The wide-screen showed him everything he needed to see. His filly was the second to the last, all but loping while the rest of them went at a dead run - hell, her neck wasn't even fully extended. Her jockey, however, was doing his job, easing her out from the rail, giving her the choice of running around the far side of the pack or cutting through it when she was ready.
Manny knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to plow right through the other horses like a wrecking ball.
That was her way.
And sure enough, as they came off the distant straightaway, she started to get her fire on. Her head lowered, her neck elongated, and her stride began to stretch.
"Fuckin' A," Manny whispered. "You do it, girl."
As Glory penetrated the choked field, she became a streak of lightning cutting past the other runners, her burst of speed so powerful you had to know she did it on purpose: It wasn't enough to just beat them all, but she had to do it in the last half mile, blowing the saddles off the bastards at the last possible moment.
Manny laughed deep in his throat. She was so his kind of lady.
"Christ, Manello, look at her go."
Manny nodded without glancing at the guy who'd spoken in his ear because a game changer at the head of the pack was unfolding: The colt that was in the lead lost his momentum, falling back as his legs ran out of gas. In response, his jockey cropped him on, whipping his hindquarters - which had all the success of someone cursing at a car whose tank was on E. The colt in second place, a big chestnut with a bad attitude and a stride as long as a football field, took immediate advantage of the slowdown, his jockey letting that horse have all its head.
The pair went neck and neck for only a second before the chestnut took control of the race. But it wasn't going to be for long. Manny's girl had picked her moment to weave in between a knot of three horses and come up on his ass tighter than a bumper sticker.
Yup, Glory was in her element, ears flat against her head, teeth bared.
She was going to eat his f**king lunch. And it was impossible not to extrapolate to the first Saturday in May and the Kentucky Derby -
It all happened so fast.
Everything came to an end ... in the blink of an eye.
On a deliberate sideswipe, the colt slammed into Glory, the brutal impact sending her into the rail. His girl was big and strong, but she was no match for a body check like that, not when she was going forty miles an hour.
For a heartbeat, Manny was convinced she'd rally. In spite of the way she careened and scrambled, he expected her to find her footing and teach that unruly bastard a lesson in manners.
Except she went down. Right in front of the three horses she'd passed.
The carnage was immediate, horses veering widely to avoid the obstacle in their way, jockeys breaking their tight racing curls in hopes of staying on their mounts.
Everyone made it. Except Glory.
As the crowd gasped, Manny shot forward, popping over the box's confines and then vaulting over people and chairs and barricades until he came down to the track itself.
Over the rail. Onto the dirt.
He ran to her, his years of athletics carrying him at breakneck speed to the heartbreaking sight.
She was trying to get up. Bless her big, fierce heart, she was fighting to get up from the earth, her eyes trained on the pack as if she didn't give a shit that she was injured; she just wanted to catch up with the ones who had left her in the dust.
Tragically, her foreleg had other plans for her: As she struggled, that front right flopped around below the knee, and Manny didn't need his years as an orthopedic surgeon to know that she was in trouble.
Big trouble.
As he came up to her, her jockey was in tears. "Dr. Manello, I tried - oh, God ..."
Manny skidded in the dirt and lunged for the reins as the vets drove up and a screen was erected around the drama.
As the three men in uniforms approached her, her eyes began to go wild from pain and confusion. Manny did what he could to calm her down, allowing her to toss her head as much as she wanted while he stroked her neck. And she did ease up when they shot her with a tranquilizer.
At least the desperate limping stopped.
The head vet took one look at the leg and shook his head. Which in the racing world was the universal language for: She needs to be put down.
Manny rode up in the guy's face. "Don't even think about it. Stabilize the break and get her over to Tricounty right now. Clear?"
"She's never going to race again - this looks like a multi - "
"Get my f**king horse off this track and over to Tricounty - "
"She isn't worth it - "
Manny snap-grabbed the front of the vet's jacket, and hauled Mr. Easy Out over until they were nose-to-nose. "Do it. Now."
There was a moment of total incomprehension, like being manhandled was a new one to the little snot.
And just so the two of them were really clear, Manny growled, "I'm not going to lose her - but I'm more than willing to drop you. Right here. Right now."
The vet cringed away, as if he knew he was in danger of getting corked a good one. "Okay ... okay."
Manny was not about to lose his horse. Over the last twelve months, he'd mourned the only woman he'd ever cared about, questioned his sanity, and taken up drinking Scotch even though he'd always hated the shit.
If Glory bit it now ... he didn't really have much left in his life, did he.
Chapter Two
CALDWELL, NEW YORK
TRAINING CENTER, THE BROTHERHOOD'S
COMPOUND
Fucking ... Bic ... piece of shit ...
Vishous stood in the hall outside the Brotherhood's medical clinic with a hand-rolled between his lips and a thumb that was getting a terrific frickin' workout. No flame to speak of, though, no matter how many times he masturbated the lighter's little wheel.
Chic. Chic. Chic -
With utter disgust, he fired the POS into a trash bin and went for the lead-lined glove that covered his hand. Ripping the leather free, he stared at his glowing palm, flexing the fingers, arching it at the wrist.
The thing was part flamethrower, part nuclear bomb, capable of melting any metal, turning stone into glass, and making a kebab out of any plane, train, or automobile he pleased. It was also the reason he could make love to his shellan, and one of the two legacies his deity of a mother had given him.
And gee whiz, the second-sight bullshit was about as much fun as this hand-o'-death routine.
Bringing the deadly weapon up to his face, he put the end of the hand-rolled in the vicinity, but not too close or he'd immolate his nicotine-delivery system and have to futz around making another one. Which was not something he had patience for on a good day, and certainly not at a time like this -
Ah, lovely inhale.
Leaning against the wall, he planted his shitkickers on the linoleum and smoked. The coffin nail didn't do much for his case of the grims, but it gave him something to do that was better than the other option that had been running through his head for the last two hours. As he tugged his glove back in place, he wanted to take his "gift" and go arson on something, anything....
Was his twin sister honestly on the other side of this wall? Lying in a hospital bed ... paralyzed?
Jesus Christ ... to be three hundred years old and find out you had a sibling.
Nice move, moms. Real f**king nice.
To think he'd assumed he'd worked through all of his issues with his parents. Then again, only one of them was dead. If the Scribe Virgin would just go the way of the Bloodletter and kick it, maybe he'd manage to get on an even keel.
As things stood now, however, this latest Page Six exclusive, coupled with his Jane's wild-goose chase out into the human world alone, was making him ...
Yeah, no words on that one.
He took out his cell phone. Checked it. Put it back into the pocket of his leathers.
Goddamn it, this was so typical. Jane got her focus on something and that was that. Nothing else mattered.
Not that he wasn't exactly the same way, but at times like this, he'd appreciate some updates.
Fricking sun. Trapping him indoors. At least if he were with his shellan, there'd be no possibility of "the great" Manuel Manello oh-I-don't-think-so-ing things. V would simply knock the bastard out, throw the body in the Escalade, and drive those talented hands back here to operate on Payne.
In his mind, free will was a privilege, not a right.
When he got down to the tail end of the hand-rolled, he stabbed it out on the sole of his shitkicker and flicked the butt into the bin. He wanted a drink, badly - except not soda or water. Half a case of Grey Goose would just barely take the edge off, but with any luck he'd be assisting in the OR in short order and he needed to be sober.