by Greg Cox
THE
DARK KNIGHT RISES
THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION
A NOVEL BY GREG COX
BASED ON THE SCREENPLAY BY JONATHAN NOLAN AND CHRISTOPHER NOLAN
STORY BY CHRISTOPHER NOLAN & DAVID S. GOYER
BASED UPON CHARACTERS APPEARING IN COMIC BOOKS PUBLISHED BY DC COMICS
BATMAN CREATED BY BOB KANE
TITAN BOOKS
The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Movie Novelization
Print edition ISBN: 9781781161067
E-book edition ISBN: 9781781161074
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Steet, London SE1 0UP
First edition: July 2012
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 DC Comics.
BATMAN and all related characters and elements are trademarks of and © DC Comics.
WB SHIELD: ™ & © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. (s12)
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in the United States.
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Contents
Eight Years Ago …
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Acknowledgements
THE DARK KNIGHT RISES
EIGHT YEARS AGO…
“Harvey Dent was needed. He was everything Gotham’s been crying out for.”
Police Commissioner James Gordon stood before a podium in front of the courthouse where the late district attorney, supposedly martyred in the line of duty, had once fought for justice by prosecuting the city’s powerful underworld kingpins. Somber dignitaries, including the mayor and city council, were on hand to honor Dent’s memory. A black funeral wreath framed a large color portrait of a handsome man with wavy blond hair, a strong jaw, and a winning smile. Harvey Dent looked every bit a champion of justice, but Gordon had seen his other face. The commissioner hesitated briefly, before continuing.
“He was…a hero. Not the hero we deserved. The hero we needed. Nothing less than a knight, shining brightly even in Gotham’s darkest hours. But I knew Harvey Dent. I was…his friend. And it will be a long time before someone inspires us the way he did.” Gordon gathered his notes, anxious to get this over with and exit the podium.
“I believed in Harvey Dent.”
The words caught in his throat. With any luck, people would think that he was simply overcome with emotion. God forbid they should guess what he was really feeling. That was a secret he shared with only one other man, a man who had sacrificed his own legend to preserve Dent’s legacy and reputation. A man whose face Gordon had never seen. Gotham’s true dark knight.
Is he watching this? Gordon wondered, his eyes searching the crowd. Where is he now?
And will Gotham ever see him again?
CHAPTER ONE
SOMEWHERE IN EASTERN EUROPE
A land cruiser sped over a rugged mountain road, past rocky slopes devoid of human habitation. Scraggly patches of scrub and greenery dotted the barren gray hills. The cruiser had the road all to itself as it raced to make its rendezvous before the sun went down. It bounced over the rough terrain beneath a gloomy, overcast sky that was almost the same gray color as the hills. A keening wind whipped through the desolate peaks and canyons.
A bad omen, Dr. Leonid Pavel thought. The middle-aged scientist sat tensely in the middle of the vehicle, flanked by grim-faced men armed with automatic weapons. More soldiers guarded the prisoners in the rear of the cruiser: three silent figures with hoods over their heads. They sat rigidly, their hands cuffed, under the watchful gaze of the guards.
Pavel squirmed uncomfortably, feeling more like a prisoner than a passenger. He ran an anxious hand through a mop of unruly white hair. Sweat glued his shirt to his back. Am I doing the right thing? he fretted. What if I’m making a terrible mistake?
Other sounds began to be heard. Just when he had convinced himself that he should never have accepted the Americans’ offer, the cruiser arrived at its destination—a remote airstrip overlooking a war-torn city. Artillery fire boomed in the distance, the reverberations echoing off the desolate hillsides. Sirens blared. The sounds of the conflict, which had been going on for months now, reminded Pavel why he had been so eager to flee the country for a safer, more civilized location. This was no place for a man of his intellect—not anymore.
The cruiser squealed to a stop, and the guards hustled him out of the vehicle. An unmarked turbojet airplane waited on the runway, along with a small reception committee consisting of a bland-looking man in a suit and a small escort of armed guards. Although the soldiers bore no identifying uniforms or insignia, Pavel assumed they were US Special Forces, probably from the CIA’s own secretive Special Activities Division. The elite paramilitary teams specialized in sabotage, assassination, counter-terrorism, reconnaissance…and extractions. Pavel hoped he could trust them to keep him safe, especially after his recent narrow escape.
His driver shoved him toward the man in the suit.
“Dr. Pavel?” The man smiled and held out his hand. “I’m CIA.” He did not volunteer his name, not that Pavel would have believed him if he had. The anonymous American agent handed a leather briefcase over to the driver of the land cruiser, who accepted it eagerly. The briefcase contained more than enough funds to make this risky delivery worth the driver’s while. He gestured behind him.
