But there wasn’t time to figure it out now. He could only pray that they had the right one this time.

Escorted by a solitary tumbler, the truck proceeded without stopping—until a pickup full of plain-clothes cops pulled out onto Fifth and opened fire on both vehicles. Watching from an alley, Gordon nodded in approval. He had been expecting this; his men had commandeered the pickup from a couple of mercs on their way here.

The cops shouted defiantly as they let loose with their weapons. Bullets pinged off the tumbler’s armored shell.

That’s it, Gordon thought. Give ’em hell.

The cops were hopelessly outgunned, though. They jumped from the pickup and scrambled for cover as the tumbler aimed its cannons and blew apart the hijacked vehicle. Within minutes, all that remained was a flaming pile of wreckage, and the fleeing cops were wisely making themselves scarce. They hadn’t stopped the convoy—only slowed it down for a minute or two.

But that was enough. Taking advantage of the distraction created by his men, Gordon dashed from the alley and jumped onto the moving truck. He wedged himself into the narrow gap between the cab and the trailer, until a metal hatch blocked his progress. With any luck, the decaying core was inside the lead-lined trailer.

And it was only minutes away from detonating.

Not if I can help it. A sudden burst of acceleration almost threw him to the street, but he held onto the hatch for dear life and fumbled beneath his coat for the jamming device Batman had given him. It was hard to manipulate the compact metal box while hanging on to a speeding vehicle, but he struggled to turn it on.

A blinking light rewarded his efforts.

Please let this be the right truck, he prayed. We’re not going to get another chance.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The knife—which had once belonged to her martyred father—jabbed between Batman’s ribs. Although he still had Bane by the throat, the Dark Knight could not move to defend himself. Just an instant’s pressure and the blade would slice into a vital organ. She had Batman exactly where she wanted him.

At last.

“My mother named me Talia, before she was killed,” she said, claiming her true identity now that the need for “Miranda Tate” had passed. Her voice echoed in the spacious lobby. “The way I would have been killed, if not for my protector. . . Bane.”

For a moment her gaze turned inward as her memories raced back through the years, to the fateful hour she first saw the light.

* * *

The child, Talia, perched upon the stony ledge, nearing the top of her impossible climb. Only one daring leap, and freedom would be hers.

But the ugly sounds of violence, rising up from below, tugged at her. She glanced back down into the pit, where her faithful protector fought valiantly against a mob of crazed prisoners. The men swarmed over him, fighting tooth and nail. An angry hand clawed at his face, tearing the muslin mask away.