His goal was simple: inflict as much damage as he could as quickly and efficiently as possible. Despite his muscular frame, Bane moved with the speed and ferocity of a wild animal. Bones shattered beneath his expert blows. Ribs cracked, shins and knees and collars snapped. Blood spurted.

The guards never had a chance.

The shoeshine man charged onto the trading floor. He pulled out the sub-machine gun and opened fire on the monitors, which exploded in a shower of sparks and shattered plastic. A different kind of chaos erupted. Horrified traders hit the floor or else raced for the exits, only to find their way blocked by yet more gunmen. The janitor and the sandwich guy joined their compatriot, herding the hostages into the center of the room. Smoke and the smell of burning circuitry pervaded the air. Desperate traders pleaded for their lives.

Bane strode onto the floor like a conqueror.

“This is a stock exchange!” one hostage called out. He was the same trader who had neglected to tip the shoeshine man earlier. “There’s no money you can steal!”

Bane regarded the man scornfully.

“Why else would you people be here?”

He seized the outspoken trader by the neck and dragged him over to one of the many automated trading terminals. Taking hold of the man’s hand, he placed the broker’s thumb on the fingerprint reader. The scanner hummed briefly before recognizing the thumbprint. The screen lit up helpfully.

“Enter your password,” Bane said, “or I send these men to your home.”

The blood drained from the hostage’s face. He hastily typed his password into the machine.

By now, sirens could be heard outside, growing louder by the minute. Bane wasn’t concerned. He had expected as much.

The shoeshine man, McGarrity, came forward to do his part. He plugged a portable USB drive into the terminal. An antenna on the drive established a link with his laptop. Figures raced across the terminal’s monitor.

Bane stood by silently, watching his plan unfold.

Patrol cars screeched onto Castle Street, the narrow avenue in front of the stock exchange building. Blake and Ross were among the first to arrive on the scene. Blake swore out loud as he spotted a large cement mixer blocking their way. He jumped out of the car and ran up to the mixer, where a burly construction worker was busy pouring cement for a new sidewalk.

“Move it now!” Blake ordered. “We’ve got a situation!”

The construction guy indicated the tight squeeze, made worse by the fleet of cop cars swarming the scene. Then he smirked at Blake.

“Where can I move it?”

“That way!” the cop shouted, pointing to the nearest intersection, but by now the SWAT vans had arrived in force, blocking every avenue. He cursed silently. “Get in your vehicle,” he ordered the civilian. “And stay there!”

Foley piled out of a SWAT van, accompanied by Commander Allen of the special anti-terrorism unit. A frantic-looking man in a suit ran toward the police officers, holding up a laminated ID. Blake gathered that he was in charge of security for the stock exchange. He was having a very bad day.