The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization (32 page)

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.”

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 barricade 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.