by Greg Cox
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.
He glanced back.
“What’s going on with the lights?”
A wave of darkness seemed to be advancing through the tunnel, extinguishing every light it encountered. Not just the overhead lights, but also the headlights of every oncoming vehicle blinked out abruptly. A chill ran down the rookie’s spine as the encroaching darkness—which instilled an almost superstitious dread—caught up with the speeding cruiser. Their headlights burned out, the gumball blacked out, and the siren went silent.
The car’s engine sputtered and died.
What the—?
Out of the inky bla
ckness, a shadowy shape roared past at high speed. An ebony cape flapped behind it.
Kelly’s jaw dropped.
“It can’t be…”
“The hell was that?” Jansen exclaimed. He had no idea what was happening.
“Oh, boy,” the veteran cop said. “You’re in for a show tonight.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The bikes shot out of the tunnel onto the highway. Bane led the way while the sandwich guy, Petrov, took up the rear.
Looking back over his shoulder, past his squirming hostage, the mercenary saw the streetlights exploding behind him, one by one, throwing the highway into darkness. The night was cloudy and starless—Petrov couldn’t see what was chasing them.
He frowned. This wasn’t part of the plan.
All at once, the bike’s engine choked and died. Swearing, he worked the throttle, but it was no good. Though he still sped forward, through sheer momentum, he was falling behind the rest of his team. Seeing a chance, the hostage behind him undid his straps and leapt from the back of the bike. Hitting the concrete, the capitalist parasite rolled to the side of the highway and clambered to his feet.
“Help!” he shouted. “Somebody, help me!”
As he continued to glide forward on the silent machine, Petrov drew his pistol. He wouldn’t be taken without a fight.
Show yourself, he thought. I am ready for you.
The darkness swept over him like a tidal wave. Something grabbed onto his collar and yanked him off the seat. He was thrown to the ground hard enough to be knocked senseless. His gun slipped from his grasp. His bike toppled over, throwing up sparks as it skidded across the lanes.
Petrov lifted his head, on the verge of passing out. His blurry eyes widened.
Speeding away from him, in pursuit of Bane and the others, was an armored figure leaning low atop a customized black motorcycle. His midnight cloak spread out behind him, flapping in the wind like the wings of an enormous bat.
“Let’s roll,” Foley shouted. “They’ve spotted Batman!”
Abandoning the armored SWAT van, which was too heavy for a high-speed pursuit, he piled into the back of Blake’s patrol car. The young officer couldn’t believe his ears.
Is he really back? he wondered. After all these years?
He hit the accelerator, and the cruiser sped away from the stock exchange.
* * *
The bikes, one short now, split up as they reached a highway intersection. Two of them stuck together, while the third veered off in a different direction. A high overpass loomed above the crossing—as did Batman.
The Bat-Pod rumbled beneath him as he pulled up to the guardrail. He was stretched out belly down atop the cycle, steering it with his shoulders instead of his hands. The prototype’s unique design kept his head low and his gloved hands free. Bulletproof shields protected his arms.
Grappling hooks, mini-cannons, and machine-gun muzzles protruded from the chassis. High-performance, single-cylinder engines were embedded in the hubs of both of the cycle’s huge twenty-inch wheels. The cycle had once been built into a larger four-wheeled tumbler as an emergency escape pod, but functioned perfectly well on its own. Batman hadn’t ridden it in years.
He sat up and drew out a futuristic-looking rifle. The muzzle glowed a luminous shade of blue as he took aim at one of the fleeing bikes on the roadway below.
An electronic tone sounded.
The glowing muzzle pulsed.
The janitor had traded his mop for a pistol and sports bike. Breaking away from Bane and the others, he thought he had a good chance of eluding the police— until his engine suddenly sparked and died.
Instinctively he hit the brake, and then cursed himself for doing so. The speeding bike slowed dramatically even as a slew of police cars, their sirens blaring, closed in on him. A frightened trader jumped from the bike, choosing a nasty tumble over the prospect of being caught in a crossfire.
Enjoy what little time you have left, the janitor thought. He did not bother chasing after the hostage. Your days are almost over.
He brought his bike to a full halt, stoically resigned to being captured by the authorities. His own freedom was of no consequence—not as long Bane got away. The cause was all that mattered.
The fire rises, he thought.
Batman frowned as the last two bikes disappeared under another overpass, out of range. He holstered the electromagnetic pulse rifle, which had taken out the first two fugitives. Then he gunned the engine. He would have to eliminate the remaining criminals the old-fashioned way.
Works for me, he thought grimly. I’m coming for you, Bane.
The Bat-Pod hurled down the highway.
