“Bruce Wayne’s family built this company,” Fredericks protested, “and he himself has run it—”

“—into the ground, sir,” Daggett interrupted. He glanced around the table. “Anyone disagree? Check the value of your stock this morning. Gambling on crazy futures didn’t just lose Mr. Wayne his seat on this board, it’s lost us all a lot of money.

“He needs to leave.”

“I’m afraid he has a point, Mr. Wayne,” Fox said.

“I understand.” Bruce rose from the table. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He exchanged a look with Miranda as he slipped out the door.

* * *

A hush fell over the board room as the latch clicked behind him.

“All right,” Daggett said, breaking the silence. He puffed out his chest. “Let’s get down to business.”

“Right away,” Fox agreed.

He winked at Miranda.

A crowd had gathered outside Wayne Tower. Angry shareholders and hungry reporters shouted at Bruce as he exited the building. Cameras clicked away at a rapid-fire pace. TV crews captured the chaos on film.

“Mr. Wayne!” a reporter from the Gotham Gazette hollered. “How does it feel to be one of the little people?”

Bruce ignored him, and all of the questions. He looked around for his car.

“I’m sorry, sir,” a company valet said sheepishly. “They had the paperwork—” Then Bruce saw his new sports car being towed away.

First the Lamborghini, he thought, and now this. I wonder if I still have cash enough for a cab.

A police cruiser was parked at the bottom of the steps. The young police officer—Blake—emerged from the car. He called out to Bruce.

“Looks like you could use a lift.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Daggett stormed into his penthouse, slamming the door behind him. His face was purple with anger as he stomped across the floor.

“How the hell did Miranda Tate get the inside track on the Wayne Board?” he demanded to no one in particular. “Was she meeting with Wayne? Was she sleeping with Wayne?”

Stryver tried to calm his boss.

“Not that we know of—”

“Clearly you don’t ‘know of’ everything, do you?” Daggett wanted answers and he wanted them immediately. “Where’s Bane?”

“We told him it was urgent,” Stryver said.

Daggett looked at his watch.

“Then where is that masked—?”

A deep voice interrupted him.

“Speak of the devil…” it said.

Daggett spun around to find Bane standing behind him, his meaty arms crossed atop his chest. Air hissed from the hulking mercenary’s mask.

“…and he shall appear.”

Daggett clutched his chest, startled by Bane’s sudden appearance. Where had the ugly merc come from, and how had he gotten past the penthouse’s supposedly first-class security? Between Catwoman and Bane, Daggett was starting to think anybody could get past his guards.

Nearly scared me out of a year’s growth, he thought. Who does he think he is? The Batman? But he tried to regain control of the situation.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

“The plan is proceeding as expected,” Bane stated flatly.