The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization

  A slender pick withdrawn from her belt quickly unlocked Fox’s handcuffs, then Bruce’s. He smiled and rubbed his wrists.

  “I like your girlfriend, Mr. Wayne.”

  “He should be so lucky,” she said before slipping away into the shadows between the columns. Within seconds, it was as if she was never there.

  Fox arched an eyebrow at Bruce, who just shrugged in response.

  They were free, and they had work to do.

  Bright fluorescent lights flickered on, exposing a stark rectangular chamber hidden deep beneath a shipping yard owned by Wayne Enterprises. The bunker had served as an auxiliary base of operations during the restorations to the mansion, several years back. A bank of computer monitors occupied one wall, while the rest of Batman’s equipment was stored away in hidden compartments.

  It had been kept intact for those times when it simply wasn’t convenient to rush all the way back to the manor. That it remained so made it clear that Bane was unfamiliar with this particular storehouse.

  Bruce considered his options.

  “Any move I make against Bane or the bomb, the trigger man sets it off.”

  “They can’t be using radio or cell,” Fox theorized. “Too much interference. Infrared doesn’t have the range. It could only be micro-burst long wave.”

  Bruce concurred with Fox’s assessment.

  “Could you block it?”

  “Yes, but I need the EMP cannon guidance mount from the Bat.” He gave Bruce a wry look. “You remember where you parked?”

  Bruce nodded. He opened a concealed panel in the wall, exposing a well-stocked armory. He took out explosive mini-mines, Batarangs, the grapple gun, his Utility Belt—all his old tools and weapons.

  “Mr. Wayne?” Fox interjected. “Might be time for a shave.”

  Bruce raised a hand to his chin, feeling the bristling growth there, and conceded that Fox probably had a point. It wouldn’t do for the Dark Knight to go into battle looking like Robinson Crusoe.

  Doesn’t really go with the image.

  He pressed a button and a wire mesh cage rose from the floor. Inside the cage were a familiar black suit, cowl, and cape. He smiled grimly. Alfred had always encouraged him to buy in bulk. And he couldn’t fault the logic.

  It never hurt to have a spare.

  * * *

  This is a travesty, Gordon thought grimly. A joke.

  He, Miranda, and the other cops were on “trial” before Jonathan Crane of all people. A mob of hoods, mercs, and escaped prisoners—many of whom Gordon was personally responsible for putting behind bars—crowded the former stock exchange, hooting and hollering at the disgusting spectacle. Bane himself watched from the upper gallery.

  Gordon repressed a shudder at the sight of the masked madman who was close to destroying Gotham. The scars from his bullet wounds throbbed at the memory of his first encounter with Bane in the tunnels months ago.

  If only we had stopped him then…

  “The charges are espionage and attempted sabotage,” Crane declared with an undisguised smirk. He was clearly enjoying this obscene role-reversal. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  Gordon thought Crane belonged in straitjacket, not a judge’s robes. He refused to play along.

  “No lawyer, no witnesses? What sort of due process is this?”

  “More than you gave Harvey’s prisoners, commissioner. Your guilt is determined. This is merely a sentencing hearing.” He peered down from the podium. “What’s it to be—death or exile?”

  By now, word of the sadistic ritual down at the docks had made its way across Gotham. As far as Gordon knew, nobody had ever made it across the frozen river before plunging beneath the ice. Bane and his people hadn’t even bothered to dredge for the bodies.

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

  The criminal psychiatrist waved away Gordon’s insolence.

  “Death, then?”

  Gordon wasn’t about to plead for his life. He spoke for his men, as well, but hoped that Miranda might be spared.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Very well,” Crane said, smiling. “Death…by exile.” His gavel banged against the podium as the crowd cheered his verdict. Then Bane stepped forward and a hush fell over the “courtroom.” He leaned toward one of his men and pointed toward Miranda.

  “Bring her to me.”

  The stairwell was thick with dust and dimly lit. A flickering light bulb needed replacing. The top floor of the building had once housed Bruce Wayne’s downtown penthouse apartment, but had been caught up in bankruptcy proceedings right before Bane took control of the city. From the looks of things, it had sat empty ever since.

