The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization (12 page)

“Yes,” Alfred seemed to agree. “Gotham needs Bruce Wayne. Your resources, your knowledge. Not your body—not your life. That time has passed.”

“I tried helping as Bruce Wayne,” the billionaire protested. “And I failed.”

Just ask Miranda Tate,
he thought. But Alfred did not give in.

“You
can
fail as Bruce Wayne,” he said. “As Batman, you can’t afford to.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Bruce asked indignantly. “That if I go back out there, I’ll fail?”

“No,” Alfred said. “I’m afraid you
want
to.”

I can’t listen to this
, Bruce thought. Gordon was depending on him. Gotham was depending on him.
I have to go back out there.

He crossed the Batcave, no longer needing his cane, and unlocked a rectangular metal closet the size of an upright sarcophagus. Inside the cabinet, hidden away for eight years, was a suit of matte-black body armor made of reinforced Kevlar bi-weave fabric and fire-retardant Nomex. The silhouette of a winged nocturnal predator was emblazoned upon the broad chest piece, which was capable of resisting anything
except a straight shot at close range.

Adjacent shelves held steel-tipped black boots, gauntlets with scalloped metal fins, a hanging cloak, a golden Utility Belt, and—last but not least—a pointy-eared cowl. Its mere shadow had once struck terror into the hearts of Gotham’s criminal element.

He took the cowl off the shelf.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Gotham City Stock Exchange was a scene of frenzied activity. Buyers and sellers, wearing jackets and wide suspenders, crowded the trading floor, shouting out orders and keying them into their handheld wireless devices. The latest stock prices and interest rates scrolled across the countless flat-screen monitors mounted all around. It was pretty much impossible to look in any direction without seeing a flood of financial data.

Computer terminals facilitated electronic trading. Canvas banners extolling the GCSE hung above the busy traders. Sweat mixed with expensive cologne, which in turn mixed with the greed in the air. It was nearly closing time, but the trading was still going strong.

“You can’t short a stock just because Bruce Wayne
goes to a party.”

A pair of traders, taking a break from the commotion, exchanged notes at a shoeshine stand just around the corner from the main floor. They paid no attention to the nameless peon who was polishing their handmade Italian leather shoes.

“Wayne coming back is change,” the second trader insisted. “Change is either good or bad. I vote bad.” “On what basis?”

The other trader shrugged.

“I flipped a coin.”

At the market’s grandiose front entrance, overlooking Castle Street, a hungry trader haggled with a delivery guy. It was already getting dark outside, and he hadn’t eaten in hours. He scowled at his sandwich.

“No,
rye,
he insisted. “I told them rye.”

Bad news from the west coast flashed across one of the ubiquitous monitors. A major Silicon Valley product launch had just been hacked. Suddenly, his sandwich was the least of his concerns. He thrust a ten at the vendor.

“All right. I’ll take it.”

A motorcycle pulled up to the rear entrance. Unlike the front of the building, which saw a constant stream of traders going in and out, the rear entrance was only
used for deliveries. Bored security guards watched as a courier entered the building. A messenger pouch was slung over his shoulder. A ruby-red crash helmet concealed his features.

“Hey, rookie!” An exasperated female guard moved to block him. “Lose the helmet. We need faces for the camera.”

He reached for his helmet.

In the men’s room, a janitor mopped the floor. Toilets flushed in the background. Crumpled paper towels littered the floor. He paused to peek at his wristwatch.

Almost time
, he thought.

He reached into his bucket and extracted a sealed Ziploc bag. A micro-Uzi machine pistol waited inside the bag.

The janitor tossed away his mop.

The brokers’ shoes shone like new. They paid the shoeshine guy, stiffing him on the tip, and headed back toward the trading floor, still debating the significance of Bruce Wayne’s return to the spotlight.

The shoeshine man, whose name was McGarrity, put down his brush. A bulging gym bag rested at the foot of the stand. Glancing about, he unzipped the bag and inspected a loaded sub-machine gun. Smuggling the gun into the building had not been easy, but the
time for stealth was almost over.

He hoisted the bag over his shoulder and trotted after the unsuspecting brokers.

The delivery guy drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and brained his unhappy customer. The hungry trader collapsed onto the floor, just inside the front entrance. His pastrami sandwich—on white bread—slipped from his fingers.

The food vendor kicked it aside as he stormed into the building.

The motorcycle courier took off his helmet. The female guard gasped out loud at the sight of the freaky rubber gas mask beneath the helmet. She fumbled for her taser.

Bane was too fast for her. Lunging forward without hesitation, he lifted her above his head and hurled her into the other guards, who tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. They tried to scramble to their feet, but Bane was already among them, dispatching the outmatched men and women with ruthless efficiency. His boot stamped on one guard’s throat, crushing his windpipe, while he caught another guard in a headlock, snapping her neck, even as his fist slammed into a third guard’s face, driving shards of bone and cartilage into his brain.

His goal was simple: inflict as much damage as he could as quickly and efficiently as possible. Despite his muscular frame, Bane moved with the speed and ferocity of a wild animal. Bones shattered beneath his expert blows. Ribs cracked, shins and knees and collars snapped. Blood spurted.

The guards never had a chance.

The shoeshine man charged onto the trading floor. He pulled out the sub-machine gun and opened fire on the monitors, which exploded in a shower of sparks and shattered plastic. A different kind of chaos erupted. Horrified traders hit the floor or else raced for the exits, only to find their way blocked by yet more gunmen. The janitor and the sandwich guy joined their compatriot, herding the hostages into the center of the room. Smoke and the smell of burning circuitry pervaded the air. Desperate traders pleaded for their lives.

Bane strode onto the floor like a conqueror.

