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.
As they accelerated out of the curve, the road emerged onto a shoulder of a mountain, heading straight through a long, dark forest of pine trees, tunneling into shade. A sign flashed past: Chiusi della Verna 13km. Keeping watch on their rear, D’Agosta could see a whirlwind of dancing pine needles thrown up by their passage.
. . . And there came the Ducati, swinging around the curve. D’Agosta aimed but it was an impossible shot, two hundred yards back from a moving car. He sat, awaiting his chance.
With a piercing whine, the motorcycle came surging forward, screaming into fifth, then sixth gear, approaching at ever-increasing speed. The man had put away his gun, and both his gloved hands were on the handlebars, his head lowered.
“He’s going to try another run past us.”
“No doubt.” Pendergast stayed in the center of the road, accelerator floored.
But the car was no match for the Ducati. It came straight up behind them, accelerating all the way. The thing must top out at a hundred and eighty, D’Agosta thought. He knew it would try to turn and dart past them at the last moment, and there would be no way for Pendergast to guess if the rider would veer to the right or the left. He steadied his gun. He had vastly improved his shooting from many sessions at the 27th Precinct range, but with the vibration, the motion of the car, the motion of the bike—it was going to be tough. The bike was going at least twice their speed now, coming up on them fast . . .
D’Agosta squeezed off a shot, aiming low at the machine, and missed.
The car made a violent motion to the right as the bike came blasting past on the left—dual silencers flashing, rider leaning so far forward he seemed draped over the front fork—and was gone around the next curve.
“I lost that coin toss,” Pendergast said dryly.
They were now approaching the curve themselves, their speed beyond any possibility of controlling the turn. Pendergast braked hard while simultaneously jamming on the gas pedal and twisting the wheel left. The car spun violently around, twice, perhaps three times—D’Agosta was too shaken to be sure—before coming to rest on the very edge of the cliff.
They paused just a moment, the acrid smell of burned brake pads wafting over the car.
“Fiat, for all its troubles, still knows how to make a decent vehicle,” said Pendergast.
“Eurocar isn’t going to like this,” D’Agosta replied.
Pendergast jammed on the gas, and the car screeched back onto the road, accelerating into the next turn.
They tore through the fir forest once again before mounting another series of steep switchbacks, worse than the last. D’Agosta felt his stomach begin to rise uncomfortably. He allowed himself a single glance out over the edge. Far below—very, very far below—he could see the Casentino Valley, dotted with fields and villages. He looked quickly away.