A tense hush fell over everyone, like the calm before a storm. The girl glanced around cluelessly.
“Place is a little dead,” Jen said as Selina took the envelope.
“It will liven up in a minute, trust me.”
Jen picked up on the tension in the room.
“Everything okay?”
“Great,” Selina lied. “See you later.”
To her relief, Stryver let the girl depart, perhaps to avoid any unnecessary complications. Or maybe he just had a soft spot for blondes. Taking the envelope from Selina, he inspected a second transparency. This one bore the flawless image of a single thumbprint.
He nodded in satisfaction.
“It would have been a lot easier,” she pointed out, “to just give me what we agreed on.”
He shook his head.
“We can’t have any loose ends.” He looked her over appreciatively. “And, even in that dress, no one is going to miss you.”
“No,” she agreed. “But my friend over there?” She cocked her head toward the bar, where her oblivious “date” was drooling into a bowl of cocktail peanuts. “Every cop in the city’s missing him.”
As if on cue, a news update flashed across the screen of the muted television set. A headline scrolled beneath a campaign photo of a certain prominent local politician.
MANHUNT FOR MISSING CONGRESSMAN
Stryver’s startled gaze darted between the TV and the drunk, and then back again.
“Cute,” he said, recovering quickly. “But they’re not going to be looking for him in a place like this.”
“I don’t know,” she countered. “You did just use his cell phone.”
Stryver stared in horror at the phone in his hand. He hastily wiped it down with a silk handkerchief, even as—all at once—the entire Gotham City Police Department seemed to converge upon the bar. Sirens blared outside, drowning out the jukebox. The noisy whirr of helicopter blades came from above, growing louder by the moment. Spinning red gumball lights could be glimpsed through the drawn window shades.
Brakes squealed.
Boots pounded toward the door.
Stryver’s face blanched. He glanced toward the window. Clearly, this wasn’t part of his plan.
She seized the moment. Moving quickly, she cracked his head against the table, then grabbed the big bruiser’s gun hand and flipped over the table with feline grace and dexterity. Before the baffled thug even knew what was happening, she used his gun and opened fire on the other hoods. Winged henchmen yelped and dropped to the floor.
Selina pistol-whipped the gunman, knocking him senseless, and dived beneath the table. Just in time…
A SWAT team, each member in full body armor and a faceless black helmet, battered down the door. They fanned out through the bar, the lasers on their automatic rifles sweeping the premises, vivid in the smoke-laden air.
Right on schedule, she thought.
Cowering beneath the table, she screamed as though terrified. A helmeted trooper came to her rescue.
“It’s all right, miss,” he said gruffly. “Just stay down.”
The SWAT team stampeded past her, chasing Stryver and his remaining thugs into a back alley, even as wounded hoodlums groaned and writhed upon the floor. Making sure the coast was clear, she got up and strolled toward the door. A whimper caught her ear and she spied Congressman Gilly crouching beneath the bar, clutching his leg. The pathetic figure was a far cry from the smug politician in the campaign photo— no wonder the SWAT boys hadn’t ID’d him yet.
“Keep some pressure on that, sweetheart,” she advised him. She took a moment to adjust her dress.
Bleary eyes watched her leave.
“Call me?” he pleaded.
Blake chased after the SWAT guys, eager to get in on the action. A pretty girl in a black dress, rushing out of the bar, ran right into him. She looked terrified.
“There’s a man in there!” she said frantically, sounding scared out of her wits. “He’s bleeding!”
He did his best to calm her.
“It’s okay, miss,” he said. “It’s okay.”
Impatient to get into to the bar, and frustrated by the delay, he nonetheless took the time to guide the distraught young woman to safety, leaving her on the tailgate of one of the parked SWAT vehicles. There would be time enough for someone to take her statement…later. Right now, the congressman was still missing—and the perps might be getting away.
Gun drawn, he raced into the bar, where his fellow officers were already rounding up a bunch of confused and injured lowlifes. A sloppy-looking bum was sprawled by the bar, blood soaking through his soiled trousers. His hair was disheveled and he reeked of booze. Stubble dotted his jowls.
