But Bane did not bother to elaborate. He merely stood by silently as his men dragged Fox and the others back into the tunnels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Gotham Stadium was home to the big game between the Gotham Rogues and the Rapid City Monuments. The new $300 million arena was the jewel of Mayor Garcia’s urban renewal program, built on top of a formerly blighted stretch of riverfront property. The huge open-air venue was built of stone, steel, and glass.

Flanked by security, the mayor greeted reporters outside the VIP entrance. Cameras captured his photogenic visage. Reporters hurled questions, all about the game.

“Mr. Mayor!” a busybody from the Gotham Post called out. “We’re seeing literally thousands of police heading into the sewers—”

“A training exercise, that’s all.” The mayor’s winning smile grew slightly forced. He planted a Rogues cap on his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got tickets to watch our boys thrash Rapid City.”

Ducking the press, he was escorted to his private luxury box overlooking the horseshoe-shaped arena. More than sixty thousand eager sports fans—many sporting Gotham black-and-yellow—crowded the bleachers. An electronic scoreboard advertised major brands and products. More than two acres of natural grass covered the playing field, just waiting to be torn up by the competing teams.

This was the kick-off game of a brand new season and hopes were high that the Rogues would go all the way this year. The mayor hoped so; a Super Bowl victory wouldn’t hurt his poll numbers.

He waved to the crowd as he took his seat.

Now if Foley and his officers could just take of care of their little problem downstairs.

The GCPD had been searching the underground all night without success. There seemed no end to the branching tunnels and sewers, which were practically a city in themselves. Weary cops and SWAT teams waded through the fetid water, sweeping their flashlights back and forth. Boots pounded on old brickwork or concrete, or else splashed through the disgusting drains.

A grid search based on outdated Gotham blueprints had them converging on the center of midtown, albeit well beneath the city streets. With any luck, they were closing in on the terrorists.

Ross hoped so. He trudged down yet another dirty tunnel behind the rest of his squad. A yawn escaped his lips. He’d been at this for hours, and all he’d found was way too many rats and spiders and bugs. The sewers stank like, well, sewers, and he figured he was going to need a new uniform when this was over. No way was he getting this smell out of his clothes.

Sorry, Yolanda, he apologized in advance to his wife. Given a choice, he would have much rather been home with her and their daughter. Little Tara was turning five next week, he reminded himself. He still needed to pick up her present. Maybe after I get out of these stinking rat holes.