A long-buried fear came flapping out of his past.

Good, Bruce thought.

The bats circled up to the opening, like an omen. Bruce caught his breath, walked to the edge of the precipice, and gazed down, reminding himself how far there was to fall this time. Wide-eyed prisoners stared up at him, waiting for him to plunge to his death. The chanting grew louder and more insistent. His mouth went dry.

This is it, Bruce thought. All or nothing.

Fearing for his life, but fearing for Gotham more, Bruce contemplated the awful drop a final time, then jumped for the sun.

A hush fell over the pit as the entire prison population watched in suspense. Time seemed to skip a beat. Blood rushed in Bruce’s ears like the flight of the bats. He reached out with both hands…

And caught hold of the ledge above.

Wild cheers erupted from the pit as he pulled himself up onto the next ledge. The ancient stone was rough and weathered, but held fast beneath his weight. Hundreds of feet below, he heard the European laugh in disbelief. Looking down, he saw him hug the tattooed man in celebration.

The blind doctor nodded.

The morning sun beat down on Bruce as he climbed the last few feet to freedom. He peered warily over the edge of the pit and was greeted by a vast, desolate landscape. No guards were stationed at the mouth of the pit—it would have been considered a waste of manpower. With any luck, Bane wouldn’t even hear that he had escaped.

A huge, forgotten stone fortress, its imposing walls and towers showing the ravages of time, loomed over the pit. Rocky hills beckoned in the distance. An arid desert stretched for miles in every direction.

He had a long hike before him.

But first he found a thick coil of rope that was attached to the base of an ancient stone wall. It was used to lower new prisoners—and the occasional supplies—into the pit, then drawn up afterwards. He unwound the rope and tossed its free end down into the hole.

Free yourselves, he thought. I need to get moving.

He shouldered his pack and started walking.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The basement of the stock exchange was now a dungeon. Stockbrokers, lawyers, executives, industrialists, and other modern-day aristocrats huddled together in the crowded prison, which bore little resemblance to the luxury they had once enjoyed.

Lucius Fox, one-time CEO of Wayne Enterprises, tended to his fellow captives, offering a calming presence in these hellish circumstances, but many of the prisoners were beyond solace. They wept or cursed or retreated into their own minds, hugging themselves as they rocked catatonically in the corners. The dungeon reeked of fear and desperation.

I don’t belong here, Philip Stryver thought. There’s been some mistake. He paced impatiently, keeping apart from the other prisoners. His bespoke suit was rumpled and dirty. He needed a shave and shower— badly. His waxen features were drawn and haggard. His breath was sour.