“Help me,” he whimpered.
It took Blake a moment to recognize the missing congressman.
“I’ve got him,” he reported into the radio on his shoulder. He gave the injured politician a quick onceover. “Bullet to the leg, but he’s okay.”
In his excitement, he forgot all about the girl in the black dress.
A firefight broke out in the alley behind the bar. Vicious hoodlums, desperate to get away, opened fire on the SWAT teams, who returned fire with extreme prejudice. The sound echoed off the grimy brick walls of the alley. Bullets ricocheted off rusty trash bins and dumpsters. Frightened rats scurried for safety. Broken glass, cigarette butts, syringes, crack vials, and other debris crunched beneath the heels of the racing cops and criminals.
Laying down a blistering volley of cover fire, a group of the crooks darted into an even narrower passage.
A cop car, its bubble light spinning wildly, squealed to a halt, blocking the mouth of the alley. Jim Gordon emerged from the car, brandishing his trusty Smith & Wesson pistol. A rumpled brown trench coat protected him from the night’s chill. He hurried to take charge of the situation. Anyone who would brazenly abduct a congressman deserved his personal attention.
SWAT troopers converged on the murky passage, massing on both corners, just out of the line of fire. They exchanged hand signals and counted down silently before rounding the corner, their rifles aimed high and low. Gordon sprinted after them.
He half-expected to find the armed felons waiting in ambush, but instead the dead end appeared to be completely empty. Only heaps of trash and obscene graffiti greeted his eyes. A high brick wall, topped with razor wire, blocked the other end of the passage.
What the devil? Gordon thought. Where did they go?
Searching for the hostiles, the troopers looked upward, raising their rifles toward the rickety fire escapes overlooking the scene. Laundry hung like flags, flapping on makeshift clotheslines.
But Gordon had another idea. He scanned the filthy, litter-strewn pavement.
“Manhole!” he shouted.
A cast-iron manhole cover, about midway down the passage, appeared slightly off-kilter. Responding to Gordon’s summons, two armored SWAT troopers wrenched the heavy disk free and rolled it aside, exposing a deep, shadowy cavity. Gordon snatched a flashlight from the nearest SWAT guy.
The beam probed the open shaft. A rusty ladder descended deep beneath the city streets. A pungent odor wafted up from the sewers. Gordon thought he heard footsteps splashing through the tunnels below. A shredded cobweb, recently disturbed, hung in tatters.
“You three,” he ordered the nearest men, “down with me.” He glanced over at the remaining troopers. “You two, head down to the next exit.”
The men looked around uncertainly.
“Where?”
The hell if I know, Gordon thought. “Get the DWP down here…now!” He wished he could wait for somebody from the Department of Water and Power himself, but there wasn’t any time. For all he knew, the men behind the congressman’s abduction were making their escape. He had to go after them.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he led the way down into the gloom, scrambling down the ladder as swiftly as his aging bones could manage. The three SWAT men hustled after him.
r />
Gordon hoped they wouldn’t end up lost down in the tunnels.
Congressman Gilly had been safely delivered into the hands of medics, leaving Blake free to join in the pursuit. He rushed through the alleys behind the bar until he found a large circle of cops crowded around an open manhole. Deputy Commissioner Foley was already on the scene. He glared at his watch.
“Where’s the DWP guy?” Foley grumbled impatiently.
Blake shouldered his way into the group. He peered into the gloomy shaft.
“They went down there?” he asked.
Foley nodded.
“And Gordon took SWAT in after him.”
The sewers were dank and dark and difficult to navigate. Slime coated the crumbling brick walls. Rats, lizards, and other vermin scurried in the shadows. Gordon and his men crept warily through the claustrophobic tunnels, watching their steps as they trod upon slippery maintenance walkways. Rusted, rickety guardrails couldn’t be trusted. Raw sewage coursed through the endless drains, the putrid odor turning Gordon’s stomach. Bile rose at the back of his throat.
