The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization

by Greg Cox

  “You can’t!” Pavel blurted, his face draining of color. “This is the only power source capable of sustaining it. If you move it, the core will decay in a matter of months—”

  “Five, by my calculations,” Bane replied calmly.

  Pavel was confused. Did Bane not appreciate the danger? He tried desperately to explain.

  “And then it will go off!”

  “For the sake of your family, Dr. Pavel, I hope so.”

  Stunned, the scientist watched as the men began to disconnect the core. He wrung his hands anxiously. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that he had died in that plane crash, after all.

  God forgive me, he thought. What have I done?

  * * *

  Blake had been tempted to stop for lunch, but instead he drove straight to his next destination—a cement factory on the outskirts of town. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the grounds. Hot gases jetted from the heating tower. Storage silos rose above the plant. Grinding mills churned noisily. He parked outside and approached the gate.

  A guard scowled at his badge before letting him through the fence.

  “Boss is about to leave,” the man grumbled as he escorted Blake across the lot. Bags of powdered cement were piled high on wooden pallets, waiting to be shipped out. Metal bins and barrels sat upright amidst the pallets. A front loader was on hand to transport the bags and barrels onto trucks. Cement dust was everywhere.

  An odd chemical odor nagged at Blake’s memory.

  Where do I know that from?

  They walked past a parked cement mixer. Keeping his eyes open, Blake spotted a familiar face. He veered away from the guard to accost a driver who was standing outside the vehicle.

  “Hey!” Blake called out, getting the man’s attention. The driver turned toward him. “I know you. That was you outside the stock exchange, right?”

  The man’s stony face might as well as have been cast in cement. He crossed his arms belligerently.

  “When?”

  “When?” Blake echoed in disbelief. “When half the city’s cops were trying to pull onto Castle Street, and your truck shut them out.”

  Hard to imagine the guy had forgotten that particular altercation.

  “Oh, yeah,” the driver said, as though only just recognizing Blake. “You’re that cop—”

  “Detective, now.”

  The driver snorted, unimpressed by his promotion. Blake heard the guard come up behind him. The approaching man must have reached for something in his pocket. Metal jingled against loose change. Blake felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  “And as a detective,” he added, “I’m not allowed to believe in coincidence any more—”

  He spun around, drawing his sidearm just in time to see the guard lunging at him with a knife. Reacting quickly, he swept the man’s arm aside and fired in self-defense. The sharp report of the gun cut through the factory noises and the guard toppled backwards, clutching his chest. Blood spurted from his wound.

  Oh my God, Blake thought. I think I killed him.

  But he couldn’t deal with that now. The driver grabbed him from behind, holding onto his arms. Blake tried to break free from the grip, but the man was strong and knew what he was doing.

  Blake held on tightly to his gun, but couldn’t get off a clean shot as along as the guy kept behind him. The driver twisted Blake’s gun arm, trying to break it. The cop grunted in pain.

  In desperation, he fired backward at the nearby front loader. The bullet ricocheted off the vehicle’s heavy steel bucket, catching the driver in the back. He jerked violently, then hit the ground like a bag of cement.

  Gasping, Blake knelt to check on the man, whose life already seemed to be slipping away. His body twitched spasmodically. Ragged breaths slowed to a stop. Blood trickled from the corner of his lip.

  “What were you doing?” Blake shouted at him, furious that the information he needed might be slipping away. He wanted to pound the man’s face in, just for making him pull the trigger. His voice was hoarse with emotion. “What?!”

  The driver twitched one last time, then went still. His chest stopped moving, and his eyes glazed over. Blake checked for a pulse, but it was no use.

  The man was dead.

  Both men were dead.

  Feeling sick to his stomach, Blake stared at the gun in his hand, which suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. He had never killed anyone before—not even in the line of duty. Bile rose at the back of his throat. He clenched his teeth to keep from throwing up.

  Instinctively he hurled the gun to the ground. Shaking, he somehow managed to pull his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Gordon.

