She met his gaze without evasion.

“Maybe it’s not you I’m running from.”

“Who then?” He took a shot. “Bane? What do you know about him?”

Her cocky attitude went away.

“That you should be as afraid of him as I am.”

She means it, Blake realized, hearing genuine fear in her hushed tone. “We can offer you protection…”

She shot him an incredulous look, like they both knew it was a joke. Then she looked away from him, idly checking her reflection in one of the mirrors. Blake got the distinct impression that she’d given him as much as he was going to get for the time being—at least on the record.

He switched off the tape and stood up from the table.

“When I spotted you,” he said, “I was looking for a friend. Bruce Wayne.”

The name got her attention. She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she was hiding something, and it seemed to bother her. He stepped between her and the mirror. His eyes entreated her.

“Did they kill him?”

For the first time since he’d entered the room, she couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I’m not sure,” she confessed.

Blake’s heart sank.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Feverish images dragged him up from the dark. Screams, sobs, and maniacal laughter surrounded him. Broken bodies crashed to earth. He was falling down a long dark shaft. A black, skull-like visage gazed down on him, coming closer and closer…

Bruce opened his eyes, drifting back to consciousness.

Disoriented, he found himself lying on his back on a rough wooden cot. He stared upward at a sooty stone roof that looked as though it had been carved from solid rock. He glimpsed prison bars out of the corner of his eye. His Batsuit was gone, replaced by coarse, filthy rags. His head throbbed and his throat was parched.

Whiskers carpeted his pale, clammy face. He tried to sit up, only to experience an excruciating jolt of pain. He sank back onto the cot, gasping in agony.

It all came back to him.

Bane. Wayne Tower. His back bent backwards until…

Someone stirred to his right, and he realized that he wasn’t alone in the cell. He tried to roll over to see who it was, but even the attempt was torture.

Heavy footsteps approached the cot. A massive figure squatted beside him. Densely muscled shoulders curved upward into a thick neck supporting a familiar masked face. The dark skull from his fever dreams seemed to gaze down on him.

Bane.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Bruce rasped, his throat sore from disuse.

“You don’t fear death,” Bane answered. “You welcome it.” He shook his head. “Your punishment is to be more severe.”

Bruce understood now. He glared furiously at his captor.

“You’re a torturer…”

“Yes,” Bane agreed. “But not of your body. Of your soul.”

Bruce tried to hold onto his anger, but the pain was too great. He let out a sharp gasp. Bane blurred before his eyes as he felt the darkness encroaching on his vision. He fought to stay conscious.