He kept his gun drawn and his flashlight low. His eyes probed the Stygian darkness. His ears strained to hear which way the suspects had gone. For a few, frustrating moments, he was afraid that that the fleeing kidnappers had given them the slip, but then he thought he heard some furtive footsteps ahead, just around a corner.
He signaled the men behind him to be on their guard. Adrenalin rushed through his veins, keeping him sharp. He welcomed the extra edge. It had been a long time since he had led a raid like this.
Maybe too long.
Sure enough, the minute they rounded the corner, they were met with a furious hail of gunfire. Muzzles flared in the shadows. Bullets sparked off the walls, chipping away at the stonework and pelting Gordon’s face with bits of rock and mortar. The cramped tunnels amplified the deafening report of the guns, hurting his ears. The acrid smell of cordite competed with the stench of the sewers. Gordon and his men pulled back, seeking shelter while returning fire. In the oppressive darkness, he couldn’t even see who was shooting at them. Suddenly he envied the SWATs their body armor.
Where the hell are our reinforcements?
A sudden explosion lit up the tunnels behind them, sending the SWAT men flying. They smashed against the walls before splashing into the sewers. Staggered but still standing, Gordon felt a scorching heat at his back and turned to see bright orange flames engulfing the tunnels and spreading toward him. Dashing into the intersection up ahead, he fled through the tunnels, frantic to get away from the inferno.
The smoke and flames chased after him.
Putting another turn between himself and the flames, he paused to get his bearings. On his own now, he held on tightly to his pistol. He sagged against a damp wall, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he hadn’t lost his glasses in the confusion. His ears rang from the explosion.
Loose gravel crunched somewhere behind him. He spun around, but not swiftly enough. A heavy blow struck him in the head.
* * *
A fireball erupted from the open shaft. Blake and the other cops jumped back to avoid being scorched. Startled shouts and curses escaped their lips. Blake felt the heat of the flames against his face.
“Come on!” he blurted, realizing that Gordon was in trouble. “We gotta get down there!”
An older cop snorted.
“That was a gas explosion, kid.”
“Gas?” Blake challenged him. “This is a sewer!”
Foley stepped forward to take charge. He wiped the soot from his face.
“No one goes in until we know what’s down there.”
“But we know what’s down there, sir! The police commissioner!”
Foley shot Blake a dirty look, visibly annoyed by the young cop’s outburst.
“Somebody get the hothead out of here,” he ordered. “And get me a DWP guy!”
Realizing there was no point in arguing, Blake backed off and retreated from the passage. He couldn’t believe that Foley and the others weren’t rushing to find Gordon, fire or no fire. There were miles of tunnels underneath Gotham. Gordon could be anywhere now.
Maybe even…
An idea occurred to him. He ran for his patrol car.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dazed from the blow, Gordon struggled to hang on to consciousness. Rough hands took his gun and rolled him over onto his back. Playing possum, he cracked his eyelids open just enough to make out two blurry figures leaning over him. The rank odor of unwashed hair and clothing invaded his nostrils. A foot kicked him in the ribs, eliciting a gasp of pain.
“This one’s alive,” a raspy voice pronounced. The man bent over to take a closer look. “Jesus, it’s the police commissioner!”
His accomplice scratched his head.
“What do we do?”
They stood there for a moment, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Then the first one spoke again.
“Take him to Bane.”
They half-carried, half-dragged Gordon through a bewildering maze of tunnels. Despite his groggy state, he tried to note the route, but soon lost track of the numerous twists and turns. They moved deeper beneath the city, the temperature dropping noticeably as they traveled lower and lower.
Hanging lanterns and glowing naked bulbs provided just enough light by which to navigate. He was surprised—and troubled—to glimpse all sorts of activity going on in the tunnels. Beefy men, their bodies gleaming with sweat, attacked the walls and ceiling with drills and jackhammers. Scowling guards equipped with automatic weapons stood watch over the workers. Ragged street kids who looked like they still belonged in school hauled away buckets of loose debris, squeezing through narrow cracks. Bags of powdered cement were piled high in the corridor.
