Batman: knightfall by Dennis O'Neil

Batman: knightfall by Dennis O'Neil

Author:Dennis O'Neil [O'Neil, Dennis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553572605
Publisher: New York : Bantam Books, 1995, c1994.
Published: 1995-06-01T04:00:00+00:00


8

For the fifth time Shondra examined her prison. Eighteen by twenty-six paces. Stone walls. No windows. Low ceiling with heavy oak beams across it. A thick oak door with a large, ancient-looking lock, probably pickable if she knew anything about picking locks. Obviously the cellar of a house—originally a wine cellar, probably. It was furnished with a table, a chamber pot, a daybed, and a hospital bed. That's where Jack Drake was lying, asleep, the transparent plastic mask of the respirator over his face. The respirator itself was hooked to an electrical cord that snaked under the door. An identical cord led to the table and to the single lamp on it.

Jack wasn't faring well. The violence of the abduction had sent his system into shock. His skin was ashen, and despite everything Shondra had been able to do, he was breathing in shallow gasps. He had been in a coma since they'd boarded the aircraft somewhere outside Gotham. His condition was critical. He would die unless Shondra got the medical supplies she needed.

She sat on the edge of the bed next to her patient, checked the respirator, and tried to think.

What do I know? Long plane trip. Six, seven hours. If we went west, we're on the West Coast—California, Washington, Oregon. If we went east, we're out of the country. England, France. I'm betting on east.

When they had landed, Jack was already unconscious. Their kidnappers had taken him off the aircraft first, then blindfolded Shondra and led her to a vehicle. There were no city sounds, just a gentle sigh of breeze and, she was pretty sure, the chirping of birds. They had driven about thirty minutes.

And down steps, and here we are. Here we've been for hours. How much longer before we find out what's happening? What do these bastards want?

Sir Hemingford and his man, Charles, checked into an inn the postmistress had recommended—their only choice, really, since the next nearest hotel was forty miles away. A woman who looked remarkably like the postmistress except for thirty extra pounds, and was in fact her sister, showed them to a large, comfortable room, announced breakfast at six-thirty sharp, and bade them a good night. Sir Hemingford sat on the bed, leaned his canes against the wall, and began trembling.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred said, hurrying to his side.

"Not Bruce. Hemingford." Sir Hemingford waved him away. "It's nothing. Just tired. Be fine in a little while."

He lay down, and a moment later, his breathing slowed and deepened. Alfred—he couldn't think of himself as some ridiculous Charles—covered him with a quilt.

This had better not go on for long. He's a sick man. He can't take much more stress.

The sleek black Jaguar sedan stopped in front of Monkleigh Hall, and a beefy man in a blue blazer and black turtleneck got out. The door to the house opened, and Benedict Asp trotted down the stone walk.

"Ah, Colonel Vega," Asp cried. "Yuri! Welcome to Monkleigh Hall, my humble abode."

Asp was short and wiry. His white hair was thin in front and pulled into a floppy ponytail in back.



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