“Those men, locked up in Blackgate for eight years, denied parole under the Dent Act,” he said flatly. “Suspects held indefinitely without trial. Based on a lie.”

“A lie to keep a city on fire from burning to the ground.” Gordon looked up at him. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Gotham needed a hero, someone to believe in—”

“Not as much as it does now,” Blake said harshly. “But you betrayed everything you stood for.”

Gordon gave the younger man a rueful look.

“There’s a point, far out there, when the structures fail you. When the rules aren’t weapons any more, they’re shackles, letting the bad get ahead.” His voice was both sad and tired. “Maybe one day you’ll have such a moment of crisis. And in that moment, I hope you have a friend like I did. To plunge their hands into the filth so you can keep yours clean.”

Disillusioned, Blake was in no mood to grant Gordon absolution.

“Your hands look plenty filthy to me, commissioner.”

He went back to packing.

The cell block was in an uproar. Nervous guards looked on apprehensively, clutching their weapons with sweaty palms as Selina’s fellow prisoners reacted loudly to all the excitement outside. A few of the more cowardly turnkeys abandoned their posts, slipping away while they still could. She couldn’t blame them. Judging from some of the rumors she’d heard, Bane had no great love for prisons—or their guards.

Standing atop his tank, Bane signaled to one of the other armored vehicles. A formidable-looking gun turret swiveled toward the prison gates. Selina could see where this was going—and she wasn’t sure what she thought about it.

If Bane was in charge of Gotham now, she might be safer in her cell.

“We take Gotham from the corrupt,” Bane ranted, shouting over the clamor of the mob. “The rich. The oppressors of generations who’ve kept you down with the myth of opportunity. And we give the city to you, the people. Gotham is yours—none shall interfere.

“Do as you please!”

Hellfire blasted from the cannon, blowing the heavy iron gates to pieces. Twisted metal fragments clattered down onto the sidewalk, leaving an open, smoldering cavity in the walls of the prison.

“But start by storming Blackgate and freeing the oppressed,” he continued. “Step forward, those who would serve…”

Bane’s men rushed the prison, surging through the burning gates. The mob chased after them, eagerly joining in the revolt. Pounding boots trampled over the blackened remains of Harvey Dent’s photo. Alarms sounded, but the outnumbered guards offered little resistance.

The cell doors slid open and the prisoners poured out, trashing the place on their way out. Unlucky guards—the ones who hadn’t fled or hidden in time—found themselves on the receiving end of eight years of pent-up grudges. It wasn’t a good day to be wearing a uniform or a badge.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Selina quietly slipped away through the throng.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE