The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization

  Right, Blake thought, chuckling. Then he reached back and felt the nape of his own neck. Was it just his imagination or was there a tiny lump of scar tissue there?

  He stopped laughing.

  Batman extracted a pair of mini-mines from his Utility Belt. Flashing green indicators signaled that the compact black spheres were armed. He lobbed one over to Blake, while keeping the other for himself. He turned to face the mountain of rubble sealing off the pipe.

  “On three,” he said, drawing his arm back to throw the mine. Blake did the same. “One, two, three!” Together, they hurled the mines at the rubble.

  Twin explosions rocked the hillside, causing loose gravel to tumble into the icy stream, but when the smoke cleared the tunnel was still blocked. The miniature mines had barely made a dent in the heap of shattered stone and concrete. Blake scowled in disappointment.

  “No offense,” he said, “but you got anything bigger in the belt?”

  “That was to warn the men on the other side,” Batman said. He gestured for Black to stay put, before vanishing into the woods that surrounded the demolished pipe. The young detective found himself standing alone with the unconscious terrorists, and the body of his dead partner.

  He scratched his head.

  “But how do we—?”

  Barooom!

  Cannons belched flame as a large bat-winged aircraft dropped into view in front of the cave-in. Blake scrambled backward, getting further out of the way, as the flare of the explosions lit up the night, blowing away the tons of debris blocking the tunnel.

  He ducked his head and put his hands over his ears.

  Thunder shook the park.

  “Okay,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Moments later, there was nothing left of the barrier. Dozens of cops emerged from the pipe, staggering out into the cold night air. They were all skinny and ragged, half-starved from their ordeal, but they looked fit enough to fight—and mad as hell.

  They clutched their weapons eagerly.

  Blake gazed at Ross’s body, bleeding out onto the snow. He knew just how the other cops felt.

  “What now?” he asked grimly.

  Batman appeared beside him without warning. He did that, Gordon had said. According to the commissioner, it took some getting used to.

  “All-out assault on Bane,” the Dark Knight said. “But you need to get the people you care about across the bridge.”

  Blake wanted to fight, not herd civilians.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “In case we fail,” Batman said, speaking the unthinkable. “Lead an exodus across the bridge. Save as many lives as you can.”

  He understood the reasoning, but he didn’t like it.

  “Don’t you need me here?”

  “You’ve given me an army,” Batman said. He watched the liberated cops as they climbed up from the sewers, first by the dozens, then by the hundreds. There seemed to be no end to the tattered flood pouring out of the shadows and into the park. None of them appeared particularly interested in apprehending Batman. They knew who their true enemy was.

  “Now go,” the masked man said.

  Blake nodded. He had been accused of being a hothead before, and maybe there was some truth to that, but he knew when he had to put his own anger aside. Avenging Ross would have to wait. He had a more important duty.

  Sorry, partner, he thought. I wish you could see Bane go down.

  He turned to leave, then paused to look back.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Batman said.

  “I may not get a chance later.”

  Batman nodded. They both knew the odds were against them. They still had to defeat Bane and his army, and keep the bomb from going off.

  At least now we have a fighting chance, Blake thought. And the Batman on our side.

  He hurried back into the city.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Gordon checked on the metal box one last time before tucking it under his coat. Dawn would be arriving soon, but the sky was still dark for now. He and his men lurked in shadowy doorways, staying as far from the streetlights as humanly possible. The last thing they wanted was to be picked up by Bane’s men again. Especially now that they had a chance to save Gotham—and take the city back.

  He watched the deserted street, keeping one eye on his tracking device. He nodded at his men.

  The truck was coming.

  A rusty metal dumpster, its paint peeling, stood in a murky alley. Fresh snow covered its lid. Dented trash cans, piled nearby, were overflowing with refuse. Garbage collection had been non-existent during the occupation. Rats scurried amidst the trash, emboldened by the chaos in the city.

  The place smelled like a toilet. Catwoman wrinkled her nose. She was unimpressed—until Batman undid a latch and opened one side of the container, which hit the ground like a ramp. A thick layer of snow muffled the sound.

  Hidden inside the rusty metal shell was the coolest-looking motorcycle in the world: the Bat-Pod.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have…” Without waiting for an invitation, she hopped onto the cycle. She stretched out atop it, feeling its sleek contours beneath her. Eager hands explored the controls.

  “The midtown tunnel’s blocked by debris,” Batman said gruffly. “But the cannons give you enough firepower to make a path for people.”

  She marveled at all the firepower it placed at her command. Machine guns, missile launchers, grappling hooks and cables—what more could a girl want?

  “To start it, you—” Before he could finish, she hit the throttle, firing up the engines inside the wheels. The Bat-Pod growled beneath her, like a panther ready to spring. She liked the feeling.

  “I got it,” she said.

  He took her word for it.