  Assuming we don’t run into any squatters, Fox mused.

  Bruce bounded up the stairs, while Fox huffed and puffed behind him. After sneaking around Gotham all day, he was definitely feeling his age, unlike Bruce, who looked as if he had been working out like an Olympic athlete. A fresh leg brace, recovered from the bunker, meant he didn’t need to worry about his bum knee anymore, either.

  Lucius paused to catch his breath.

  “I think it’s time to talk about my year-end bonus…” he said. Assuming any of us are still alive by New Year’s.

  Bypassing the top-floor apartments, they went straight to the roof of the skyscraper. Bruce keyed in a combination code that granted them access. A freezing wind hit them as they stepped out. The sun was setting to the west, lending the frozen river a lurid incarnadine sheen. Fox gazed soberly at the fallen bridges, and the mainland beyond. He wondered if he would ever set foot off the island again.

  It’s been a good life, he thought. All in all.

  But he wasn’t ready for it to end yet.

  A frosted white tarp was draped over a large object parked inconspicuously on the helipad. A no-fly zone was in force above Gotham, as part of the terrorists’ demands. All aircraft, private and otherwise, had been grounded.

  Until now.

  Bruce grabbed the edge of the tarp, shook loose the snow, and yanked it away, revealing the Bat, just as Fox remembered it. The formidable aircraft looked none the worse for wear since its maiden flight. He couldn’t wait to see it take to the night sky once again.

  But first he needed to “borrow” that EMP cannon.

  Doing his best to ignore the cold, he hurried forward and started taking apart the forward gun mount. The sleek black metal was freezing to the touch, but it couldn’t be helped. Better a touch of frostbite, Fox reasoned, than death by atomic blast.

  “She fly pretty well?” he asked.

  Bruce nodded, coming over to assist him. Freshly shaved, he looked much more like his old self.

  “Even without the autopilot.”

  “Autopilot?” Fox gave Bruce a puzzled look. “That’s what you’re there for.”

  Bruce smiled cryptically.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Darkness shrouded the frozen surface of the river, making it all-but-invisible. Pitch-black shadows lurked beneath the decapitated pylons of the bridge. Empty skyscrapers loomed on the other shore, long since evacuated by the US Armed Forces that were surrounding the island.

  Standing at the Gotham edge of the river with his men, Gordon tried to calculate the distance across. Half a mile? Three-quarters? How wide was the Gotham River anyway?

  Too wide, probably.

  “Get going,” a mercenary snarled. He fired his gun into the air for emphasis. At least a half-dozen mercs and escaped prisoners clustered on the docks and riverfront, waiting to see how far the prisoners got. Somebody tried to get a wager going, but nobody was willing to bet on the cops. The only question was who fell through the ice first.

  The heavy betting was on Gordon.

  Might as well get this over with, he thought.

  Giving his men an encouraging look, he led them out onto the ice, which creaked and groaned alarmingly beneath their feet. He was grateful that Miranda Tat
e hadn’t been forced to undergo this ordeal, as well, although he wasn’t sure she was much better off in Bane’s hands. Gordon hadn’t known her long, but she had struck him as a smart, courageous woman.

  He hoped she came out of this okay.

  They made their way cautiously across the ice, fanning out to avoid placing too much weight on any one section. For the first time, Gordon was thankful for the weight he’d lost during his hospital stay and the lean times afterwards. A few extra pounds might be the difference between life and death.

  If we have any chance at all.

  When they were less than a hundred feet from their starting point, a peculiar odor caught Gordon’s attention. He stopped and sniffed the air.

  Was that…gasoline?

  Glancing down, he spotted a pool of liquid atop the ice, reflected in the ambient light from the night sky. An emergency flare lay beside the puddle. Puzzled, he bent to pick it up.

  “Light it up,” a raspy voice growled in his ear.

