He, Miranda, and the other cops were on “trial” before Jonathan Crane of all people. A mob of hoods, mercs, and escaped prisoners—many of whom Gordon was personally responsible for putting behind bars—crowded the former stock exchange, hooting and hollering at the disgusting spectacle. Bane himself watched from the upper gallery.

Gordon repressed a shudder at the sight of the masked madman who was close to destroying Gotham. The scars from his bullet wounds throbbed at the memory of his first encounter with Bane in the tunnels months ago.

If only we had stopped him then…

“The charges are espionage and attempted sabotage,” Crane declared with an undisguised smirk. He was clearly enjoying this obscene role-reversal. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Gordon thought Crane belonged in straitjacket, not a judge’s robes. He refused to play along.

“No lawyer, no witnesses? What sort of due process is this?”

“More than you gave Harvey’s prisoners, commissioner. Your guilt is determined. This is merely a sentencing hearing.” He peered down from the podium. “What’s it to be—death or exile?”

By now, word of the sadistic ritual down at the docks had made its way across Gotham. As far as Gordon knew, nobody had ever made it across the frozen river before plunging beneath the ice. Bane and his people hadn’t even bothered to dredge for the bodies.

“Crane, if you think we’re going willingly out onto that ice, you’ve got another think coming.”

The criminal psychiatrist waved away Gordon’s insolence.

“Death, then?”

Gordon wasn’t about to plead for his life. He spoke for his men, as well, but hoped that Miranda might be spared.

“Looks that way.”

“Very well,” Crane said, smiling. “Death…by exile.” His gavel banged against the podium as the crowd cheered his verdict. Then Bane stepped forward and a hush fell over the “courtroom.” He leaned toward one of his men and pointed toward Miranda.

“Bring her to me.”

The stairwell was thick with dust and dimly lit. A flickering light bulb needed replacing. The top floor of the building had once housed Bruce Wayne’s downtown penthouse apartment, but had been caught up in bankruptcy proceedings right before Bane took control of the city. From the looks of things, it had sat empty ever since.

Assuming we don’t run into any squatters, Fox mused.

Bruce bounded up the stairs, while Fox huffed and puffed behind him. After sneaking around Gotham all day, he was definitely feeling his age, unlike Bruce, who looked as if he had been working out like an Olympic athlete. A fresh leg brace, recovered from the bunker, meant he didn’t need to worry about his bum knee anymore, either.

Lucius paused to catch his breath.

“I think it’s time to talk about my year-end bonus…” he said. Assuming any of us are still alive by New Year’s.

Bypassing the top-floor apartments, they went straight to the roof of the skyscraper. Bruce keyed in a combination code that granted them access. A freezing wind hit them as they stepped out. The sun was setting to the west, lending the frozen river a lurid incarnadine sheen. Fox gazed soberly at the fallen bridges, and the mainland beyond. He wondered if he would ever set foot off the island again.