“He was no
t alone,” the driver announced.
The CIA man spotted the hooded men in the back of the cruiser. He frowned at Pavel.
“You don’t get to bring friends.”
“They are not my friends!” the scientist protested. Indeed, he wanted to get as far away from the hooded men as possible. You don’t know what they’re capable of doing!
“Don’t worry,” the driver told the CIA agent. “No charge for them.”
The American contemplated the prisoners dubiously.
“Why would I want them?”
“They were trying to grab your prize,” the driver explained, smirking. “They work for the mercenary. For the masked man.”
A look of excitement came over the CIA agent’s nondescript, unmemorable features. He gave the prisoners a closer look.
“Bane?”
The driver nodded.
“Get ’em on board,” the CIA agent ordered his men, swiftly revising his plans. Clearly this was an opportunity he wasn’t about to pass up. He extracted a cell phone from his jacket. “I’ll call them in.”
Pavel swallowed hard. He didn’t like the way this was going. He shuddered at the memory of the attempted kidnapping, and at the very mention of his attackers’ infamous commander. Bane had become synonymous with atrocities, at least in this part of the world. Had it not been for the militia’s timely intervention, he would now be in the killer’s clutches.
Given a choice, he would have left Bane’s men far behind them.
Within minutes, they were in the air, flying low over the remote mountains in an attempt to avoid detection. Special Agent Bill Wilson checked on Dr. Pavel, who was safely tucked into a passenger seat, before turning his attention to their prisoners. Beneath his cool, professional exterior, Wilson was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting some reliable intel on Bane. To date, the notorious mercenary had defied the Agency’s best efforts to neutralize or even co-opt him. They didn’t even know what he looked like beneath that grotesque mask of his. The man was a mystery— with a body count.
Forget Pavel, Wilson thought. If I can get the 411 on Bane, that would be quite the feather in my cap. There might even be a promotion in it for me. Maybe a post in Washington or New York.
The hooded men knelt by the cargo door, their wrists cuffed behind them. Special Forces commandoes stood guard over the prisoners. Wilson grabbed the first captive at random.
“What are you doing in the middle of my operation?” he demanded.
The prisoner kept his mouth shut.
Fine, Wilson thought. We’ll do it your way. He hadn’t expected the man to crack without a little persuasion. He pulled a semiautomatic pistol from beneath his jacket and placed the muzzle against the man’s head. The prisoner flinched, but remained silent. Wilson decided to up the ante. He raised his voice so that all three prisoners could hear him even through their hoods.
“The flight plan I just filed with the Agency lists me, my men, and Dr. Pavel here. But only one of you.”
He threw open the cargo door. Cold air invaded the cabin as the wind outside howled like a soul in torment. Wilson grabbed onto a strap to anchor himself. He nodded at the Special Forces guys, who seized the first prisoner and hung him out the cargo door. The wind tore at his hair and clothing, threatening to yank him out of the paramilitaries’ grip. Wooded peaks waited thousands of feet below.
“First to talk gets to stay on my aircraft!” Wilson shouted over the wind. He cocked his weapon. “So…who paid you to grab Dr. Pavel?”
The men remained silent. Bane’s goons were loyal, Wilson would give him that. He would have to push harder.
Time for a little sleight of hand…
He fired his weapon out the door, the sharp report of the gun blasting through the wailing wind. The SAD guys yanked the stubborn prisoner back into the plane, and then clubbed him with a baton before he could make a sound. In theory, the other two prisoners would think that their comrade was dead and thrown overboard.
Maybe that would loosen their tongues.
“He didn’t fly so good,” Wilson lied. “Who wants to try next?”
The Special Forces men shifted to the second hooded prisoner. Moving with practiced efficiency, they hung the would-be kidnapper out the door, high above the mountains. The drop was enough to put the fear of God into just about anyone.
“Tell me about Bane!” Wilson demanded. “Why does he wear the mask?”
Only the wind answered him.
Frustrated, Wilson placed his gun against the second man’s head. He was getting fed up with the prisoners’ stubborn refusal to cooperate. Did they think he was just joking around here? He cocked his gun again, but still…nothing.
“Lot of loyalty for a hired gun!”
“Or,” a new voice interrupted, “maybe he’s wondering why someone would shoot a man before throwing him out of an airplane.”
The muffled voice came from the third prisoner, who appeared larger and better built than the other two. Muscles bulged beneath his black leather jacket and weathered fatigues. He had the build of a bouncer or professional wrestler, and held his head high despite the hood.