  Hope sparked inside Gordon, brighter than any flare. He knew that voice. It was the same one that had spoken to him in his hospital room, months ago, the voice that had first asked him to help clean up Gotham all those years ago.

  He’s back, Gordon realized, overcome with relief. Finally.

  As requested, he lit the flare by twisting off its cap and scratching the ignition button. A brilliant red flame shot from the business end and, trusting Batman with his life, Gordon thrust it into the puddle of gasoline.

  The pool burst into flame, and a trail of fire raced across the ice until it reached one of the darkened buildings on the far side of the river. The bright orange flames spread up and across the face of the building, forming the silhouette of an enormous, flaming bat.

  Gordon’s heart surged at the sight. Now everybody in Gotham would know the truth:

  The Dark Knight had risen.

  “Dad! Check it out!”

  Deputy Commissioner Foley’s kids called him to the back window, the one that looked out over the river. Jennifer was already there, staring out in wonder.

  “Honey, take a look!” she said. The excitement in their voices jolted him from his guilty torpor. He stumbled across the brownstone to the window. His jaw dropped at the sight of the flaming sign.

  His conscience stirred.

  Maybe there was still hope after all.

  Bane strode the streets of Gotham, heading back from the courtroom to his headquarters in City Hall. This was the last time he ever expected to walk this route. Everything was in readiness.

  After so many months, the culmination of his plans was less than a day away. Soon Gotham would see its last dawn—and the legacy of Rā’s al Ghūl would be fulfilled at last. He hoped that Wayne was enjoying the show.

  “Sir?”

  Barsad approached from behind. Bane detected nervousness in the mercenary’s tone. He turned to see what the matter was, and beheld the sign of the Bat burning brightly on the other side of the river.

  “You think it’s really him?” the lieutenant asked.

  Bane’s mask concealed his surprise. He had broken the Batman, and left him in the pit to languish in despair. There was no way Wayne could have arisen from that hell.

  “Impossible…”

  The burning symbol sparked a fire inside Foley, as well. Racing to the bedroom, he yanked up the floorboards to expose a hidden cubbyhole. His dress blues, neatly folded and ironed, were tucked inside the hole. Despite everything, he had never been able to bring himself to dispose of them.

  He took the uniform out of hiding.

  Distracted by the blazing sign, the guards at the river’s edge were easy prey. Batman quickly neutralized them before they even realized what was happening.

  Gordon and his men gratefully fled the melting ice, returning to the shore, which by that time was littered with unconscious mercs and hoodlums. Batman stood among them, his cape flapping in the wind. Gordon had never been so glad to see someone in his entire life.

  The Dark Knight handed Gordon a compact metal box.

  “This blocks the remote detonator signal to the bomb,” Batman said. “Get it onto the truck by sunrise. They might hit the button when it starts.”

  Gordon didn’t bother asking how Batman knew about the truck. He accepted the box gratefully.

  “When what starts?”

  Batman growled his answer.

  “War.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The fiery bat could even be seen from the outskirts of Ackerman Park, where a large concrete outflow pipe drained into a shallow stream. A metal grate covered the mouth of the pipe, which emerged from a rocky hillside.

  Skyscrapers rose on all sides of the park, enclosing the unlit woods and meadows. A pair of mercenaries was posted in front of the pipe, which was one of the few entrances to the underground that wasn’t entirely sealed off. Ice coated the metal grate. Snow covered the ground.

  The guards gasped at the sight of the bat-symbol. One of them stepped away from his post to get a better look. He marched toward an open clearing, out of view of his comrade, only to be waylaid by a dark figure that lunged out from behind a tree. A sharp blow dropped the guard to the ground with a minimum of fuss.

  The attacker quietly dragged the unconscious merc into the shadows.

  One down, Blake thought. Let’s hope his buddy didn’t hear me.

  He crept around quietly, sneaking up on the second guard, who was peering into the darkness, searching for his compatriot. The man called out uncertainly.

  Blake jumped him from behind, slamming his head into the ground. The guard went limp, but the detective kicked the man’s rifle away just to be safe. He checked to make sure the merc was really out cold. The last thing he needed was to get suckered by a terrorist who was playing possum.

