His driver shoved him toward the man in the suit.

“Dr. Pavel?” The man smiled and held out his hand. “I’m CIA.” He did not volunteer his name, not that Pavel would have believed him if he had. The anonymous American agent handed a leather briefcase over to the driver of the land cruiser, who accepted it eagerly. The briefcase contained more than enough funds to make this risky delivery worth the driver’s while. He gestured behind him.

“He was not alone,” the driver announced.

The CIA man spotted the hooded men in the back of the cruiser. He frowned at Pavel.

“You don’t get to bring friends.”

“They are not my friends!” the scientist protested. Indeed, he wanted to get as far away from the hooded men as possible. You don’t know what they’re capable of doing!

“Don’t worry,” the driver told the CIA agent. “No charge for them.”

The American contemplated the prisoners dubiously.

“Why would I want them?”

“They were trying to grab your prize,” the driver explained, smirking. “They work for the mercenary. For the masked man.”

A look of excitement came over the CIA agent’s nondescript, unmemorable features. He gave the prisoners a closer look.

“Bane?”

The driver nodded.

“Get ’em on board,” the CIA agent ordered his men, swiftly revising his plans. Clearly this was an opportunity he wasn’t about to pass up. He extracted a cell phone from his jacket. “I’ll call them in.”

Pavel swallowed hard. He didn’t like the way this was going. He shuddered at the memory of the attempted kidnapping, and at the very mention of his attackers’ infamous commander. Bane had become synonymous with atrocities, at least in this part of the world. Had it not been for the militia’s timely intervention, he would now be in the killer’s clutches.

Given a choice, he would have left Bane’s men far behind them.

Within minutes, they were in the air, flying low over the remote mountains in an attempt to avoid detection. Special Agent Bill Wilson checked on Dr. Pavel, who was safely tucked into a passenger seat, before turning his attention to their prisoners. Beneath his cool, professional exterior, Wilson was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting some reliable intel on Bane. To date, the notorious mercenary had defied the Agency’s best efforts to neutralize or even co-opt him. They didn’t even know what he looked like beneath that grotesque mask of his. The man was a mystery— with a body count.

Forget Pavel, Wilson thought. If I can get the 411 on Bane, that would be quite the feather in my cap. There might even be a promotion in it for me. Maybe a post in Washington or New York.

The hooded men knelt by the cargo door, their wrists cuffed behind them. Special Forces commandoes stood guard over the prisoners. Wilson grabbed the first captive at random.

“What are you doing in the middle of my operation?” he demanded.

The prisoner kept his mouth shut.