Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(126)

“That would serve no purpose but to embroil us in endless legalities. Our best chance is the monastery itself. Come, Vincent: we haven’t a moment to lose.”




In twenty minutes, they were driving through the hills northeast of Florence, Pendergast at the wheel of their rented Fiat. Although D’Agosta had done more than his share of high-speed driving—and though Pendergast was clearly an expert—D’Agosta’s heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. The car was squealing around a series of hairpin curves, none of which had guardrails, at a terrifying clip. With each climbing turn, a rising sea of mountains swam into view before them: the great spine of the Apennines.

“I’ve been aware of surveillance for some time now,” Pendergast said. “Since we found Bullard’s body, and perhaps even before. At important moments—such as our trip to Cremona—I’ve managed to keep him at arm’s length. I haven’t yet confronted our shadower, hoping instead to learn who’s behind him. I did not think he would take such a direct approach as he did just now in the piazza. It means we are getting close to the truth. It also means increased danger, for us and for those with crucial information—such as Father Zenobi.”

The car squealed around another curve. D’Agosta braced himself against the lateral g-forces, sweat breaking out on his brow.

“I’ve seen you weasel information out of all kinds of people,” he said when it was safe to draw breath again. “But if you can convince a priest to reveal a thirty-year-old confession, I’ll swim all the way back to Southampton.”

Another long, screeching turn, the car hanging practically over the edge of a chasm.

This time, D’Agosta almost had to pry his fingers from the dashboard. “Do you think we might slow down?”

“I don’t think so.” And Pendergast nodded over his shoulder.

The car made another semicontrolled skid around a corner, and as D’Agosta fell against the passenger window he got a terrifying glimpse back down the mountainside. About three switchbacks below he could see a motorcycle, black and chrome, its angular chassis exposed and gleaming. It was approaching fast.

“There’s a motorcycle on our tail!” he said.

Pendergast nodded. “A Ducati Monster, S4R model, if I’m not mistaken. A four-valve twin, well over a hundred horsepower, light but very powerful.”

D’Agosta glanced back again. The rider was dressed in red leather, wearing a helmet with a smoked visor.

“The man from the plaza?” he asked.

“Either him or somebody allied with him.”

“He’s after us?”

“No. He’s after the priest.”

“We sure as hell can’t outrun him.”

“We can slow him down. Get out your weapon.”

“And do what?”

“I’ll leave that to your discretion.”

Now D’Agosta could hear the high-pitched whine of an engine in high gear, approaching from behind. They tore around another corner, scattering clouds of dust as the Fiat slewed, first right, then left. But already the motorcycle was biting into the same corner, leaning at an incredible angle, almost pegging the road. The rider straightened quickly and began closing the gap, preparing to pass.

“Hang on, Vincent.”

The car swerved into the left lane just as the motorcycle came alongside, then swerved back with a shriek of rubber, cutting him off. D’Agosta looked back and saw the motorcyclist dropping back, preparing to make another run past them.

“He’s coming on the right!” he shouted.

At the last minute, Pendergast jerked the car to the left again, correctly anticipating a feint; there was a screech of tires behind them as the motorcyclist dumped his rear brake and the bike rose in a reverse wheelie. The rider straightened, recovered. D’Agosta saw him reach into his jacket.

“He’s got a gun!”

D’Agosta planted himself against the passenger door and waited, his own weapon at the ready. He doubted that a man on a motorcycle, going eighty miles an hour on a winding mountain road, could fire with any accuracy—but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

With a burst of speed, the motorcycle closed again, the gun leveling, steadying. D’Agosta aimed his weapon.

“Wait until he fires,” Pendergast murmured.

There was a bang and a blue puff, instantly whisked away; a simultaneous thump; and the back window went abruptly opaque, a web of cracks running away from a perfect 9mm hole. An instant later Pendergast braked with terrifying suddenness, throwing D’Agosta forward against the seat belt, then swerved and accelerated again.

D’Agosta unbuckled the seat belt, jumped into the backseat, kicked away the sagging rear window, steadied his gun, and fired. The cyclist swerved and dropped back behind a curve, kicking his way down through the gears.

“The bastard—!”

The car slid into the next corner, fishtailing on loose gravel and sliding perilously close to the cliff edge. D’Agosta knelt in the rear seat, hardly daring to breathe, aiming through the ruined window, ready to fire as soon as the motorcycle reappeared. As they ripped around another hillside, he saw the Ducati flash into view about a hundred yards back.

Pendergast downshifted, the engine screaming with the effort, the rpm needle redlining. The car went into another long, sickening turn.