The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 52

CHAPTER 52

S IENA , I TALY

S TEFANO HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF WHERE HE COULD WATCH BOTH the race and the Palazzo Tempi. The window was again open, but no one had appeared within the dark rectangle.

All quiet there.

But not on the track.

Ten horses started. Now only four remained with riders. Jockeys had been vaulted off their mounts, a couple seriously injured and carried off the track. Daniele had arranged for him to view the race from one of the other palazzos that ringed the campo, this one owned by a wealthy Tortoise. His was just down from the starting line, on the second floor, with a good view of the track over the crowd but not the best angle for the open window in the Palazzo Tempi. Several others were there with him, all crowded before the open windows. The American, Malone, was riding the Golden Oak’s horse, and was still in the race. He’d not been able to spot Cardinal Richter but he had located Ascolani among the Porcupines in their designated bleachers.

The horses rounded the final turn and passed beneath him, headed back toward the finish line, ready for the third and final lap.

He’d watched as Malone had been confronted by both the Panthers and Tortoises, fending off one, then the other had fallen off his horse. The open window in the Palazzo Tempi continued to intrigue him. Thankfully, he had two of Daniele’s men staked out on the front door, keeping an eye on the comings and goings.

Instantly available by phone.

C OTTON COULD NOT GET THE LOOK FROM THE T ORTOISE JOCKEY’S face out of his mind, especially the eyes. Their gazes had met for only an instant, but long enough for him to clearly see not the determination that had been there before, but fear. Pain. Surprise. Then the jockey had collapsed off the horse. The man’s sudden reaction, jerking sharply upward, his spine arched inward, was odd for someone riding a horse, as you always tried to stay forward and low. But he could not focus on that. He was in the final lap and the Porcupine was within reach. He spurred Leone forward and closed the gap. Time was running out. The last lap would take less than thirty seconds to complete.

He had to make a move.

Another animal lost its footing and slammed into the track, tossing its rider aside. The horse whelped in pain and Cotton maneuvered Leone around the chaos. Only four horses were left, one of which had no rider. But the pilotless animal was slowing, dropping back, leaving only three to finish the race. They were now in a straightaway, heading away from the starting line, toward the first turn. Suddenly, Leone let out a low whelp and slowed. Cotton felt the horse favoring her front right leg.

Something was wrong.

They kept slowing to a bumpy trot.

The other two horses with riders, including the Porcupine, pulled away. He had to do something. Fast. He stole a quick glance behind and spotted the Giraffe’s riderless horse about ten feet behind. He angled Leone so they were close to the animal as it passed. Leone was hurt. No question.

And the Porcupine was getting away.

“Come on, Leone. We have to do this.”

The horse seemed to respond and mustered a last burst of energy that caused another whelp of pain. The riderless horse came parallel.

Now.

He leaped from Leone, grabbing the mane of the other horse, searching for the reins. The crowd let out a collective sound of shock. His body slid off the sweaty animal and his feet brushed the track, boots skidding along. He clung to the mane, then found the reins and pulled himself up, settling on the new mount.

The nostrils blew out a burst of exhale with excitement.

Cheering began at his success.

Leone, seemingly sensing her race was over, had fallen back. The horse beneath him seemed nervous, unsure about the new rider.

But they had no time to get acquainted.

“Let’s go,” he told the animal in Italian.

And he pressed his legs together, signaling for speed.

T HOMAS HAD PATIENTLY WAITED AS THE RACE HAD TURNED PROGRESSIVELY chaotic. Several horses had gone down, along with their riders. In other cases only the riders had been eliminated, one of whom had been from his errant gunshot. Malone was now right beneath him, but his horse was slowing, as if hurt. The angle for the shot was not right, as he was too far back from the open window to make any meaningful adjustment. To fire now would require him to lift the weapon from the table and approach closer to the window.

But that could risk detection.

And that was the one thing Ascolani had been emphatic about.

Draw no attention.

He raised his head and watched as Malone leaped from one horse to another. Now the American was spurring his mount forward, gaining ground on the remaining two horses. Only a matter of seconds before they all found the second turn and the best angle for the shot returned. He pressed his eye to the rifle scope and waited. He knew from the first two laps that there would be about five seconds when the horses would be in a short straightaway, headed for the third turn.

His opportunity.

C OTTON SWUNG TO THE OUTSIDE, THEN BACK INSIDE . T HE HORSE’S giant strides swallowed up the track. They were making up time, closing the gap. He took the second turn faster than he should, taking advantage of the horses slowing around the sharp loop. They came out of the turn and he found himself clumped with the other two riders, the Porcupine one horse over.

No way to get to him. No way to stop him from winning. He had no choice. Only one alternative remained.

Just win the damn race.

T HOMAS FIRED.

And missed.

He readjusted and fired again.

Another miss.

Both rounds had found the dirt in the track. Malone was zigzagging. Lots of unpredictable movement. He’d tried to anticipate where next, but failed. The horses were now around the third turn, again on the far side of the campo, out of reach. No more good opportunities would come for another try. Ascolani would not be pleased. But this entire endeavor had been questionable from the start.

Be smart.

He removed the rifle from the tabletop and broke the weapon down, replacing it back into the case. He zipped the top shut and left it on the bed, per Ascolani’s instructions.

He then closed and locked the window.

Time to leave.

C OTTON’S EYES PRICKED FORWARD TO THE TRACK AHEAD, WHICH was pitted with hoof marks from the first two passes. He was hoping he had an advantage since this horse had been running jockey-less for at least a lap, maybe more. Which might prove helpful for some added stamina. He kicked his heels into the horse, spurring the animal on. He also pushed the reins forward, which sent a signal to go faster. He had no connection with this animal, unlike Leone, but he leaned in close and tried some vocal encouragement.

“Come on. Run. Fast. Run,” he said in Italian, close to the ears, running one hand up and down the neck, the other clinging to the reins.

The horse responded, legs pounding the ground, and their speed increased. They rounded the final turn and thundered into the home stretch. About fifty yards to go. It was still not possible to take the Porcupine out. The only way to deliver on what he’d promised was to win the race outright. He and the other two horses were clumped together, moving in unison. He was on the inside, riding near the rails that separated the track from the crowd. The horse’s powerful legs swept over the track, each step as sure-footed as the one before. Hysteria swept the crowd. Arms were raised, voices shouting, all in unison.

Thirty yards.

The Porcupine was to his left and just a few feet ahead, another horse behind him. Cotton kept pumping his thighs into his mount, urging more speed.

They swept past the Porcupine, into the lead.

He tightened his grip on the reins.

Ten yards.

The noise was deafening.

Five yards.

He leaned further forward and urged the horse to its limits.

Two yards.

Victory.