The Dark Knight Rises (15 page)

It’s him,
she realized.
Batman.

The Dark Knight’s startling presence distracted her adversaries. The goon with the silencer spun in surprise. Seizing the moment, she tossed Daggett aside and pounced on the gunman, wresting the pistol from his grasp. None of the other men rushed to Daggett’s aid, proving that Batman was right. These weren’t his men at all.

So who?

But there was no time to worry about that now. Batman jumped effortlessly across the intervening space, landing immediately behind her even as the other men charged at them from all sides. Back to back, they took on her anonymous attackers, lashing out with boots and fists. Batman was a flurry of lightning-fast strikes and dodges, not a move wasted. A bat-shaped boomerang disarmed one attacker, while he caught a knife blade between the fins on his gauntlet and butted
another man in the head with his cowl.

Grateful for his timely assistance, she fired the “borrowed” Glock, clipping an overeager goon, who dropped like a stone. She targeted a second man, aiming right between his eyes, but, before she could squeeze the trigger, Batman yanked her arm down, spoiling her shot.

He took out the goon with a well-placed kick to the gut instead.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she protested.

“No guns,” he growled. “No killing.”

She was both annoyed and amused by his scruples.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He didn’t reply as more men poured onto the roof. Catwoman recognized some of them from Bane’s underground militia. She was almost flattered by all this attention, but it was clearly time for a strategic retreat. Batman evidently felt the same way. He ran for the edge of the roof.

“Come on!” he gritted.

She watched in confusion as he flung himself off the top of the building, and hesitated momentarily before chasing after him.

Doesn’t he know that cats can’t fly?

A bullet whizzed past her, spurring her on. Hoping that Batman knew what he was doing, she ran across the roof and peered over the edge. Her eyes widened behind her mask.

A stealth aircraft hovered just below the edge of the
roof, several stories above the street below. Batman waited in an open cockpit, surrounded by a complex array of matte-black elevators, vents, and ailerons.

Shots rang out behind her as she leapt. Landing nimbly on one of the smooth, aerodynamic panels, she slid into the passenger seat beside him.

Okay,
she thought.
Consider me impressed.

Powerful engines roared to life. A steel canopy hissed shut above the cockpit, taking gunfire from above. Bullets pinged off the armor plating. She tried not to let her relief show.

“My mother warned me about getting into cars with strange men.”

“This isn’t a car,” he pointed out.

The fantastic aircraft thundered into the sky. The downdraft forced all but one of the gunmen down onto the roof. The sole exception was an imposing masked figure who advanced slowly into the wind, refusing to be brought to his knees by a mere blast of air. His massive fists clenched at his sides.

Bane watched the Bat escape into the night.

Batman put a safe distance between themselves and Selina’s attackers before landing the Bat on the empty helipad of a midtown skyscraper. An EMP pulse took out any inconvenient lights and security cameras,
ensuring their privacy for the moment.

He wanted to know what she had been up to at Daggett’s penthouse—and why Bane’s men were after her.

The canopy slid open above them, letting in the crisp night air. Selina sprang from the passenger seat.

“See you around,” she said breezily.

He followed her onto the roof, where he took a moment to admire her skintight outfit—which struck him as both practical and flattering. He of all people had to appreciate a flair for the dramatic.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“I had it under control,” she insisted.

He disagreed.

“Those weren’t street thugs,” he asserted grimly. “They were trained killers.” He fixed his dark eyes on her. “I saved your life. In return, I need to know what you did with Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints.”

She looked him over thoughtfully, putting the pieces together.

“Wayne wasn’t kidding about a ‘powerful friend.’” She hesitated before coming clean. “I sold his prints to Daggett—for something that probably doesn’t exist.”

He caught a note of bitterness in her voice.

“I doubt many people get the better of you,” he said. But she shrugged her shapely shoulders.

“Hey, when a girl’s desperate—”

“What were they going to do with them?” he persisted. He was careful to use his “Batman growl.” She seemed to have a way of putting two-and-two together, and he didn’t want her to recognize him— especially after that kiss.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “but Daggett seemed pretty interested in that mess at the stock exchange.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. He already knew there was a link between Daggett and Bane—forged by the West African coup—but what exactly were they trying to accomplish? And why had they needed Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints?

A police chopper swept past overhead, continuing the manhunt. Batman stepped back into the shadows, evading its searchlight until the aircraft had passed. Then he turned back to continue the questioning.

But she was gone.

“Miss Kyle?”

She had disappeared, as silently as a cat.

Batman grunted. The irony of the situation did not escape him.

“So that’s what that feels like.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Truth to tell, Alfred had never liked the Batcave. He found it dank, gloomy, unsanitary, difficult to dust, and more than a little depressing.

Still, Master Bruce had spent a fortune converting the ancient caverns—which had once been a stop on the Underground Railroad—into a state-of-the-art forensic laboratory, garage, armory, and communications center. So it would be foolish not to avail oneself of the cave’s sophisticated technology, even if it meant keeping company with a plague of winged rodents.

At least that’s what he told himself.

Alfred was seated at the computer, studying captured security footage of the assault on the stock exchange, when a booming roar and the glare of high-intensity landing lights penetrated the waterfall that hid the mouth of the cave. A bright white glow shone
through the curtain of water, heralding the arrival of Bruce’s newest toy.

A wet spray sprinkled Alfred’s face as, rotors spinning, the Bat flew into the cave. A pair of slate cubes rose to form a landing pad. The Bat touched down on the cubes.

The canopy opened and Batman emerged from the cockpit. Alfred was relieved to see that he was still in one piece, and in no immediate need of first aid, despite being out of commission for eight long years. He had been worried about that.