  His boss’s voice mail picked up.

  “Commissioner,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “I’m at the 14th Street plant with two dead witnesses and a lot of questions. Call me—”

  He glanced around to make sure nobody else was coming after him, but the gunshots seemed to have scared all the other workers off. He stooped to retrieve his firearm, just in case, when that odd odor caused his brow to furrow. He sniffed the air suspiciously, tracing the smell to a collection of unmarked steel barrels resting alongside the wooden pallets.

  His jaw dropped as he finally identified the odor.

  “Commissioner,” he reported urgently. “They’ve got Polyisobutylene here—” He surveyed the scene, taking in the plant’s inventory. “And motor oil.” The pieces came together to form an alarming picture. “They weren’t making cement—they were making explosives—”

  An awful possibility hit him with the force of revelation. He ran to his vehicle and grabbed his charts. His eyes frantically scanned the map, hoping he was wrong, but the telltale pattern of dots only confirmed his worst fears.

  “Oh, God.”

  He dived behind the steering wheel and peeled out of the factory parking lot, spraying gravel behind him. He drove furiously back toward headquarters, pressing the gas pedal to the floor, while shouting into his radio.

  “Patch me into Foley!”

  A maddeningly calm voice responded. “Deputy Commissioner Foley is overseeing the operation—”

  “They’re heading into a trap!”

  Foley followed his men into the subway tunnel, putting the lights of the platform behind him. He was tired of waiting. He needed to check on the search with his own eyes. He owed Gordon that much.

  He owed Gotham that much.

  “Sir!” a lieutenant came running after him. He thrust a radio into Foley’s hand. “It’s Blake. He says it’s urgent.”

  Foley took the radio. As much as he hated to admit it, the hotheaded young detective had been on the ball so far.

  “Foley,” he said.

  “It’s a trap!” Blake’s voice shouted. “Pull everyone out! Bane’s been pouring concrete laced with explosives—”

  Foley froze in his tracks.

  “Where?”

  “There’s a ring around the tunnels, Blake answered. “They’re gonna blow it and trap the cops underground!”

  Foley spun around and stared back at the mouth of the tunnel, which suddenly seemed dangerously far away. His mouth went dry.

  “Pull out!” he shouted. “Pull ’em out!”

  He raced toward the light.

  The boiler room was in a sub-basement of the stadium, far below the cheering crowds. With all eyes on the field, no one was watching as Bane’s men broke through the basement floor. Drills and explosive charges had carved out a path from the tunnels below. The mercenaries climbed up into the stadium.

  Bane emerged from the underground. His utility harness was strapped to his chest.

  The National Anthem could be heard wafting down from above. He imagined thousands of sports fans, standing at attention as they paid tribute to bombs bursting in the air. No doubt the mayor had his hand over his heart.

  The mercenaries advanced to the empty locker room tunnels. They took out their detonators. Bane cocked his head at
the sound of the kickoff, like a hunting dog scenting the wind.

  Now, he decided.

  “Let the games begin.”

  The men hit the detonators.

  Foley scrambled for the light. Along with his men, he raced out of the subway tunnel only heartbeats before explosions rocked the underground. The tunnel roof collapsed behind him, and enormous slabs of concrete crashing down onto the tracks. Sparks flared from the electrified third rail.

  A billowing cloud of dust and debris filled the station. Booming echoes were amplified by the tunnel walls, forcing him to throw his hands over his ears. Cops and SWAT team members dived for cover. An injured officer screamed.

  Somehow Foley managed to stay on his feet. Panting, he made it all the way back to the passenger platform before turning around to inspect the damage. Pulverized stone and concrete caked his sweaty face. He coughed hoarsely, choking on the dust. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

  Oh my God…

  Tons of fallen concrete blocked the mouth to the tunnel. Frantic radio reports, coming from all around the city, confirmed Blake’s dire prediction. Explosions and cave-ins had closed off every entrance to the underground, trapping thousands of cops beneath the city. Foley gazed in horror at the heap of rubble. He may have gotten out just in time, but what about the rest of his people?

