”

Bane fell silent as he stared through the small windshield. The Tumbler may appeal to Barsad, but he was not comfortable in the limiting space, for it was not designed to accommodate someone of his substantial size. He had developed a strong aversion to such tight confinement years ago in prison when he had killed a fellow inmate and was subsequently sentenced to two weeks banishment to a hole in the ground in the deepest reaches of the prison. At the time he had been only a teenager, and though already toughened and brave, the endless days of pitch darkness, isolation and inhuman conditions had tried his physical and mental endurance. But he had accepted his punishment willingly, for the man whom he had murdered had once snatched Talia from his arms in the hopes of extorting Melisande’s family for money. No one ever again attempted such a crime, having seen what lengths Bane would go to protect the infant.

“Our meeting is still set with Dr. Crane?” Bane asked Barsad as he tucked Gordon’s speech into an interior pocket of his shearling coat.

“Yes, this evening. He’s eager to meet you.”

“I doubt few would say that,” Bane said, amused.

“Well, he did once work for Talia’s father, remember.”

“Yes, and we must mind our tongues about that around him.”

“Of course. But what I meant is he’s obviously not bothered by working for,” he quirked an eyebrow at Bane and grinned, “scary people.”

Bane grunted again, looking ahead along the street. The convoy of Tumblers—his in the lead—had begun to pass television news trucks parked along the curbs. Beyond them, gathered near the formidable, iconic entrance to Blackgate Prison, were the reporters and cameras, awaiting the Masked Man’s arrival. Bane smiled to himself. Bruce Wayne would have yet another performance to witness, as would Talia.

He thought of her watching on television. She would not be doing so from the comfort of Miranda Tate’s penthouse, however, for once he unleashed Gotham’s worst criminals and declared war on the city’s wealthy, places like the penthouse would be ransacked and occupants thrown into the streets or killed. No, Talia was safely away from any such renowned buildings, protected discreetly by Yemi and his detail.

In anticipation of Bane’s arrival, a detail of his men were stationed on the massive portico of a municipal building across from Blackgate, dressed against the cold. Bane paid little mind to the chilly weather as he climbed out of the top hatch of the Tumbler. The cadre of reporters stared, microphones and digital recorders held up in anticipation of his statement, cameras zooming in.

With one hand on his hip and the other slicing a gesture at the massive black gate behind the reporters, Bane began his oratory in a histrionic tone that Barsad would surely find entertaining, “Behind you stands a symbol of oppression: Blackgate Prison, where a thousand men have languished under the name of this man.” From one of his coat’s large pockets, he withdrew a glossy eight by ten color photograph of Gotham’s former district attorney. “Harvey Dent, who has been held up to you as the shining example of justice.” Bane ripped the photo precisely down the center, rendering Dent into what he truly had been—Two Face. “You have been supplied with a false idol to stop you tearing down this corrupt city.”

Bane thought of James Gordon cowering somewhere in Gotham, hopefully glued to a television, unknowingly about to have his reputation destroyed and his credibility erased. If Gordon entertained thoughts of recruiting men to fight to regain their city, he would find few who would follow a man who had once betrayed them then deceived them further for eight years.

“Let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent,” Bane mocked as he withdrew Gordon’s speech from his pocket, “from the words of Gotham’s police commissioner, James Gordon.” He unfolded the pages. “The Batman didn’t murder Harvey Dent; he saved my boy then took the blame for Harvey’s appalling crimes so that I could, to my shame, build a lie around this fallen idol.” Bane melodramatically shook his head at the words, as if in disbelief over Gordon’s gall. “I praised the madman who tried to murder my own child,” Bane’s voice wavered upon the word ‘child,’ as if moved by false emotion. “But I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth, and it is time for me to resign.” He turned his attention to the reporters and Blackgate, to the citizens watching and the prisoners listening. “And do you accept this man’s resignation?” He heard a roar of approval from inside the prison. “And do you accept the resignation of all of these liars, of all the corrupt?”

