“Then he’ll show his true colors.”

Maybe, Blake thought. “And you’ll be dead,” he replied.

Gordon stared silently out the window.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Light poured through the barred window of Selina’s private cell. She stretched out on her cot, enjoying the sunshine, until a rumbling noise interrupted her nap.

Annoyed, she rose and went to the window. Then her eyes widened at the sight of three tank-like vehicles, painted in desert camouflage, rolling toward the prison. She couldn’t help noticing that the vehicles bore a distinct resemblance to the Batmobile once used by a certain legendary Dark Knight.

Those can’t be his, she realized. They aren’t black, or sexy enough.

Excited shouts roused the entire cell block. Blackgate had been under lockdown ever since the day before, when all those explosions had made it feel as if they were having an earthquake. The guards all appeared distinctly jumpy—and more than a little scared. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if several of them hadn’t even shown up for work today.

She wondered what was up.

As she watched from the barred window, a crowd gathered outside the prison walls. News crews were on hand as the tanks came to a halt in front of the gates. Curious citizens braved the streets to see what was happening. Her heart sank as Bane emerged from the lead tank, wearing a fur-lined winter coat with a raised collar.

Guilt mixed with fear as she recalled how the vicious mercenary had broken Batman, right before her eyes. She suddenly wished she had made it out of Gotham in time.

The French Riviera was sounding better and better.

Bane stood atop the tank, his coat open despite the cold. He turned to address the media. A hand-held microphone carried his sinister voice all the way up to her cell. A hush fell over the entire cell block as everyone stopped to listen. Prisoners and guards alike strained to hear his words.

“Behind you stands a symbol of oppression,” Bane declared. “Blackgate Prison. Where a thousand men have languished for years. Under the Dent Act. Under the name of this man.”

He held up a photo of a handsome blond hero.

“Harvey Dent. Held up to you—and over you—as a shining example of justice and good.”

* * *

Blake’s bachelor apartment was small and spartan. He had never expected to entertain the police commissioner there, but life was full of surprises these days.

He rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, foraging for supplies, while Gordon rested on a lumpy couch Blake had once rescued from a crack house. Borrowed clothes had replaced Gordon’s hospital gown. They fit, sort of.

“We’re gonna keep moving you,” Blake said, “till we can get you in front of a camera.”

Gordon stared gravely at the TV set, where Bane could be seen delivering a speech in front of Blackgate Prison. The masked maniac set fire to Harvey Dent’s photo. His voice boomed from the television.