* * *
“Call everyone in,” Foley barked into the radio, turning the back of Blake’s patrol car into a mobile command center. The cord was stretched taut between the dashboard and the back seat. “Every patrol car, beat cop—off-duty, too. Call ’em all them in. Close every street. Now!”
The city rushed past them as Blake pushed the patrol car to its limits. The speedometer crept toward three digits. Foley stared out the windows impatiently. He drummed his fingers against the seat cover.
“I’m gonna do what Gordon never could,” he predicted.
“What’s that?” Blake asked.
“I’m going to take down the Batman.”
Blake just remained silent. Batman wasn’t a danger to Gotham, no matter what people said. He was more worried about the felons who had just pulled off such an ambitious strike on the stock exchange.
“Sir, what about the armed robbers?” he asked.
Foley ignored the question.
Reports poured in over the radio. All around the city, the GCPD was mobilizing in force. Police cars, vans, and motorbikes flooded the streets, joining the chase. Choppers whirred overhead, their spotlights sweeping the highways below. Even the canine units were being activated.
But to capture whom?
* * *
The highway stretched in front of Bane. He pulled up alongside McGarrity’s bike. The computer hacker glanced inside his bag, which was stowed up by the handlebars. He held up his fingers to signal that the program still had two minutes to run.
His was the only bike not weighed down with a hostage.
Bane glanced behind him, seeing the spreading darkness that had already brought down two of his men. He recognized the effects of a localized EMP generator. He could think of only one individual in Gotham who might employ such a device.
The Batman.
So he made a decision. He reached back and plucked a whimpering hostage off his own bike and swung him over onto McGarrity’s. The hacker’s vehicle wobbled under the increased load, losing speed. The displaced trader clung desperately to its driver.
No longer saddled with a worthless waste of flesh, Bane’s bike accelerated. He peeled away from the other rider, making his escape. He glanced back once more. As he had anticipated, Batman chose to pursue the bike with the hostage. Compassion had always been his weakness.
Bane smiled behind his mask. The time would come when he would face Rā’s al Ghūl’s greatest mistake— but not tonight. He had other business to address.
Another day, betrayer.
A police chopper reported in to Foley.
“One bike’s veered off, no hostage.”
Foley listened without responding.
“Should we pursue?” the spotter asked via the radio.
“Negative,” Foley ordered. “Stay on Batman.”
Blake spoke up.
“But the perp’s getting away!”
“Who do you want to catch?” Foley scoffed at Blake as if the young rookie was an idiot. “Some robber, or the son of a bitch who killed Harvey Dent?”
Ross kept his mouth shut.
Blake bit down on his tongue.
John Daggett’s luxury penthouse occupied the top floor of a skyscraper in a ritzy uptown neighborhood overlooking the park. Flashy gold trim and black leather furniture advertised hi
s wealth. He paced restlessly back and forth across the king-sized living room while Stryver stood nearby, in case his boss needed him. Every television in the penthouse was tuned to the breaking news story.
“—police aren’t saying much,” a blonde anchorwoman reported. “Frankly, they’re too busy. But all signs suggest that what we’re seeing is in, in fact, the return of the Batman.”
Daggett glared at the screen.
* * *
Only a room away, behind the closed door to Daggett’s home office, Catwoman crouched in front of a safe, working the combination lock. Her lithe figure was wrapped tightly inside a sleek black body suit designed for stealth. Avid brown eyes gazed out from behind a thin black mask. High-tech goggles, raised away from her eyes, cast a shadow that bore a distinct resemblance to the ears of a cat. A black Utility Belt hung low on her hips. Knee-high boots boasted serrated steel heels.
The glow from a spare television set lit up the dark room. She glanced up from her labors in time to catch an aerial shot of a cloaked figure racing down the highway astride the coolest motorcycle she had ever seen. A news copter briefly captured the cycle with its searchlight. The masked cyclist was crouched low upon the wheels, tearing up the highway at high speed. Even from a distance, the rider looked an awful lot like a certain legendary Dark Knight.
“Well, well,” she whispered. “What do you know?”
Ordinarily, she would have enjoyed watching the live coverage herself, but unfortunately she had urgent business to attend to. Assuming that Daggett and his slimy second-in-command were busy watching the news, she cracked the lock and opened the safe. A thick steel door swung open. She reached inside.
There was nothing there.
She frowned, glaring angrily at the empty safe.
It’s not fair, she thought. It was supposed to be here!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lights flashing, sirens blaring, two black-and-white police cruisers zipped past Bane as he rode between them, racing in the opposite direction. Intent on joining the chase for Batman, the patrol cars paid no heed, and he appreciated the unexpected diversion. The Dark Knight’s return had only made his own escape easier.