“Sold!” Crane banged his gavel against the podium. “To the man in the cold sweat.”

Mercenaries yanked Stryver from the dock, actually protecting him from the maddened crowd, who appeared all too inclined to tear him limb from limb with their grubby hands. He had only a few minutes to appreciate his escape from the “courthouse” before he was loaded, handcuffed, into the back of a van along with several other condemned executives and professionals.

Stryver recognized their faces from the society pages and business sections of the Gotham papers—if nothing else, he was still in the company of the A-list. Stone-faced guards watched over the men as they were driven away towards God-knew-where.

Exile, he thought. That doesn’t sound too bad. Who in their right mind would want to live in Gotham these days, anyway?

After a short drive, the van braked to a halt and the exiles were herded out into the cold. A biting wind blew steadily, making him wish he were better dressed for the weather, as they found themselves down by the docks overlooking the Gotham River, which appeared to have frozen over. A dirty white crust of ice and snow partially covered the flowing currents that could still be seen underneath.

The frosted ruins of a demolished bridge were piled along the shore. Stryver shivered and hugged himself in a futile attempt to stay warm. He gazed at the waterway with trepidation.

The guards, many of whom sported prison tattoos, prodded the exiles down slippery, ice-encrusted wooden steps to the edge of the river. A smirking mercenary unlocked Stryver’s cuffs. He nodded at the winding frozen expanse.

“Follow the thick ice,” he instructed. “Try to swim, you’re dead in minutes.”

Stryver looked at the man with dawning horror. He shuddered, and not just from the cold.

“Has anyone made it?”

The guard snorted and turned away. Stryver hesitated, backing away from the river, until he felt the muzzle of an automatic rifle poke him in the back. Peering over his shoulder, he found no pity or room for negotiation in the surly faces of Bane’s men. It seemed he had no other options.

Maybe I can do this, he thought. Perhaps the ice is strong enough after all.

Working up his nerve, he stepped cautiously onto the frozen surface. He shuffled forward, trying to tread where it appeared thickest. His handmade Italian shoes offered no purchase, and he slipped. The ice creaked and groaned beneath him. The other side of the river seemed impossibly far away.

One step at a time, he thought. Just a little further…

He got all of a hundred yards before the ice shattered beneath him. He screeched loudly, throwing out his arms, as the river swallowed him whole.

The guards led the next “exile” onto the ice.

The empty office building had become a command center. A map of the city was spread out atop a desk. The shutters were drawn to keep in the light—and keep out prying eyes.