INTO THE FIRE
Forty-four
Bane had always been amused by Finn Donnell's appearance. The Irishman could easily pass for someone nonthreatening like a schoolteacher, with his short, neat haircut, fresh-faced, boyish countenance which could grow hair only sparsely, small build, and natty attire. Only the blackness of his eyes belied the accomplished killer that lived within this façade.
Finn sat casually in Bane's desk chair, dressed for his day job. He currently worked for an investment firm in the financial district where his connections would play an important role during the next phase of the League's operation. He wore a well-tailored, dark suit, his narrow tie black and crimson; red, like Barsad's scarf from Maysam. Bane had noticed that many of his men had taken to wearing similar scarves now that fall had come to Gotham. An unspoken sign of unity and a symbol of the blood that would soon be shed.
Barsad sat near Finn, on the edge of the desk, facing Bane who hunched upon his cot, listening to Finn's report of last night's function at Wayne Manor, as reported by Talia.
"Was she able to speak with Bruce Wayne?" Bane asked.
"She tried, but Pennyworth told her Wayne refused to see her…again."
"Did anyone see him besides Selina Kyle?"
"Yes, our men spotted him on one of the balconies during the ceremonies. He didn't stay long. He still walks with the assistance of a cane. They said his appearance is rather…disheveled, which coincides with Ms. Kyle's report."
Bane nodded with satisfaction. The Batman was just as they wanted him—weak, should he consider interfering with the League's plans, as he surely would. And Bane was also secretly pleased that Talia had not met face to face with Wayne. Bane wanted that betrayer nowhere near her, though it was imperative to their plans that she earn Wayne's trust so they could gain access to the reactor. Wayne had skillfully hidden its location. Yet for just this one night Bane allowed this single small, personal victory. Perhaps Wayne avoided the well-known Miranda Tate because he feared falling under her spell as so many men did. Wayne still carried a torch for his lost love, Rachel Dawes; he would feel he was betraying that memory if he became involved with another woman.
Finn grinned one of his rare grins, though as usual it lacked warmth. "Ms. Kyle said Wayne fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes after she kicked his cane out from under him."
Barsad chuckled. "I like that woman more and more."
Bane raised an eyebrow at his lieutenant. Clearing his throat, Barsad killed his smile and reddened slightly.
"But you tell me our feline friend did not leave the party alone last night," Bane said to Finn. "Did the good congressman remember his marital obligations and leave Ms. Kyle's flat after their tryst?"
Now it was Finn's turn to squirm. "I'm afraid not. Last I knew he's still there."
Bane straightened with a growl. "What does she think she's doing? This could draw attention to her and thus to what is in her possession." He stood. "Barsad, pay a visit to Ms. Kyle and ensure Congressmen Gilly finds his way home. Now."
Barsad was already checking his pistol and hurrying toward the nearest tunnel.
###
Evening had fallen, and Bane was alone in the command post, poring over paperwork from Daggett's construction company, mentally comparing them to the verbal reports he had received from his operatives. Everything was moving according to plan. There were only a few more pieces left to fit into the puzzle. Soon it would be time to bring Doctor Pavel to Gotham.
Earlier in the day, John Daggett had informed Bane that his own right-hand man, Philip Stryver, would take delivery of Bruce Wayne's fingerprints from Selina Kyle tonight. Of course Daggett would not trust such a valuable hand-over to a mercenary. Bane had put up no argument, content to continue playing the dutiful employee to Daggett and his plans to deprive Wayne of his majority holdings at Wayne Enterprises. Little did Daggett know, Bane had his own initiative to depose Wayne, and it did not include John Daggett filling the seat at WE's board table.
When Barsad had reported back from Selina Kyle's flat that morning, Bane had been displeased by his lieutenant's information. The cat-burglar had insisted upon hanging onto Congressman Byron Gilly until she exchanged the fingerprints for the Clean Slate. "Insurance," she had told Barsad. While Bane admired the woman's shrewdness, he did not like the thought of the exchange going wrong and losing what they had gained. Gilly's disappearance was all over the news after his wife had reported him missing. Selina had kept him drunk, probably sexed up or doped up enough to keep the congressman oblivious to the passage of time and the concerns of his family. Regardless of her tactics, the fact remained that the police were looking for Gilly and so they could also find Selina with Wayne's fingerprints if she was not careful.