“Very inconspicuous,” the butler observed, brushing water from his suit. “Shall I tell the neighbors that you got yourself a new leaf blower?”

Batman shed his cape and cowl, becoming Bruce Wayne once more.

“We bought all the neighbors.”

So we did
, Alfred recalled. He took Bruce’s cloak as they walked away from Lucius Fox’s latest contribution to “the cause.” The Bat was an impressive aircraft, he had to admit. Perhaps too impressive.

“From the look of the television coverage, you seem to have your taste for wanton destruction back.”

Bruce ignored the gibe. He plucked a USB drive from his Utility Belt.

“I retrieved this.”

“Shouldn’t the police be gathering the evidence?” Alfred suggested.

“They don’t have the tools to analyze it.”

Alfred glanced around at a high-tech apparatus filling the cave. It was enough to make the FBI envious.

“They would if you gave it to them.” But Bruce shook his head.

“One man’s tool is another man’s weapon.”

“In your mind, perhaps,” Alfred said. “But there aren’t many things that you couldn’t turn into a weapon.”

“Alfred,
enough,”
Bruce said impatiently. “The police weren’t getting it done.”

“Perhaps they would have,” the butler persisted, “if you hadn’t made a sideshow of yourself.”

Bruce refused to even consider the possibility.

“Perhaps you’re just upset that you were wrong.”

Alfred looked puzzled.

“Wrong?”

“You thought I didn’t have it in me anymore,” Bruce said.

Alfred returned the cape and cowl to the closet where they belonged. He wished he could lock them away for good.

“You don’t,” he said. “You led a bloated, overconfident police force on a merry chase with some fancy new toys from Fox.” He called Bruce’s attention to the ghastly security footage on the main monitor. “What about when you come up against
him.
What then?”

On the screen, Bane murdered a roomful of security guards with terrifying speed and brutality. His lethally
effective fighting technique was eerily similar to Batman’s, but much more final. Bruce’s jaw tightened as he contemplated the footage.

“I’ll fight harder,” he said. “Like I always have.”

“When you had something to fight for,” Alfred argued. “What are you fighting for now? Not your life.”

Bruce frowned and moved to switch off the screen. Alfred stopped him.

“Take a good look,” the butler said. “At his speed, his ferocity, his training. I see the power of belief…of the fanatic. I see the League of Shadows resurgent.”

Bruce stared at Bane.

“You said he was excommunicated.”

“By Rā’s al Ghūl,” Alfred said. “Who leads them now?”

“Rā’s al Ghūl
was
the League of Shadows,” Bruce insisted. “And I beat him.” He sat down at the computer and killed the security footage. “Bane’s just a mercenary, and we have to find out what he’s up to.” He plugged the USB into the computer, then pecked at the keyboard and streams of text scrolled across the screen. He scrutinized the data.

“Trades of some kind,” he realized. “Coded.”

The text vanished, replaced by a scanned image of a thumbprint. Bruce scowled.

“Is that—?” Alfred began.

“Mine,” Bruce confirmed. “Courtesy of Selina Kyle.” He’d tell Alfred about his run-in with Catwoman later. Right now he had more pressing concerns. He rose from the computer and unplugged the USB drive.

“Get this to Fox,” he instructed. “He can crack the code and tell us what trades they were executing.”

Alfred took the USB and left the cave. Bruce changed into his civilian garb and followed him up to the manor. He found the butler in the main hall, at the foot of the grand stairway. He was already on his way out.

“I’ll get this to Fox,” Alfred said gravely. “But no more.” Something in the older man’s tone got Bruce’s attention. He turned away from the stairs and looked toward Alfred.

“I’ve sewn you up and set your bones,” the butler continued, “but I won’t bury you.

“I’ve buried enough members of the Wayne family.”

Is he serious?
Bruce wondered. Alfred was the one person who had never given up on him. “You’d abandon me?” he said quietly.

“You see only one end to your story,” Alfred said. “Leaving is all I have left to make you understand. You aren’t Batman anymore. You have to find another way.”

There is no other way,
Bruce thought.
Not for me. Not anymore.

“You used to talking about finishing,” Alfred reminded him. “About life beyond that awful cave.”

Bruce shook his head. That dream had ended eight years ago.

“Rachel died knowing that we’d decided to be together,” he said bitterly. “That was my life beyond the cave, so I can’t just move on. She didn’t. She
couldn’t
.”

Because Batman failed to save her.

“What if she had?” Alfred asked. “What if she wasn’t intending to make a life with you?”

Bruce didn’t see the point in speculating.

“She was,” he said. “I can’t change that.”

Alfred shifted uncomfortably, and a strange look came over his face, as if he was wrestling with something.

“What if,” he said finally, “she’d written a letter? Explaining that she’d chosen Harvey Dent over you.” Alfred sighed wearily, as though releasing a heavy load. “And what if, to spare you pain, I’d burnt that letter?” Realization dawned, and Bruce stared in shock. He felt his entire world—everything he’d believed for the last eight years—come apart beneath him.

“Why would you say such a thing?” he asked.

“Because I have to make you understand,” Alfred said. “Because you’re as precious to me as you were to your own mother and father, and I swore to them that I would protect you…and I haven’t.”

“You’re lying,” Bruce accused him.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he replied. “Except when I burned Rachel’s letter.”

The hell of it was, Bruce believed him.

A cold fury erupted inside him, very different from the righteous anger he had directed at crime and criminals for so long. This was much more personal.

“How dare you use Rachel to stop me?” he growled.

“I’m using the truth, Master Bruce. Maybe it’s time we all stopped trying to outsmart the truth, and just let it have its day.” He gazed at Bruce sadly. “I’m sorry.”