Defeated, Bruce staggered back to his cell.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Supply trucks approached the checkpoint on the bridge. Armed mercenaries inspected the trailer of an idling eighteen-wheeler, finding only crates of emergency rations. A guard helped himself to an energy bar before giving the driver the go-ahead.

The truck drove through the snow-covered streets, which were badly in need of plowing, until it pulled up in front of a dimly lit supermarket. A long line of Gothamites—stretching all the way down the block— waited miserably along the sidewalk, braving the frigid winter weather for a chance to replenish their dwindling stores. Hungry children cried impatiently.

Inside the truck, hidden from view, the lid of a crate opened just a crack. Captain Mark Jones, US Special Forces, peered out to make sure all was clear. Finding the trailer compartment free of hostiles, he climbed out from beneath several bags of rice and rapped the sides of four other crates.

A quartet of Special Forces operatives, wearing nondescript civilian clothing, emerged from the boxes and checked their automatic weapons before concealing them once again.

We made it, Jones thought. We’re in Gotham.

“Now for the hard part,” he muttered aloud.

The back door of the truck rattled open and he and his men began to unload the supplies. A nervous-looking store manager met them at the door and guided them into the back of the store, then down a flight of stairs into a storeroom in the basement. There they were greeted by four plain-clothes cops.

“You have ID?” Deputy Commissioner Foley asked.

Jones recognized Foley from his briefing.

“Of course not.”

Foley eyed the newcomers warily.

“How can we trust you?”

“We don’t have any choice,” James Gordon said. He and a younger man stepped out of the shadows at the rear of the room. They wore heavy coats to protect them against the chill of the basement. Both were carrying.

“Commissioner Gordon?” Jones was glad to see the wounded man up and about. There had been conflicting reports about his status. He held out his hand. “Captain Jones. Special Forces.”

“Captain,” Gordon replied. “Glad to have you here.”

Jones glanced around the storeroom, anxious to assess the situation.

“How many of you are there?”

“Dozens,” Gordon said cautiously. “I’d rather not say exactly. But the men trapped underground number almost three thousand.”

Jones whistled softly. That matched with what he had heard.

“What kind of shape are they in?”

“They’ve been getting water, food,” Gordon said.

“Could we break them out?”

“Yes, sir.” The younger cop stepped forward. “Take out the mercenaries guarding the outflow pipe south of Ackerman Park, blow the rubble, you’ve got a hole big enough for ten at a time. I’m in contact with my partner—they’re waiting for the day.”

Jones was skeptical, but it was one of his men who voiced it.

“Men who haven’t seen daylight for three months,” the man said.

“Men with automatic weapons,” the young cop stressed, "who haven’t seen daylight for three months.”