"Perhaps you were not the man for the job of convincing Ms. Kyle to conform," Bane had grumbled at Barsad. "You were speaking to me earlier of blindness. Perhaps it is you who have something distorting his vision."
Very rarely did Bane ever criticize his lieutenant, and that fact coupled with their personal relationship instantly brought a flush of both anger and injury to Barsad's scruffy face. "Exactly what are you implying, brother?"
"Is it not obvious? We are both well aware of your reaction to Ms. Kyle from the first minute you laid eyes upon her."
"I'm a man, ain't I?" Barsad grumbled. "But that doesn't mean she's distracted me from my duties. Shit, you know me better than that…or you should."
"If I'm wrong, then I should not hesitate to send you to her rendezvous with Stryver tonight, you and your beloved Barrett. Because if your failure this morning to convince Ms. Kyle to give up her pawn leads to the police tracking Gilly to her and we lose those fingerprints, then I will hold you personally responsible, brother."
Barsad scowled. "So what does that mean? You're gonna break my neck, too?"
Bane had only returned the scowl and dismissed him.
Now Bane sat back in his desk chair and rubbed his eyes then checked his watch. Barsad would be atop his perch by now, staring down the scope of his rifle at the bar where Selina was meeting with Stryver. Unwittingly Bane growled when he thought of Stryver. The pasty-faced little man reminded him of that boy Davy, one of those kinds who licked at his master's heels in hopes of retaining favor, who would sell his soul and that of others to retain his position. Once the true fire started, it would be interesting to see exactly how loyal Stryver was to John Daggett.
He thought of Barsad who was undoubtedly still fuming over the treatment he had received from his commander. Bane did not regret what he had said to his lieutenant. He needed to keep everyone focused, including his second-in-command. Barsad had been hard at work these many months and had had little time to blow off steam in the usual ways, so it was understandable that someone as beautiful as Selina Kyle would stir his lust. Sometimes Bane envied his friend's ability to relax and revel in the simpler pleasures life could offer. Yet Bane knew those pleasures were not for him, especially now with the culmination of years' worth of preparation for Gotham's destruction, for their revenge upon Bruce Wayne. This was not the time for deviation.
But, he cautioned himself, perhaps he could have couched his reproach differently. After all, Barsad was not a mere foot soldier new to his commander's ways. He had served flawlessly over these many years and deserved nothing but respect. Bane grunted to himself when he considered Barsad's words again following Jimmy's death. Maybe his lieutenant was right; he could easily lose his peripheral vision when the goal at last lay so close in front of his eyes. Collateral damage was inevitable, but Barsad should not be a part of it. Bane needed to retain his loyalty and esteem, if not for himself then for Talia. As the end drew closer, it would be difficult to tell what would befall the three of them, and he needed Barsad to follow his orders to put Talia above his love for his commander, just as Bane had been forced to choose Talia over Melisande on that terrible, long-ago day in prison.
Beyond his CP, even this late at night, work continued nearby. Men with high-powered tools drilling into the supports of the nearby atrium in preparation for setting charges. The noise was invasive, but the walls, low ceiling, and protective, overhanging tarps helped block the worst of it from Bane. And then there was the muffling effect of his mask to help as well.
He smiled when he thought of what lay far above him, beyond thick layers of concrete and rebar. Waiting to be cracked open like an Easter egg once the time was right. But what made him smile was not so much the armory itself but the thought of who it belonged to and who would despair the most when it was breached.
In time the night's chill deepened, creeping over his flesh. He had removed his shirt and vest long ago after taking his usual walk through the tunnels to keep his back from paining him too greatly. He could have ordered one of the nearby guards to make a fire, but that was a task Bane never delegated. So many long nights in prison he had shivered under his blankets either from complete lack of fuel for his brazier or from an insufficient supply. Ever since his rescue, he had always enjoyed building his own fires, appreciative of every stick, of every log.
