Good point, Jones acknowledged silently. That has to count for something.

“What about the bomb?” he asked. “The satellite can’t see any radiation hot spots.”

“They keep it on a truck,” Gordon reported. “It must have a lead-lined roof. They move it constantly.”

Jones nodded. The brass had suspected as much.

“But you know the truck?”

“They’ve got three of them,” Gordon said. “The routes don’t vary much.”

A shell game, Jones realized.

“What about the trigger man?”

“No leads,” Gordon said. He paused, then offered his own theory. “It’s a bluff. Bane wouldn’t give control of that bomb to someone else.”

“We can’t take that chance,” Jones said. “Until we have the triggerman, we just track the device, smuggle men over—”

That clearly wasn’t enough for the young cop, who spoke up.

“Meanwhile Gotham lives under a warlord,” he said irritably, “like in some failed state.”

“Dial it back, officer.” Jones sympathized with the man’s frustration, especially after nearly three months, but they needed to keep cool heads where that nuke was concerned. “This situation is unprecedented. We can’t do anything that might risk millions of lives.”

The young hothead turned to his boss.

“Aren’t you going to tell him?”

“Captain,” Gordon began, “things are more complicated than you think. There’s somebody you need to meet.” He addressed the young cop by name. “Blake?”

Blake nodded and gestured for Jones and his men to follow him. Puzzled, Jones trailed Blake back upstairs. Weapons in hand, they departed the supermarket via a rear exit and stealthily made their way down a series of back alleys and side streets.

Jones let Blake take point. They were on his turf now.

What’s this all about? he wondered.

Several blocks later, they crept through the back door of what turned out to be an empty bank. The teller booths were deserted. The vault and safety deposit boxes had already been looted. Their footsteps echoed throughout the lifeless building as they crossed the lobby and rode the elevator to the top floor offices—which proved to be home to several displaced refugees.

Sleeping bags and makeshift cots lined the carpeted corridor. Homeless people camped out in the hall and offices. Trash cans were overflowing with empty food containers and wrappers.

“I was up here looking for a vantage point,” Blake explained tersely. “Found the people who run the corporation that owns it living here.”

Jones regarded the huddled survivors.

“Which corporation?”

“Wayne Enterprises,” a distinguished-looking black man answered. He came forward to meet them, accompanied by an attractive brunette several years his junior. His collar was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up. She wore a belted plum tunic and black leggings.

“Captain, meet Mr. Fox,” Blake said. “Mr. Fox, I’d like you to brief the captain.”

“Hold on,” Jones said. He cast a pointed look in the woman’s direction.

“Miss Tate is fully aware of the situation,” Fox assured him.

“And as CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” she said, “I have to take responsibility for it.”