  He already knew the answer.

  Practically the entire GCPD had been buried alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The football spiraled through the air.

  Come to daddy, the Gotham receiver thought as he caught the ball and made a break for the end zone. The hometown crowd went wild, screaming their lungs out as he started his run, pursued by the visiting linebackers. He ran past the mayor’s box, guessing that His Honor was cheering, as well, and ducked past a Rapid City cornerback who was trying to block him.

  The looming goal posts called out to him. He could practically taste his victory.

  Touchdown, here I come!

  The mayor’s box exploded, raining blood and debris onto the field. The cheers turned into screams. People panicked and leapt from their seats. Smoke blew over the field.

  What the—?

  Confused, the receiver glanced behind him— and saw the grassy field drop away into the earth, swallowing players. Rogues and Monuments alike tumbled into a smoking chasm that seemed to be chasing after the receiver as eagerly as any opposing linebacker. The pigskin slipped from his fingers as he sprinted even faster than before, desperate to stay ahead of the collapsing field.

  An earth-shaking rumble competed with the shrieks of more than sixty thousand spectators, many of whom were already stampeding for the exits. The terrified player stumbled past the end zone, abandoning all thought of scoring.

  Get me outta here!

  The street erupted all around Blake’s cruiser, throwing chunks of asphalt into the air. Thick black smoke billowed up from below. Manhole covers shot upward. Water gushed from broken fire hydrants. Street lamps toppled over, crashing onto streets and sidewalks.

  Snapped electrical wires sparked and hissed. Pedestrians ran in terror. Horns honked frantically, adding to the tumult. Brakes squealed. Sirens blared. Vehicles collided.

  Struggling to keep control of his car, Blake swerved wildly to avoid the bright orange flames shooting up from an open manhole. His notes and maps went flying around the cabin. An empty coffee cup toppled over.

  Blake swore out loud, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.

  The Granton Bridge collapsed behind him. The massive towers, deck, and cables crashed into the river in what appeared to be a controlled demolition. Dozens of cars, trucks, and taxis plunged down into the icy water.

  Further ahead and off to the right, he saw the Sallow Bridge come crashing down as well, severing the east side of midtown from the mainland. He guessed that the other bridges had been sabotaged, as well.

  Bane is cutting Gotham off from the world, he realized. But why?

  Another eruption went off directly beneath the cruiser, tossing the car over and onto its roof. It skidded across the exploding asphalt. Sparks and the screeching of metal against asphalt created yet more chaos. Blake’s seatbelt and shoulder strap dug into him, holding him to his seat.

  The windshield shattered. Metal crumpled around him. Geysers of smoke and flame spewed around the careening vehicle.

  His world turned upside-down.

  The once-green football field was now a smoking wasteland except for one narrow strip of turf that had survived the disaster. Rubble and dead bodies littered what was left. The pigskin itself had vanished into the chasm.

  No one noticed.

  Bane’s men poured out of the locker room tunnel and onto the ruined field, forming a protective gauntlet for his entrance. More soldiers, he knew, were posted at all the exits, preventing his audience from leaving before the show was over. He had no intention of performing to an empty house.

  He strode into view like a gladiator entering the coliseum. Everywhere members of the panicked crowd sobbed and shouted as they realized there was no escape. He observed with satisfaction that the television cameras were swinging in his direction. By now, he calculated, the live footage was airing on every channel all over the world.

  He hoped Wayne was enjoying the broadcast.

  A dead umpire, killed by a chunk of flying debris from the mayor’s box, lay sprawled upon the turf. The man’s headset appeared to have survived and Bane plucked it from the man’s remains. It amused him to use the umpire’s mike.

  The panicked crowd grew hushed as Bane took command. He held out his arm for silence and raised the mike to the mouthpiece of his mask.