Often he would sit for long periods of time just staring into the flames, frequently thinking back to the League's former mountain home, Talia sitting on his lap or nearby, the large hearth ablaze, speaking to them in its pleasant tones, filling their senses with comforting smells, reminding them that they were survivors, they were strong, they were together. It was those shared memories that had inspired them to refer to their operation in Gotham as a rising fire. Destruction rising among their enemies, just as he and Talia had arisen from the pit after the world had abandoned them.
So now he gathered the wood that his men brought here every day and used a metal poker to stir up the near-dead embers from earlier. Carefully he placed fresh wood over them, skillfully tending the coals, prodding them into giving their life to the new wood. As the flames finally flared and licked, Bane remained close, bent on one knee, the poker still in hand, enjoying the renewed warmth, the gentle crackles. Though he had never been to Talia's penthouse, he knew she had a fireplace. Shutting his eyes, he imagined her sitting before it tonight, reading a book, sipping a glass of expensive wine, wrapped in a luxurious robe, naked beneath it, the fire dancing in her eyes.
Then he heard them. Two men approaching, dragging something…or someone; Bane did not need to turn to know that sound. The guards said nothing to the newcomers as they passed into the command post. Another man arrived from across the catwalk, and Bane knew it was Barsad; he heard the sound of a heavy rifle with a bipod being set on the ground behind the new arrivals. Then they all stood there for a moment, saying nothing, waiting for him to address them, to stand, but he remained staring into the fire, anger growing as he realized something had gone terribly wrong.
"Why are you here?" he wheezed the question at last.
One of them kicked their victim whom they had dropped close to the railing near the cataract. The prisoner groaned as a result. "Answer him," the goon demanded.
Fool, Bane thought, his unrest building. But he kept the anger from his voice when he said to his henchman, "I was asking you."
"It's the police commissioner," one of them explained, as if he thought his commander dense.
Bane tossed the hot poker into an adjacent tureen of water where it sizzled to impotency. Allowing his displeasure free rein, he climbed to his feet. Turning to scowl at the two men, he mocked, "And you brought him down here?"
The man on the right glanced nervously at his comrade who wore a brown military jacket and dark stocking cap. This man, however, did not dare take his eyes from their approaching boss. Just as Bane feared—two Gothamites. He had wanted to send two of the League's men, but his core force was spread thin throughout the city. And Daggett had requested the detail to consist of men who had worked for him before. Bane berated himself for allowing it. Now they had a potential mess on their hands.
Bane noticed how the one looked to the other, and Bane knew from this that the one wearing the stocking cap was responsible for the decision to drag James Gordon down here, like a dog expecting a reward when retrieving a duck to its master.
"We didn't know what to do," the guilty man on the left admitted. "We just thought—"
"You panicked," Bane snapped. "And your weakness has cost the lives of three others."
Confused, the other goon started to take a step forward as if to defend his companion, saying, "No, he—he's alone—"
The sentence was strangled short, just as his step was interrupted by Bane's right hand clamping around his neck. Bane did not even bother to look at him; instead he stared at the man in the cap who in turn watched his comrade make two choking gasps then collapse.
"Search him," Bane said as the man in the cap swallowed hard and glanced furtively at the mask. "Then I will kill you."
The man quickly obeyed, no doubt hoping his alacrity would change Bane's mind and save his life. Bane did not move, did not watch. His attention had shifted to Barsad who said nothing and looked exceedingly uncomfortable, certainly thinking of his rebuke earlier. The fingers of Bane's right hand twitched in anticipation of the next kill.
First the goon in the cap handed Bane a sheaf of folded papers, followed by Gordon's pistol, something that should have been confiscated right away. More incompetence. They were lucky Gordon was too beaten up and near unconsciousness to access the weapon. With these items in hand, Bane turned back toward his desk and unfolded the papers, began to read.
A speech written by Gordon. Something he had meant to read at the commemorating ceremony for Harvey Dent at Wayne Manor, it appeared, but he had not, for Finn along with the news media would have reported something this significant if Gordon had delivered his remarks. The speech was about Dent. But not Dent the hero. No, this speech was something else entirely…
Suddenly the shouts of his men erupted all around him, and gunfire shattered the night, blasting over the sound of even the waterfall. Bane did not turn, too engrossed in his reading and already knowing what had happened—Gordon had managed to fall into the aqueduct to escape. Well, judging from the heavy discharge of weaponry from around the atrium, Gordon would be extremely lucky to remain alive for his desperate effort.