  “We’ve got forty-five minutes to save this city.”

  “No,” she corrected him. “I’ve got forty-five minutes to get clear of the blast radius…because you don’t stand a chance against these guys.”

  “With your help I might,” he suggested.

  She shook her head. He was fooling himself if he thought she was the sort to sign up for a suicide mission.

  “I’ll open the tunnel,” she promised, “then I’m gone.”

  His dark eyes regarded her from behind his mask.

  “There’s more to you than that,” he insisted.

  She stared back at him, wondering what exactly he thought he saw in her. Was he deluded, or desperate, or what? A flicker of regret ran through her.

  “Sorry to keep letting you down,” she said. And she meant it.

  He just stood there silently, as if waiting for her to change her mind. She found herself wishing that their paths had crossed under different circumstances. But perhaps it wasn’t too late…

  “Come with me,” she implored. “Save yourself. You don’t owe these people any more. You’ve given them everything.”

  “Not everything,” he said. “Not yet.”

  Giving up on her at last, he turned and vanished into the night. She gazed after him for a moment, then settled back down onto the Bat-Pod. Her shoulders nestled into the steering shields.

  She gunned the engines.

  The Bat-Pod sped out of the alley and onto the city streets. She raced across town, trying to outrun the doubts Batman had planted in her brain. The icy wind rushing past her face, and the speed and power with which the cycle handled, did little to soothe her turbulent thoughts. The roar of the engines failed to drown out the voices arguing at the back of her mind.

  How dare he put her on the spot like that? Who did he think he was?

  Who did he think she was?

  Zooming through the icy avenues at breakneck speed, she reached the midtown tunnel in no time at all. Dozens of junked cars, including taxis, ambulances, and police cruisers, were piled in the entrance, blocking her way. The cars were heaped on top of one another, at least four layers high and who knew how deep. The barricad
e looked like an auto junkyard.

  No way was anyone getting past it, unless…

  Where exactly were those cannons again?

  Dawn rose on Gotham City. A heavy snow fell from the sky as an army of cops, over a thousand strong, marched on City Hall, ready to take back their city or die trying. They stomped through the snow, past abandoned store windows and newsstands. SWAT teams in black helmets and combat armor marched shoulder to shoulder with beat cops and detectives. They weren’t trapped or hiding any longer.

  They wanted Bane to know they were coming.

  But the mercenary had his own army. Hundreds of armed men poured out of City Hall and the surrounding buildings, forming an opposing line. They brandished their weapons and taunted the approaching cops. The clamor and echoes of thousands of angry shouts drowned out the howling wind. Shots were fired in the air. Bane had claimed City Hall as his headquarters. His army wasn’t going to surrender it without a fight.

  Foley marched at the head of the police forces, decked out in his full dress blues. A gold braid shone brightly on his shoulder. His chin was neatly shaved, his badge freshly polished. He held his head up, feeling like a cop for the first time in months. One way or another, he intended to do Gordon proud.

  Forget promotions and politics, he thought. This is what the job is all about.

  The armies faced off on Grand Street. Their numbers appeared evenly matched—until all three tumblers pulled onto Grand in front of the cops. They turned their gun turrets toward the advancing blue army. A loudspeaker blared at the police:

  “DISPERSE. DISPERSE OR BE FIRED UPON.”

  Rows of cops regarded the tumblers apprehensively. Faces that hadn’t felt the touch of sunlight for months went paler still. Foley realized they were seriously outgunned, but he did not back down. Still marching, glancing back at his troops, he saw that they were scared but determined. Brave men and women, veterans and rookies, held their ground. There would be no retreat, no matter what.

  He had never been so proud to wear the uniform.

  “There’s only one police in this city,” he called out, and he kept on going.

  A great blue tide surged after him.

  Bane emerged from City Hall. He watched the police approach from the atop the building’s wide stone steps. He wore his brown utility harness over the rugged garb of a common soldier. He breathed deeply, inhaling the gas that kept his endless pain at bay. His hairless brow furrowed.

  It seemed that the city’s defenders were not going to let Gotham perish without one last, futile attempt at resistance.

  So be it, he thought. Then he gave the order. “Open fire.”

  His order was communicated to the tumblers, which unleashed their cannons on the blue army. Unlucky officers were blasted into the air. Screaming cops crashed onto the street, turning the fresh snow red with their spilled blood. Maimed bodies writhed upon the ground, while others just lay still—or in parts. The line began to fall apart, as the survivors began to rethink their foolishness. Bane expected them to break ranks and run at any moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He strode down the steps toward his foe.

  CHAPTER FORTY

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

  Better you than me, she thought.

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

  She wiped the wet flakes away from her goggles.

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

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

  Now she just needed to take it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Perhaps it is better this way.

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

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

  His mask filled his lungs with anesthetic gas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was only a matter of time.

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

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

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