Another explosion of shouting from inside Blackgate, making the reporters even more nervous, as if they feared the gate bursting open behind them.

“We take Gotham from the corrupt…” Bane swept his arm to command the Tumbler behind his to activate its turret gun. The cannon turned toward Blackgate and the reporters scattered as Bane continued, “…the rich, the oppressors of generations who have kept you down with myths of opportunity, and we give it back to you, the people.” He spread his hands outward as if presenting a prize. “Gotham is yours. None shall interfere. Do as you please.”

The Tumbler’s turret gun blasted a fiery hole through the prison’s gate, and Bane’s sing-song voice turned harsh, “But start by storming Blackgate and freeing the oppressed!”

Barsad led men through the hole, toting bags of weapons to distribute among the inmates. The handful of guards would be overrun instantly.

In a few short minutes, prisoners in orange jumpsuits, rifles raised above their heads, came howling out of the gate, shouting their allegiance to their liberator.

“Step forward those who would serve,” Bane cried, a surge of frenzy pouring through him, “for an army will be raised. The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests and cast out into the cold world that we know and endure. Courts will be convened. Spoils will be enjoyed. Blood will be shed. The police will survive, as they learn to serve true justice.” He thrust his hand before him, thumb and forefinger conjoined in a melodramatic pose, like a politician speaking to his constituents, and finished, “This great city…” he paused and softened his tone like an assuring father, “it will endure. Gotham will survive.”

With that, he squared his shoulders, gazed upon his new forces surrounding his Tumbler, still waving their rifles and cheering. He held his arms out to either side, welcoming them, then with a bow of his head in acknowledgment of their gratitude for their freedom, he slipped back inside the Tumbler and awaited Barsad’s return.

###

Bane moved his command post to an upper floor at City Hall. The place was currently controlled chaos. Couriers were constantly coming and going, and commanders were telephoning to report progress throughout Gotham. Bane’s clerks and runners were kept in continuous motion, harried but eager, everyone still flushed with excitement after so many months of clandestine work above and below ground.

Somehow Bane tuned out the noise to focus on the dispatches he was reading as well as to keep an eye on the incessant news reports flashing across the array of televisions in the spacious CP. His performances at both the stadium and Blackgate were repeated over and over and analyzed by newscasters and so-called experts on terrorism. It was strange to him to hear his own voice the way others heard it. Sometimes while looking at the images, he had to remind himself that it was him being seen and heard throughout the world, a man who had once been a forgotten boy, lost and without hope, buried from society.

“You look good up there, brother,” Barsad’s buoyant voice announced his arrival in the room.

Bane turned to him but ignored his lieutenant’s grin and leading statement. “Did you make the arrangements for supplies and communications?”

“Yeah.” Barsad laughed. “You should have seen the dude’s face when I reminded him what would happen if he let anyone cross that bridge.”

Bane nodded absently, turned his attention back to the dispatch in his hand. They had left one bridge intact in order to bring supplies into the city. Five months would require additional goods for not only his forces but for the citizens. He wanted people fearful and intimidated but not too hungry. Hunger could lead to insurrection. People could give up freedom easier than they would food.

“Things are going well,” Barsad continued. “What resistance we’ve encountered has been neutralized.”

“Yes, so it would seem.” Bane glanced at the nearest television.

“Abraham’s bringing Dr. Crane up. Should be here any time.”

“Very good. Put him in the conference room. Make him comfortable.” Then he stepped close to Barsad, lowered his voice. “Has Yemi reported any trouble?”

“No, he’s kept her safe.” Barsad offered a sustaining smile. “Don’t worry, brother. She’ll be all right, and if something goes wrong Yemi knows how to get help.”

“I do not want her suffering, but we must be discreet with how she obtains shelter and food. She cannot look to be better off than any of her colleagues.”

“We’ve found a good place for her. It’s not the same as a penthouse, of course, but she won’t suffer.”

