“You can’t short a stock just because Bruce Wayne goes to a party.”

A pair of traders, taking a break from the commotion, exchanged notes at a shoeshine stand just around the corner from the main floor. They paid no attention to the nameless peon who was polishing their handmade Italian leather shoes.

“Wayne coming back is change,” the second trader insisted. “Change is either good or bad. I vote bad.” “On what basis?”

The other trader shrugged.

“I flipped a coin.”

At the market’s grandiose front entrance, overlooking Castle Street, a hungry trader haggled with a delivery guy. It was already getting dark outside, and he hadn’t eaten in hours. He scowled at his sandwich.

“No, rye, he insisted. “I told them rye.”

Bad news from the west coast flashed across one of the ubiquitous monitors. A major Silicon Valley product launch had just been hacked. Suddenly, his sandwich was the least of his concerns. He thrust a ten at the vendor.

“All right. I’ll take it.”

A motorcycle pulled up to the rear entrance. Unlike the front of the building, which saw a constant stream of traders going in and out, the rear entrance was only used for deliveries. Bored security guards watched as a courier entered the building. A messenger pouch was slung over his shoulder. A ruby-red crash helmet concealed his features.

“Hey, rookie!” An exasperated female guard moved to block him. “Lose the helmet. We need faces for the camera.”

He reached for his helmet.

In the men’s room, a janitor mopped the floor. Toilets flushed in the background. Crumpled paper towels littered the floor. He paused to peek at his wristwatch.

Almost time, he thought.

He reached into his bucket and extracted a sealed Ziploc bag. A micro-Uzi machine pistol waited inside the bag.

The janitor tossed away his mop.

The brokers’ shoes shone like new. They paid the shoeshine guy, stiffing him on the tip, and headed back toward the trading floor, still debating the significance of Bruce Wayne’s return to the spotlight.

The shoeshine man, whose name was McGarrity, put down his brush. A bulging gym bag rested at the foot of the stand. Glancing about, he unzipped the bag and inspected a loaded sub-machine gun. Smuggling the gun into the building had not been easy, but the time for stealth was almost over.

He hoisted the bag over his shoulder and trotted after the unsuspecting brokers.

The delivery guy drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and brained his unhappy customer. The hungry trader collapsed onto the floor, just inside the front entrance. His pastrami sandwich—on white bread—slipped from his fingers.

The food vendor kicked it aside as he stormed into the building.

The motorcycle courier took off his helmet. The female guard gasped out loud at the sight of the freaky rubber gas mask beneath the helmet. She fumbled for her taser.

Bane was too fast for her. Lunging forward without hesitation, he lifted her above his head and hurled her into the other guards, who tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. They tried to scramble to their feet, but Bane was already among them, dispatching the outmatched men and women with ruthless efficiency. His boot stamped on one guard’s throat, crushing his windpipe, while he caught another guard in a headlock, snapping her neck, even as his fist slammed into a third guard’s face, driving shards of bone and cartilage into his brain.