Show yourself, he thought. I am ready for you.

The darkness swept over him like a tidal wave. Something grabbed onto his collar and yanked him off the seat. He was thrown to the ground hard enough to be knocked senseless. His gun slipped from his grasp. His bike toppled over, throwing up sparks as it skidded across the lanes.

Petrov lifted his head, on the verge of passing out. His blurry eyes widened.

Speeding away from him, in pursuit of Bane and the others, was an armored figure leaning low atop a customized black motorcycle. His midnight cloak spread out behind him, flapping in the wind like the wings of an enormous bat.

“Let’s roll,” Foley shouted. “They’ve spotted Batman!”

Abandoning the armored SWAT van, which was too heavy for a high-speed pursuit, he piled into the back of Blake’s patrol car. The young officer couldn’t believe his ears.

Is he really back? he wondered. After all these years?

He hit the accelerator, and the cruiser sped away from the stock exchange.

* * *

The bikes, one short now, split up as they reached a highway intersection. Two of them stuck together, while the third veered off in a different direction. A high overpass loomed above the crossing—as did Batman.

The Bat-Pod rumbled beneath him as he pulled up to the guardrail. He was stretched out belly down atop the cycle, steering it with his shoulders instead of his hands. The prototype’s unique design kept his head low and his gloved hands free. Bulletproof shields protected his arms.

Grappling hooks, mini-cannons, and machine-gun muzzles protruded from the chassis. High-performance, single-cylinder engines were embedded in the hubs of both of the cycle’s huge twenty-inch wheels. The cycle had once been built into a larger four-wheeled tumbler as an emergency escape pod, but functioned perfectly well on its own. Batman hadn’t ridden it in years.

He sat up and drew out a futuristic-looking rifle. The muzzle glowed a luminous shade of blue as he took aim at one of the fleeing bikes on the roadway below.

An electronic tone sounded.

The glowing muzzle pulsed.

The janitor had traded his mop for a pistol and sports bike. Breaking away from Bane and the others, he thought he had a good chance of eluding the police— until his engine suddenly sparked and died.

Instinctively he hit the brake, and then cursed himself for doing so. The speeding bike slowed dramatically even as a slew of police cars, their sirens blaring, closed in on him. A frightened trader jumped from the bike, choosing a nasty tumble over the prospect of being caught in a crossfire.

Enjoy what little time you have left, the janitor thought. He did not bother chasing after the hostage. Your days are almost over.

He brought his bike to a full halt, stoically resigned to being captured by the authorities. His own freedom was of no consequence—not as long Bane got away. The cause was all that mattered.

The fire rises, he thought.