  “Gotham!” he exhorted. “Take control of your city—”

  * * *

  Feeling as if he’d been shaken but not stirred, Blake squeezed out of his overturned cruiser and crawled onto the shattered asphalt. Flames and smoke still belched up from below. Groaning, he took a moment to assess his physical condition. As nearly as he could tell, he was scraped and bruised all over, but nothing seemed to be broken.

  He spit a mouthful of blood onto the charred pavement. His teeth stayed where they were, thank God.

  Enough about me, he thought. I need to know what’s happening.

  He crawled back toward his vehicle and reached inside the crumpled cabin. Straining, he managed to snag onto the radio. As he did so, a burst of static hurt his ears.

  “Foley?” he asked anxiously.

  “Jesus, Blake!” Foley answered, sounding hoarse and understandably distraught. “Every cop in the city’s down in those tunnels.”

  Except me, Blake thought, and…

  “Not every cop.”

  Racing against time, he pried his shotgun from inside the cruiser. A battered-looking sedan was cautiously making its way down the broken street. Scrambling to his feet, Blake ran to flag it down.

  Gordon’s heart-rate monitor started beeping rapidly. He awoke with a start, jolted from sleep by some sort of commotion outside his room. He had been having a nightmare about Bane and that shoot-out in the sewers.

  Groggy and confused, it took him a moment to realize that something very bad was happening— for real. Screams, shouts, and the occasional burst of gunfire came from downstairs, as if the hospital lobby was under attack by persons unknown. The commissioner was gripped by an unsettling case of déjà vu, remembering the time the Joker had attacked this very same hospital to get to Harvey Dent, then blown up an entire wing afterward.

  He shoved the disturbing memory aside to focus on the here and now. He had a pretty good idea he knew who was behind this disturbance—and who they were coming for.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. He heard the invaders moving from room to room. Terrified patients screamed and shouted for help. Nurses and orderlies ran and hid. Occasionally there was the sound of a gunshot. Gordon realized that it was only a matter of moments before they found him.

  He needed to check out of the hospital, and pro
nto.

  Clenching his teeth to keep from crying out, he painfully dragged himself from the bed. His stitched wounds hated every movement, but held together—at least for the time being. He wheeled his IV tree across the floor. The needle in his arm hurt every time he jostled it. His bare feet shuffled over the cold tiles.

  This was not what the doctor ordered.

  * * *

  The streets were full of confused and frightened people. Blake swerved the commandeered sedan around the shell-shocked pedestrians while dodging random gouts of flame and smoke. Smoke and soot blackened the faces of the stunned survivors. Rubble and smoking craters made for a bumpy ride that jarred Blake’s spine all the way across town.

  Toppled street lights and broken pavement turned the streets into an obstacle course. It was like driving through a war zone, which was apparently what Gotham had become. News reports coming over the car’s radio claimed that terrorists had killed the mayor and taken control of the football stadium. More than sixty thousand people were being held hostage, while most of the police were still trapped underground.

  I can’t worry about that now, Blake thought. He knew who Bane’s next target would be. If I’m not already too late.

  The sedan squealed to a halt in front of the hospital. Blake bolted from the vehicle and raced up the steps into the lobby, which was worryingly deserted. Bullet holes perforated the walls and ceiling. Broken glass was strewn over the floor. The gift shop and reception desk had been shot up.

  He heard gunshots upstairs.

  Crap, he thought. They’ve found Gordon.

  Taking the stairs two steps at a time, he dashed up to the commissioner’s floor. He burst into the corridor, gun high, only to freeze as he felt a warm steel gun muzzle at the base of his skull. The heat of the metal told him that the gun had been recently fired.

  He swallowed hard. For a second, he thought it was all over for him.

  “Clear the corners, rookie,” Gordon scolded him.

  Blake turned to see Gordon, wearing a rumpled hospital gown, lower his trusty Smith & Wesson. Four dead mercs lay in the hallway. Fearful patients peeked around the doors that led to their rooms.

  “Get my coat, son,” Gordon said.