Gordon examined the map, surrounded by a handful of officers who had managed to avoid being trapped underground. Many had been retirees, green cadets, inactive, or assigned to desk duty. The commissioner valued their grit and loyalty, but wished there were more of them.

A whole lot more.

“Where the hell are they?” He glanced impatiently at his watch. “It’s not like we have a lot of time here.”

“How long?” Sergeant Richards asked. He was a ten-year veteran, and Gordon knew he had a wife and kids in the city.

“The bomb goes off tomorrow,” Gordon said. We’ve got about eighteen hours to do something.”

“To do what?” Richards pressed.

“We mark that truck, get a GPS on it,” Gordon said. “Then we can start thinking about how to take it down.” It wasn’t much of a plan, he had to admit, but it was a start. If nothing else, it beat sitting around waiting for that damn bomb to go off.

He just wished to hell that Lucius Fox hadn’t been seized by Bane. They needed his expertise where the nuke was concerned.

We have to get Fox back—before Bane gets rid of him.

There was a rap at the entrance. Everybody tensed up, and reached for their weapons, until a rookie peered through a peephole and gave the thumbs up. He unlocked the door and let the newcomers in. Blake entered the command center, followed by ten or so cops. Gordon counted them off as they came in.

Exactly ten. Disappointed, he edged over to the detective and lowered his voice.

“That’s it?” he asked. Blake just shrugged. Gordon stepped back and scanned the faces of their reinforcements. It took him a second to realize that someone was missing.

“Foley,” he said. “Where’s Foley, dammit?”

He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Blake moved to block him.

“You shouldn’t be out on the streets.”

Gordon shoved past him and stormed out. The temperature was still well below freezing, but he hardly noticed the cold. His growing fury kept him hot under the collar. Stamping through the snow, he marched several blocks to a modest brownstone that seemed to have survived the worst of the rioting. Obscene graffiti defaced the walls, but a sturdy wooden door was still in place.

He climbed the steps and stabbed the doorbell.

At first, no one answered, so he kept on pressing it. Only the need to avoid raising too much of a ruckus kept him from pounding on the door with his fists. Finally, he pressed down hard on the bell, and didn’t let up.

Come on, Foley, he thought so intently he had to make certain he hadn’t said it out loud. I know you’re in there!

Stubborn persistence finally paid off. Multiple locks disengaged and the door opened by a crack, offering a partial glimpse of Foley’s wife, Jennifer. She looked tense and uncomfortable.

“Jim. He’s not here—”

He wasn’t buying it, and he shouted past her at the hallway beyond.