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 fucking 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.
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?