Kelly Link, Holly Black, Sarah Rees Brennan, and Robin Wasserman read the earliest pages of this book when I still thought Diana should have a pet leopard. Daniel José Older (who fielded long phone calls), Robyn Kali Bacon (who put up with late-night texts), Rachael Martin (who did both), Gamynne Guillote (prota adelfis), and Morgan Fahey (trusted reader #1) helped me find my footing with Alia and Jason, and helped me navigate the story as a whole.
Thanks also to Marie “Gotham Needs Me” Lu, Amie Kaufman, Kayte Ghaffar, Susan Dennard, Gwenda Bond, the superhumanly adorable Flash Martin, and, of course, my mom, who has put up with my Wonder Woman obsession lo these many years. Speaking of which, I’m grateful to the Superfriends for introducing me to Diana over soggy Saturday-morning cereal, and to Lynda Carter for cementing my love for Wondy forever.
Many books, articles, and essays influenced the Warbringer world, including The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women Across the Ancient World by Adrienne Mayor; Choruses of Young Women in Ancient Greece: Their Morphology, Religious Role and Social Functions by Claude Calame; On the Origins of War: And the Preservation of Peace by Donald Kagan; “Platanistas, the Course and Carneus: Their Places in the Topography of Sparta” by G. D. R. Sanders; The Secret History of Wonder Woman by Jill Lepore; A Golden Thread: An Unofficial Critical History of Wonder Woman by Philip Sandifer; Wonder Woman Unbound: The Curious History of the World’s Most Famous Heroine by Tim Hanley; and, of course, the work of the inimitable Gail Simone.
And finally, to the Amazons of the world, to every woman or girl who fights for peace and on behalf of one another, thank you for inspiring me.
LEIGH BARDUGO is the #1 New York Times bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of Six of Crows, Crooked Kingdom, and the Shadow and Bone Trilogy. She was born in Jerusalem, grew up in Los Angeles, and graduated from Yale University. She fell under Wonder Woman’s spell early and spent a good chunk of her childhood making construction-paper bracelets and spinning herself dizzy in her driveway. These days, she lives and writes in Hollywood, where she can occasionally be heard singing with her band.
leighbardugo.com
@LBardugo
As Bruce rounded another bend, the police sirens suddenly turned deafening, and a mass of red and blue lights flashed against the buildings near the end of the street. Cement barricades and yellow police tape completely blocked the intersection. Fire engines and black SWAT trucks clustered together, with the silhouettes of officers running back and forth in front of the headlights.
Inside his car, the electronic voice came on again, followed by a transparent map overlaid against his windshield. “Heavy police activity ahead. Alternate route suggested.”
A sense of dread filled his chest.
Bruce flicked away the map and pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the barricade—right as the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire rang out in the night air.
He remembered the sound all too well. The memory of his parents’ deaths sent a wave of dizziness through him. Another robbery. A murder. That’s what all this is.
Then he shook his head. No, that can’t be right. There were far too many cops here for a simple robbery.
“Step out of your vehicle, and put your hands in the air!” a police officer shouted through a megaphone, her voice echoing along the block. Bruce’s head jerked toward her. For an instant, he thought her command was directed at him, but then he saw that her back was turned, her attention fixed on the corner of a building. “We have you surrounded, Nightwalker! This is your final warning!”
Another officer came running over to Bruce’s car. He whirled an arm exaggeratedly for Bruce to turn his car around. His voice harsh with panic, he warned, “Turn back now. It’s not safe!”
Before Bruce could reply, a blinding fireball exploded behind the officer. The street rocked.
Even from inside his car, Bruce felt the heat of the blast. Every window in the building burst simultaneously, a million shards of glass raining down on the pavement below. The police ducked in unison, their arms shielding their heads. Fragments of glass flew toward Bruce’s car, dinging like hail against his windshield.
From inside the blockade, a white car veered around the corner at top speed. Bruce saw immediately what the car was aiming for—a slim gap between the police barricades, where a SWAT team truck had just pulled through.
“I said, get out of here!” the officer shouted at Bruce. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the man’s face. “That’s an order!”
Bruce heard the scream of the getaway car’s tires against the asphalt as it raced toward the gap. He’d been in his father’s garage a thousand times, helping him tinker with an endless number of engines from the best cars in the world. At WayneTech, Bruce had watched in fascination as tests were conducted on custom engines, conceptual jets, stealth tech, new vehicles of every kind.
And so he knew: whatever was installed under that hood was faster than anything the GCPD could hope to have.
They’ll never catch him.
But I can.
His Aston Martin was probably the only vehicle here that could overtake the criminal’s, the only one powerful enough to chase it down. Bruce’s eyes followed the path the car would likely take, his gaze settling on a sign at the end of the street that pointed toward the freeway.
I can get him.
The white getaway vehicle shot straight through the gap in the barricade, clipping two police cars as it went.
No, not this time. Bruce slammed his gas pedal.
The Aston Martin’s engine let out a deafening roar and sped forward. The officer who’d shouted at him stumbled back. In the rearview mirror, Bruce saw him scramble to his feet and wave the other officers’ cars forward, both his arms held up high.
“Hold your fire!” Bruce could hear him yelling. “Civilian in proximity—hold your fire!”
Bruce narrowed his eyes and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. Few things in his life seemed within his control right now—but this? This moment was his.
The getaway car made a sharp turn at the first intersection, and Bruce sped behind it a few seconds later. The street zigzagged, then turned in a wide arc as it led toward the freeway—and the Nightwalker took the on-ramp, leaving a trail of exhaust and two black skid marks on the road.
Bruce raced forward in close pursuit; his car mapped the ground instantly, swerving in a perfect curve to follow the ramp onto the freeway. He tapped twice on the windshield right over where the Nightwalker’s white vehicle was.
“Follow him,” Bruce commanded.