“This is a stock exchange!” one hostage called out. He was the same trader who had neglected to tip the shoeshine man earlier. “There’s no money you can steal!”

Bane regarded the man scornfully.

“Why else would you people be here?”

He seized the outspoken trader by the neck and dragged him over to one of the many automated trading terminals. Taking hold of the man’s hand, he
placed the broker’s thumb on the fingerprint reader. The scanner hummed briefly before recognizing the thumbprint. The screen lit up helpfully.

“Enter your password,” Bane said, “or I send these men to your home.”

The blood drained from the hostage’s face. He hastily typed his password into the machine.

By now, sirens could be heard outside, growing louder by the minute. Bane wasn’t concerned. He had expected as much.

The shoeshine man, McGarrity, came forward to do his part. He plugged a portable USB drive into the terminal. An antenna on the drive established a link with his laptop. Figures raced across the terminal’s monitor.

Bane stood by silently, watching his plan unfold.

Patrol cars screeched onto Castle Street, the narrow avenue in front of the stock exchange building. Blake and Ross were among the first to arrive on the scene. Blake swore out loud as he spotted a large cement mixer blocking their way. He jumped out of the car and ran up to the mixer, where a burly construction worker was busy pouring cement for a new sidewalk.

“Move it now!” Blake ordered. “We’ve got a situation!”

The construction guy indicated the tight squeeze, made worse by the fleet of cop cars swarming the scene. Then he smirked at Blake.

“Where can I move it?”

“That way!” the cop shouted, pointing to the nearest intersection, but by now the SWAT vans had arrived in force, blocking every avenue. He cursed silently. “Get in your vehicle,” he ordered the civilian. “And stay there!”

Foley piled out of a SWAT van, accompanied by Commander Allen of the special anti-terrorism unit. A frantic-looking man in a suit ran toward the police officers, holding up a laminated ID. Blake gathered that he was in charge of security for the stock exchange. He was having a very bad day.

“You’ve gotta get in there,” the man pleaded. But Foley was reluctant to charge in with guns blazing.

“This is a hostage situation.”

“No!” the security chief exclaimed. “It’s a robbery. They’ve got direct access to the online trading desk!”

Foley sounded unimpressed.

“I’m not risking my men for your money,” he insisted.

“It’s not our money,” the other man countered. “It’s everyone’s!”

Allen snickered.

“Really?” he said. “Mine’s in my mattress.”

Frustrated, the security chief struggled to make the cops understand.

“If you don’t shut these guys down, the stuffing in that mattress might be worth a whole lot less, pal!”

Foley got the message.

“Cut the fiber line, shut down the cell tower.” He scowled at the looming building, which was the nerve center of Gotham’s booming economy. Blake wondered if he was thinking of his 401K. “That’ll slow them down.”

Blake hoped it would be enough.

McGarrity looked up from his laptop.

“They cut the fiber,” he reported, “but the cell’s still working—”

“For now,” Bane said. “How much longer does the program need?”

McGarrity consulted the progress bar on his screen.

“Eight minutes.”

Bane glanced up at a clock on the wall. Under ordinary circumstances, the closing bell would have rung minutes ago.

“Time to go mobile.”

McGarrity nodded and stuffed the laptop into his bag.

“Get the barriers up!” Allen shouted. “No more in and out on this street!”

Wedge-shaped metal barricades, installed after the Joker’s reign of terror, rose up at the mouth of the street. The barricades were intended to stop any truck bombs from crashing into the stock exchange. SWAT teams fanned out around the building’s front entrance. A police sniper peered through a thermal scope, watching the door. Four large heat signatures bloomed, too large to be people.

“I’ve got something!” the sniper called out.

A ferocious roar came from inside the stock exchange. The front door blew open, causing the nearest SWAT troopers to duck from the blast, as four high-speed motorcycles leapt from inside the building, jumping the front steps to touch down on the pavement in front of Allen and his men.

Terrified hostages could be seen strapped to the rear of the bikes, their silk ties blowing in the wind. Revving their engines, the bikes zoomed straight for the raised barricades—which, designed to stop vehicles speeding
toward
the stock exchange, proved to be highly effective ramps for bikes heading in the opposite direction.

The bikes vaulted over the heads of the surrounding police officers before speeding away into the night. Flustered cops scrambled into their cars to give chase, even as the failed barriers retracted back into the pavement.

Allen swore loudly.

Breaking every speed limit in the book, the bikes wove through the packed evening traffic. Horns honked angrily as they ran red lights with abandon,
causing startled drivers to slam on the brakes and get rear-ended for their trouble. A taxi swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit, knocking over an outdoor pretzel stand. Pedestrians scrambled for safety. A city bus pulled to the side to let a speeding patrol car race by.

A black-and-white cruiser fell in behind the fleeing bikes. A gumball light flashed atop the car. Its siren screamed like a banshee.

A rookie, Officer Simon Jansen had never been in a high-speed chase before. He gripped the steering wheel tightly while flooring the gas pedal. As far as he could tell, he and his partner were leading the chase. His heart pounded with excitement. If they were lucky, they might even be the ones to capture the fugitives.

“Shoot the tires!” he shouted.

His partner, a twenty-year veteran named Kelly, drew his gun and leaned out the passenger-side window. He tried to get a bike in his sights, but balked at the expression of the petrified trader clinging to the rear of the bike. The terrified hostage, who was wearing wide suspenders, stared back at him. Kelly shook his head.

“No shot!”

The deputy commissioner’s voice blared from the cruiser’s radio.

“Back off,”
he ordered.
“They’ve got hostages.”

The bikes vanished into a midtown tunnel. The cruiser followed them into the tunnel, maintaining a safe distance. Fluorescent lights, mounted in the ceiling, lit up the tunnel—at least at first. To his surprise, Jansen saw his rear-view mirror go dark.