Giving up on the second man, Wilson had the soldiers haul the useless waste of flesh back into the plane, and then slammed the cargo door shut to keep out the howling wind, making it easier to conduct an interrogation. It was time for some answers.
“Wise guy, huh?” He examined the third captive. “At least you can talk. Who are you?”
“We are nothing,” the man replied. “We are the dirt beneath your feet. And no one cared who I was, before I put on the mask.”
Whoa, Wilson thought, caught off guard. A peculiar mixture of excitement and apprehension got his heart racing. Did he just say what I think he said?
He approached the prisoner warily, holding his breath, and yanked off the man’s hood, exposing a disturbing visage that Wilson immediately recognized from captured spy photos and combat footage. It was a face—and mask—that inspired nightmares in the bloodier corners of the globe.
Dark eyes gleamed above an intimidating dark blue mask that concealed the bottom half of the man’s face, covering his nose, mouth, and chin. The mask, made of rubber with riveted metal components, was held there in part by a thick vertical strap that bisected the mercenary’s brow and hairless cranium. Two rows of coiled steel breathing tubes ran above and below some sort of built-in inhaler that covered the man’s mouth. It gave his face a vaguely skull-like appearance. Pipes ran along the edges of the mask to a pair of miniature canisters at the back of his skull. Air hissed as he breathed. No sign of fear showed in the man’s piercing eyes. He spoke calmly, and with complete assurance.
“Who we are does not matter,” Bane said. “What matters is our plan.”
Wilson was fascinated by the man’s elaborate headwear, which resembled a specialized gas mask. Was it there purely for effect, or did the breathing apparatus serve some vital function? He gestured at it.
“If I pull this off, will you die?”
“It would be extremely painful,” Bane answered.
Good to know, Wilson thought. He had no sympathy for the ruthless mercenary. Bane was a bad guy who deserved to suffer. “You’re a big guy.”
“For you,” Bane clarified.
A chill ran down Wilson’s spine, but he tried not to show it. It was important to remain in control of the interrogation.
“Was being caught part of your plan?”
“Of course,” Bane said. “Dr. Pavel refused our offer, in favor of yours. We had to know what he told you about us.”
“Nothing!” the scientist shouted from his seat. He sounded absolutely terrified by Bane’s presence, even though the mercenary was safely in custody. Pavel’s eyes were wide with fright. He called out frantically, as though he was pleading for his life. “I said nothing!”
Wilson ignored Pavel’s hysterics.
“Why not just ask him?” he said, nodding his head in the scientist’s direction.
“He would not have told us.”
“You have methods,” Wilson said.
“Him, I need healthy,” Bane explained. “You present no such problems.”
The man’s utter confidence was unnerving. Wilson laughed, mostly for his men’s benefit, then glanced up as a deep bass tone rumbled somewhere above them. The unexpected sound penetrated the plane’s fuselage, competing with the sound of the engines.
Thunder? The weather report hadn’t predicted any storms.
A massive transport plane, many times larger than the small turbojet aircraft, descended from above. Its dull gray hull gave no indication of its loyalties as it drew dangerously close to the smaller plane. A ramp opened beneath the transport and four men dropped down, hanging from cables—two on either side of their target. They were armed and ready.
The rumbling grew louder by the moment. Turbulence rattled the plane, causing it to lurch to one side. Wilson struggled to hang on to to his balance. He exchanged a puzzled look with the leader of the Special Forces Group, a sergeant named Rodriguez, who peered out of one of the plane’s small windows. The soldier squinted into the fading sunlight.
“Sir?”
Wilson didn’t know what was happening, but he wasn’t about to show it. He still had an interrogation to conduct.
“Well, congratulations,” he taunted Bane. “What’s the next step of the master plan?”
“Crashing this plane.” Bane rose slowly to his feet. “With no survivors.”
An armed man suddenly appeared outside a window, thousands of feet above the ground. Startled, one of the guards spun toward the window, but not quickly enough. Shots rang out from opposite directions as a pair of snipers fired through windows. Glass shattered and Wilson’s men dropped to the floor. Blood and chaos spilled throughout the cabin. Death amended the flight plan.
No! Wilson thought. This can’t be happening! I’m in charge here!
* * *
Outside the plane, the other two men attached sturdy steel grapples to the fuselage. Thick, industrial-strength cables connected the two aircraft as one of the men signaled the crew aboard the big transport. Powerful hoists activated, tugging on the tail of the smaller plane that flew below. Groaning winches exerted tremendous pressure on the captured turbojet. Its tail was yanked upward.