A major excavation appeared to be underway, but Gordon suspected that the city’s planning department hadn’t authorized any of this. He doubted they even knew about it.
This is bigger than just a kidnapping, he realized. Much bigger.
The workers stopped briefly to watch as Gordon was dragged past, only to resume their labors after a moment. The din of the jackhammers echoed off the dripping stone walls of the tunnels before receding into the distance. Gordon wondered where his captors were taking him—and just who this “Bane” was.
Another level below twin cataracts of clear runoff water gushed down into an underground river. A catwalk led between the spraying waterfalls, and his ambushers hauled Gordon across the walkway onto a recessed platform hidden behind curtains of falling water. The cavernous space appeared to have been converted into an ad hoc command center, complete with living quarters. Desks and file cabinets were crammed into the corners. Maps and blueprints papered the desks. A faded quilt of exotic design, spread out atop a large cot, provided an incongruously homey touch.
Armed guards in military fatigues eyed the new arrivals suspiciously, but let them pass. An imposing, bare-chested figure, the size of a professional wrestler, stood before an open furnace, his broad back turned toward Gordon and his captors. Firelight cast a hellish glow over his muscular frame. A jagged line of rough scar tissue ran down his spine. A dark rubber headpiece was strapped to his skull.
“Why are you here?” the man asked. Gordon guessed this was Bane.
The thugs tossed Gordon at his feet.
“Answer him!” one of them demanded.
Bane turned toward them. Gordon’s eyes widened at the sight of the elaborate apparatus concealing the giant’s nose and mouth. Some sort of gas mask? The commissioner sniffed the air, but detected only the stale atmosphere of the tunnels.
“I’m asking you,” Bane said, turning toward the two men.
“It’s the police commissioner,” one of them volunteered. Hearing this, Bane did not look pleased.
“And you brought him down here?” he asked.
“We didn’t know what to do,” the other man said, trying to explain. “We—”
“You panicked,” Bane said, cuttin
g him off. “And your weakness cost three lives.”
The flunky looked around in confusion.
“No, he’s alone—”
Bane lunged forward with surprising speed. Before the man could even complete his sentence, Bane seized his head and twisted it sharply. An unmistakable crack ended the unlucky henchman’s life. His lifeless body dropped to the floor.
Good Lord, Gordon thought. He stared at Bane in horror. What kind of monster is this? The masked killer turned toward the remaining thug. Then he nodded in Gordon’s direction.
“Search him,” he ordered. “Then I will kill you.”
His intended victim gulped. All the blood drained from his sallow features. His knuckles tightened on the grip of Gordon’s captured pistol. He glanced around anxiously, no doubt searching for a way out, only to see Bane’s guards hefting their weapons. The soldiers had the battle-hardened look of professional mercenaries.
Escape was not an option.
The man held onto Gordon’s gun for a moment longer before meekly surrendering. He put it down, and a look of mournful resignation came over his face. Rummaging through the prone officer’s pockets, he took out Gordon’s wallet, badge, and several folded sheets of paper.
My speech, Gordon realized with alarm. Dear God, no…
The doomed felon handed the items over to Bane, who briefly examined them, one by one. They appeared to be of little interest to him, until he came to the papers. He skimmed the pages quickly, then paused and read through them more carefully. His eyes narrowed.
No one spoke. All eyes were on Bane and the poor stooge who was slated for execution. Nobody was paying any attention to Gordon as he lay sprawled on the floor of the chamber, not far from the edge of the platform. He could hear the water surging by several feet below. The spray from the twin cataracts rose up to spatter him.
He cautiously lifted his head to make sure no one was watching.
This is it, he realized. This could be my only chance. Adrenaline cut through the cloudiness fogging his brain, and he rolled frantically over the edge of the platform, splashing into the churning waters below.