Pavel stared down at the heart-stopping drop beneath them. The wingless cockpit and cabin crashed into the rugged wilderness, throwing up a huge geyser of dust and rubble. Fuel tanks ignited, triggering a fiery explosion. Smoke and flames rose from the wreckage.

Leonid Pavel, distinguished scientist and engineer, screamed in utter terror as he was hoisted into the sky.

CHAPTER TWO

“Harvey Dent Day may not be our oldest public holiday,” Mayor Anthony Garcia declared, “but we’re here tonight because it’s one of the most important. Harvey Dent’s uncompromising stand against organized crime and, yes, ultimately, his sacrifice, have made Gotham a safer place than it was at the time of his death, eight years ago.” Behind him stood a large mounted photo of Dent.

A fashionable crowd filled the moonlit grounds of the Wayne estate. Elegant men and women, representing the cream of Gotham society, listened politely to the mayor’s speech as they mingled and chatted amongst themselves. Bright lights dispelled the shadow of the looming manor in all of its restored Gothic splendor, revealing not a hint that the entire edifice had burned to the ground several years before.

Expensive jewelry glittered on women in designer evening gowns, who were escorted by men in tailored silk suits and tuxedos. Champagne glasses clinked. Waiters wove through the party, offering fresh drinks and refreshments. It was a beautiful fall night, and the weather was perfect.

“This city has seen a historic turnaround,” the mayor continued from his position at the podium. He was a lean man whose slick black hair and photogenic good looks had survived several years in office. “No city is without crime. But this city is without organized crime, because the Dent Act gave law enforcement teeth in its fight against the mob.

“Now people are talking about repealing the Dent Act. And to them I say…not on my watch!”

An enthusiastic round of applause greeted his words. Everyone in the crowd had benefited from the city’s improved climate. One could confidently invest in Gotham again, and expect to reap a handsome profit. Small wonder the mayor had been re-elected to a third consecutive term.

“I want to thank the Wayne Foundation for hosting this event,” he continued, humbly accepting the applause. “I’m told Mr. Wayne couldn’t be with us tonight, but I’m sure he’s with us in spirit.”

Or maybe he’s closer than we think, Jim Gordon thought. The commissioner sat alone at an open bar not far from the dais. He was an ex-Chicago cop in his late fifties, with graying brown hair and a mustache. World-weary blue eyes gazed out from behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Glancing up at the stately marble façade of the manor house, he spotted a solitary figure gazing down on the festivities from one of the upper balconies. The figure was so still and silent that he might have been mistaken for a chimney, or a gargoyle, but Gordon knew a lurker when he saw one. He suspected that this particular lurker owned everything in sight.