“Suffering builds character.” Bane gave a quiet snort of cynicism. “Her father often said that, and she parroted it many times over the years.”

“Well, whatever she may suffer now won’t be anything like what you both went through when you were kids.”

“True enough, brother, but you know the very idea of her going wanting troubles me.”

“Well, it won’t be forever, will it?”

Bane nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed.”

Ten minutes later Dr. Jonathan Crane arrived, and Bane entered the conference room alone to find the younger man seated casually at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His appearance amused Bane. Somehow in the short time between now and Crane’s liberation from Blackgate, he had acquired a well-cut gray suit and pale red tie. His short dark hair was clean and neatly trimmed, his face freshly shaven. Pedantically he straightened his wire-rimmed glasses and studied Bane who sat across from him. Crane’s pale blue eyes were cold and unafraid. Yes, the psych doctor had ice water in his veins; anyone who had dealt so closely with Rā’s al Ghūl needed such qualities. Bane smiled inwardly, knowing he had chosen the right man for this job.

“Dr. Crane, so good of you to come on such short notice,” Bane said with a hint of sarcasm.

Crane parried with equal mockery, “Fortunate for you, my calendar was wide open today.” He sipped his coffee. “And how am I to address you? Mr. Bane?”

“Sir will suffice.”

Crane made a dismissive face. “Very well. Sir. First, let me extend my sincere appreciation for your keen sense of justice for seeing to my release today. But truly you shouldn’t have gone to such trouble just for me.”

Bane smirked. “You are almost as amusing as the Joker, Doctor.”

“Who is still in Arkham, I hear. You did not see fit to release those prisoners.”

“We do not require their services, and those poor souls are better off in a medical institution…at least for now.”

“Very wise.” Crane leaned forward with a small, chilly smile. “I heard that you and the Joker met once and colluded in his plans for the Batman. Considering the fact that the Batman soon thereafter disappeared, I’m thinking there was some truth to that rumor. And now it appears he has vanished again, just as you’ve come to power. No coincidence there either, I suspect.”

“You struck me as a man above listening to idle rumors, Doctor.”

“Rumors once, but now it seems more of a reality. And reality is what I deal in, sir.” Crane relaxed back in his chair again. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”

“I have a job for you here in Gotham’s new society, one I believe you will enjoy.”

“Indeed?” Interest sparked in Crane’s eyes. “And is there compensation involved? Or is preservation my only compensation?”

“There is that. You will be protected from any of Gotham’s less compliant citizens and from the families of those whom you sit in judgment of. And you will be fed and clothed in a comfortable manner. Winter is coming.”

“Judgment, you say? Are you suggesting I will be in a judicial capacity then?”

“The judicial capacity. You will be both judge and jury in a court that will be set up.”

“What sort of court?”

“A court that will pass judgment on those citizens of Gotham who have made their fortunes by unjust means, who have tormented the city’s lesser population for their own gains, as well as any others who try to upset our new order, those who might be ignorant enough to show contempt for the favor we have done the city.”

Crane eyed him. “I suppose there is little sense in me inquiring as to your long-term plans for Gotham.”

“Indeed, no sense at all, Doctor.”

Crane paused, and some of his flippancy left him. “Why me?”

“Sharing a common enemy often is the foundation of strong relationships. That commonality and your appreciation for your release give me confidence in your ability and your loyalty to our cause.”

“Our cause?” Crane wagged a finger back and forth between them. “Do you mean you and me?”

“I mean all those who believe in the cause of true justice and the downfall of the corrupt. With a man of your background as Gotham’s judge, there will be no politics involved, no favoritism for cronies, unlike those who came before you. You will forward our cause in your way, and I will forward it in mine.”

Crane sipped his coffee again, thoughtful.

“You will accept this position, Doctor?” Though he posed it as a question, they both knew there was little choice truly offered.

Crane needlessly adjusted his glasses, swallowed, and clasped his slender fingers together atop the table. He leaned slightly forward again and offered a small, frosty smile, said, “I will be honored.”