“Rā’s plucked Bane from a dark corner of the Earth,” Alfred continued, “and trained him in the blackest disciplines of combat, deception, and endurance. Just as he did with you.”

Bruce was stunned by the news. He had thought Bane merely a vicious mercenary, but the truth was far worse.

“Bane was a member of the League of Shadows.”

“Until he was excommunicated,” Alfred said. “And a man considered too extreme for Rā’s al Ghūl is not to be trifled with.”

But Bruce refused to be intimidated.

“I didn’t know I was known for ‘trifling’ with criminals.”

“That was then,” Alfred said gravely. “And you can put the cowl back on, but it won’t make you what you were.”

“Which was?”

“Someone whose anger at death made him value all life,” the servant replied. “Even his own.”

My own life doesn’t matter, Bruce thought. Then he spoke. “If this Bane is all the things you say he is, then this city needs me.”

“Yes,” Alfred seemed to agree. “Gotham needs Bruce Wayne. Your resources, your knowledge. Not your body—not your life. That time has passed.”

“I tried helping as Bruce Wayne,” the billionaire protested. “And I failed.”

Just ask Miranda Tate, he thought. But Alfred did not give in.

“You can fail as Bruce Wayne,” he said. “As Batman, you can’t afford to.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Bruce asked indignantly. “That if I go back out there, I’ll fail?”

“No,” Alfred said. “I’m afraid you want to.”

I can’t listen to this, Bruce thought. Gordon was depending on him. Gotham was depending on him. I have to go back out there.

He crossed the Batcave, no longer needing his cane, and unlocked a rectangular metal closet the size of an upright sarcophagus. Inside the cabinet, hidden away for eight years, was a suit of matte-black body armor made of reinforced Kevlar bi-weave fabric and fire-retardant Nomex. The silhouette of a winged nocturnal predator was emblazoned upon the broad chest piece, which was capable of resisting anything except a straight shot at close range.

Adjacent shelves held steel-tipped black boots, gauntlets with scalloped metal fins, a hanging cloak, a golden Utility Belt, and—last but not least—a pointy-eared cowl. Its mere shadow had once struck terror into the hearts of Gotham’s criminal element.

He took the cowl off the shelf.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Gotham City Stock Exchange was a scene of frenzied activity. Buyers and sellers, wearing jackets and wide suspenders, crowded the trading floor, shouting out orders and keying them into their handheld wireless devices. The latest stock prices and interest rates scrolled across the countless flat-screen monitors mounted all around. It was pretty much impossible to look in any direction without seeing a flood of financial data.

Computer terminals facilitated electronic trading. Canvas banners extolling the GCSE hung above the busy traders. Sweat mixed with expensive cologne, which in turn mixed with the greed in the air. It was nearly closing time, but the trading was still going strong.