He disagreed.

“Those weren’t street thugs,” he asserted grimly. “They were trained killers.” He fixed his dark eyes on her. “I saved your life. In return, I need to know what you did with Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints.”

She looked him over thoughtfully, putting the pieces together.

“Wayne wasn’t kidding about a ‘powerful friend.’” She hesitated before coming clean. “I sold his prints to Daggett—for something that probably doesn’t exist.”

He caught a note of bitterness in her voice.

“I doubt many people get the better of you,” he said. But she shrugged her shapely shoulders.

“Hey, when a girl’s desperate—”

“What were they going to do with them?” he persisted. He was careful to use his “Batman growl.” She seemed to have a way of putting two-and-two together, and he didn’t want her to recognize him— especially after that kiss.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “but Daggett seemed pretty interested in that mess at the stock exchange.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. He already knew there was a link between Daggett and Bane—forged by the West African coup—but what exactly were they trying to accomplish? And why had they needed Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints?

A police chopper swept past overhead, continuing the manhunt. Batman stepped back into the shadows, evading its searchlight until the aircraft had passed. Then he turned back to continue the questioning.

But she was gone.

“Miss Kyle?”

She had disappeared, as silently as a cat.

Batman grunted. The irony of the situation did not escape him.

“So that’s what that feels like.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Truth to tell, Alfred had never liked the Batcave. He found it dank, gloomy, unsanitary, difficult to dust, and more than a little depressing.

Still, Master Bruce had spent a fortune converting the ancient caverns—which had once been a stop on the Underground Railroad—into a state-of-the-art forensic laboratory, garage, armory, and communications center. So it would be foolish not to avail oneself of the cave’s sophisticated technology, even if it meant keeping company with a plague of winged rodents.

At least that’s what he told himself.

Alfred was seated at the computer, studying captured security footage of the assault on the stock exchange, when a booming roar and the glare of high-intensity landing lights penetrated the waterfall that hid the mouth of the cave. A bright white glow shone through the curtain of water, heralding the arrival of Bruce’s newest toy.

A wet spray sprinkled Alfred’s face as, rotors spinning, the Bat flew into the cave. A pair of slate cubes rose to form a landing pad. The Bat touched down on the cubes.

The canopy opened and Batman emerged from the cockpit. Alfred was relieved to see that he was still in one piece, and in no immediate need of first aid, despite being out of commission for eight long years. He had been worried about that.

“Very inconspicuous,” the butler observed, brushing water from his suit. “Shall I tell the neighbors that you got yourself a new leaf blower?”