  Was that all of them? Blake glanced around, but didn’t see any other guards. Moving quickly—before any unwanted company could show up—he rushed to the tunnel entrance and shot apart the lock on the grate, allowing it to swing open.

  “Ross?” he asked anxiously.

  “Right here, pal,” his old partner answered, squeezing up through the pipe exactly as planned. His gaunt, bearded face was that of a man who had been trapped underground, living on scraps, for months. His blue uniform was tattered and filthy. He reeked like someone who hadn’t had a shower since those explosions back in the fall, but his gun looked clean and well cared-for.

  Blake was glad to see that his partner had kept his priorities straight. He heard more men climbing up from the sewers. He hoped there were plenty of them.

  We need all the help we can get—whether the Batman is back or not.

  Extending his hand, he helped his friend out of the pipe. The bedraggled cop reached the surface and paused to take a deep breath of fresh air. His breath frosted. Blake could only imagine what that felt like, after being forced to inhale the noxious atmosphere of the sewers for weeks on end. No doubt he was looking forward to seeing Yolanda and little Tara again, too.

  A shot rang out from the trees, and Ross staggered backwards, a crimson stain spreading across this chest. He fell lifelessly to the ground. His breath stopped misting.

  No! Blake screamed inwardly, even as he dove for cover. It’s not fair! He was finally free…

  A small group of killers charged onto the scene, surrounding Blake. He tried to scramble away, only to feel the muzzle of an automatic rifle against the back of his skull. One mercenary kept Blake pinned to the ground while his comrades fired into the open mouth of the pipe, driving back the cops who were climbing out of the depths. Muzzles flared in the night. Screams echoed from deep within the tunnel.

  The trapped cops fired back, trying to blast their way to freedom. Bullets ricocheted off the rubble clogging the pipe.

  Blake glared furiously from the ground, wanting to avenge his partner, but the goddamn merc had the drop on him. He watched helplessly as another terrorist took out a hand-held detonator and called his men away from the
pipe entrance.

  They’ve planted charges!

  The terrorist triggered the detonator and a deafening explosion shook the rocky ground, burying the pipe beneath a heap of rubble. Dust and smoke invaded his lungs, and he choked on the fumes.

  Ross’s dead body lay forgotten on the ground nearby. Was he better off than the cops who had seen a glimpse of freedom, only to be buried alive once more?

  It was hard to say. But Blake had never felt so angry—or so helpless.

  The merc cocked his gun, preparing to execute him on the spot, when without warning the gunman went flying to one side.

  A menacing apparition, cloaked in midnight and shadows, dropped into the midst of the terrorists, tossing them around like crash dummies. Batarangs winged through the air, disarming gunmen and spearing arms and shoulders. Batman fought like a demon. Arms were twisted, legs knocked out from beneath their owners, broken teeth sent flying. One after another, battered bodies hit the dirt.

  Blake scrambled to his feet, hoping to join in the fight, but it was already over. Silence descended. Batman stood over his fallen enemies.

  One of them stirred slightly, groping for his gun.

  “You missed a spot,” Blake said.

  Batman booted the stubborn merc in the head. Then he stalked toward Blake, his cape fluttering behind him. The pointed ears of his cowl cast an ominous shadow. Even knowing whose face lay beneath the cowl, Blake had to suppress a shudder. It was easy to forget that Batman was still human underneath.

  “If you’re working alone,” Batman advised, “wear a mask.”

  Blake didn’t see the point. It wasn’t like he was Bruce Wayne or something.

  “No one cares who I am.”

  “The mask’s not for you. It’s to protect the people you care about.”

  “Huh.” Blake was impressed, and slightly confused, by how Batman had shown up just in time to save him. “And you always seem to know where those people are. How is that?”

  “I lost someone once,” Batman said. A hint of sorrow infiltrated his raspy growl. “Since then I break into their homes when they’re sleeping and implant a tracking device on the back of their neck.”