He managed to get his hands around Batman’s neck, trying to snap it, but Wayne broke his hold by clasping his own hands together and delivering an upward thrust that drove Bane’s arms apart and away. Even so, Batman staggered backward—he was on the defensive now, losing ground.

Bane clenched his fists, tensed, and threw another kick.

It was only a matter of time.

He lifted his eyes to the building he had claimed. High above them, framed in a top-floor window at City Hall, a dark-haired woman gazed down on the battle with a concerned expression on her lovely face.

Good, Bane thought. Let her watch the Dark Knight fall once more.

Gordon heard the fighting, too. He silently wished good luck to his brothers and sisters in blue. They were going to need it. Now he had to do his part to make sure there would still be a Gotham after the fight.

He reached beneath his coat to make sure he still had the box. He was no techie, so he took it on faith that it would jam any signals sent to the bomb, just as Batman had said it would. This wasn’t the first time Batman had trusted him with the right tool at the right time. Like that antidote to Crane’s fear gas. That had worked as advertised, so Gordon assumed the jammer would, too—if he could just get it to the truck in time.

He glanced at his watch. By his calculations, they had less than thirty minutes left.

He scanned the street impatiently.

“Come on, come on…”

Minutes dragged on endlessly until, finally, a large black truck rounded the corner. Gordon checked his GPS device to confirm that, yes, this was the same truck they’d identified earlier. He stared at it with a mixture of awe and horror. Even after everything that had happened, it was still hard to accept that the truck’s lethal cargo was capable destroying all of Gotham City in a thermonuclear flash.

What if Bane—or someone else—triggered the bomb prematurely?

That’s not going to happen, Gordon resolved. Not on my watch.

He signaled his men to put their plan into operation. All at once, a Greyhound bus, empty of passengers and commandeered from a downtown lot, pulled out in front of the truck, which slammed on its brakes a minute too late. The truck barreled into the side of the bus.

The din of crashing metal shook snow from nearby roofs and window sills as the truck came to an abrupt stop, its cab driven halfway through other vehicle. The driver smacked into his windshield, cracking the glass. Gordon hoped he was down for the count.

“Now!” he shouted.

He and his men burst from hiding, swarming the truck. They couldn’t fire blindly for fear of setting off the bomb. A handful of guards, still dazed from the crash, stumbled from the cabin, trying to put up a fight, but some quality GCPD sharpshooting put them down in a hurry.