Gasping, Blake knelt to check on the man, whose life already seemed to be slipping away. His body twitched spasmodically. Ragged breaths slowed to a stop. Blood trickled from the corner of his lip.

“What were you doing?” Blake shouted at him, furious that the information he needed might be slipping away. He wanted to pound the man’s face in, just for making him pull the trigger. His voice was hoarse with emotion. “What?!”

The driver twitched one last time, then went still. His chest stopped moving, and his eyes glazed over. Blake checked for a pulse, but it was no use.

The man was dead.

Both men were dead.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Blake stared at the gun in his hand, which suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. He had never killed anyone before—not even in the line of duty. Bile rose at the back of his throat. He clenched his teeth to keep from throwing up.

Instinctively he hurled the gun to the ground. Shaking, he somehow managed to pull his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Gordon.

His boss’s voice mail picked up.

“Commissioner,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “I’m at the 14th Street plant with two dead witnesses and a lot of questions. Call me—”

He glanced around to make sure nobody else was coming after him, but the gunshots seemed to have scared all the other workers off. He stooped to retrieve his firearm, just in case, when that odd odor caused his brow to furrow. He sniffed the air suspiciously, tracing the smell to a collection of unmarked steel barrels resting alongside the wooden pallets.

His jaw dropped as he finally identified the odor.

“Commissioner,” he reported urgently. “They’ve got Polyisobutylene here—” He surveyed the scene, taking in the plant’s inventory. “And motor oil.” The pieces came together to form an alarming picture. “They weren’t making cement—they were making explosives—”

An awful possibility hit him with the force of revelation. He ran to his vehicle and grabbed his charts. His eyes frantically scanned the map, hoping he was wrong, but the telltale pattern of dots only confirmed his worst fears.

“Oh, God.”

He dived behind the steering wheel and peeled out of the factory parking lot, spraying gravel behind him. He drove furiously back toward headquarters, pressing the gas pedal to the floor, while shouting into his radio.

“Patch me into Foley!”

A maddeningly calm voice responded. “Deputy Commissioner Foley is overseeing the operation—”

“They’re heading into a trap!”

Foley followed his men into the subway tunnel, putting the lights of the platform behind him. He was tired of waiting. He needed to check on the search with his own eyes. He owed Gordon that much.

He owed Gotham that much.

“Sir!” a lieutenant came running after him. He thrust a radio into Foley’s hand. “It’s Blake. He says it’s urgent.”

Foley took the radio. As much as he hated to admit it, the hotheaded young detective had been on the ball so far.