The short-lived bursts of automatic weapons ceased, and the goon with the cap turned back to Bane, a worried look on his face. In an unconvincing voice, he said, "He's dead."
With feigned nonchalance, Bane faced him and indulgently demanded, "So show me his body."
"The water flows to any one of the outflows," the man answered in exasperation. "We'll never find him."
Barsad was already reaching into his jacket for his GPS unit even before Bane held out his hand. While Barsad activated it, Bane's fingers twitched in impatience, as if Barsad had been tardy in his movements and deserved chastisement. Taking it, Bane lumbered back to the goon and tucked the unit into the man's jacket. All the while the henchman watched in wonder, perhaps having forgotten Bane's promise to kill him. Satisfied, Bane zipped up the goon's jacket like a caring mother and patted him where the GPS rested.
"Follow him," Bane ordered.
"Follow him?" the man frowned.
Bane pulled the trigger of Gordon's gun, did not blink as the bullet tore through the henchman and sent his dead body tumbling into the aqueduct to float after the commissioner. With an ominous glance at Barsad, Bane carried Gordon's speech over to his desk to read by the light.
"O'Brien," Bane called to the closest guard. "Track that body and make sure the police don't find the Commissioner."
"Yes, sir," O'Brien said, then called to two other mercenaries to follow him.
As the men moved off, Bane addressed Barsad in a growl, "What happened?"
"I'm not sure. The cops showed up at the bar like someone had given away the location. Shots were fired inside before they even entered, but as far as I know Selina didn't have a gun. Our boys ran out into the alley, and we exchanged shots with the cops. When those two went down a manhole, I withdrew from my post and came back here by a different route to avoid the cops. Gordon must have followed them."
"What about Ms. Kyle?" Bane stared at the papers but was not reading them, almost too blinded by rage at what had just transpired. Even murdering the two henchmen had not relieved his tension.
"She slipped away; I saw her."
"And did she give the fingerprints to Stryver?"
"I tried to call him on my way down, but he wasn't answering."
"Keep trying. Make sure the cops didn't get their hands on those prints. Locate Ms. Kyle and find out what happened. I want a full report." His fingers twitched against the papers, and his attention fell upon Gordon's pistol beside him on the desk. It had been some time since he had fired a weapon; he preferred to dispatch his victims by hand—it left more of an impression on those witnessing—and leave the bullets to men like Barsad.
Barsad remained standing nearby. Bane's attention went to him. His lieutenant's hooded eyes looked weary, and again Bane reminded himself of the tireless work his friend had been doing for him, of Barsad's decision to give his very life for him. It pleased him that Barsad did not apologize or beg forgiveness for what had happened tonight. There had never been any weakness in him, something else of which Bane reminded himself.
"What happened was not a complete disaster," Bane allowed, holding up the papers. "Commissioner Gordon has unwittingly given us valuable intel. This is a speech he had written, detailing for the world the lie he and the Batman have been perpetrating about Harvey Dent."
Barsad shuffled closer.
"It seems Dent was not Gotham's white knight after all." With cold satisfaction, Bane looked up at Barsad and handed him the first page to read. "Temujin used to always tell me that everything happens for a reason. And it would appear he's right. This information will help us immensely once the liberation of Gotham begins." He chuckled. "This will discredit both Gordon and the Batman just at a time when the city will be looking to them for leadership. They will have no one to depend upon except us."
In silence they both read the entire contents of the letter. Then when Barsad handed the last page back, he quietly said, "I'll try calling Stryver again. And I'll track down Ms. Kyle." He turned away but then hesitated. "I'll put Umarov on it."
"There's no need for delegation," Bane said. Their gazes met and held. "I prefer you speak to her, brother."
Some of the fatigue lifted from Barsad's dark face, and the hint of a smile twitched his mouth. "If you insist."
