Little Drops of Blood (Thane & Moss Book 4) by Bill Knox

Author:Bill Knox [Knox, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zertex Crime
Published: 2024-05-28T00:00:00+00:00

By the time his father returned, there was no doubting Tom Thane’s switch of allegiance. The precious autographed programme clutched tight in one hand, the youngster cheered furiously as Niccolo’s Ferrari swept by, a bare thirty yards ahead of Millan’s blue-and-red.

The Cooper was a much farther distance behind now, the result of a sudden spin at Lodge Corner, the turn at the end of the main straight.

Through the loudspeaker system, the commentator’s voice was rapidly becoming near-hysterical as he mustered fresh superlatives to describe the duel. Out on the finishing line, the starter was now ready with the yellow Last Lap flag.

One by one, the slower cars in the race whined past. A lamed Lotus, all oil pressure vanished, glided into the pits with a dead engine.

Then round the faraway hairpin came the leaders, the commentator now nearly screaming the news that the positions had changed. Millan was ahead—only just, but ahead.

It had been the Ferrari’s time for trouble, baulked while lapping one of the “lame duck” rear guard, a momentary confusion which had allowed his rival to get ahead. It was Niccolo’s turn to slipstream, his car tucked hardly a length behind Millan as they stormed past the yellow flag.

The Cooper was still third, but it and the other cars were now forgotten in the drama of the battle for first place. The commentator had fallen silent, either exhausted or through wisdom.

Seconds passed and became a minute—then the two bellowing cars reappeared at the far end of the straight, coming down for the last time to where the chequered flag waited.

‘It’s still Millan,’ shouted someone. The Ascension Special was in front, the Ferrari still slipstreaming. But even as the news sank home, Niccolo made his move.

The Ferrari, with only five hundred yards to go, moved clear and clawed new peak engine revs. Niccolo, his face a tense mask, body crouched low over the steering wheel, seemed to physically force his car past the blue-and-red Ascension. The chequered flag fell as the Ferrari charged across the line, a length and a half in the lead.

One hundred thousand race fans went wild with delight. As Scots, the majority of them had been howling encouragement to Millan as the speed-duel raged before them—but as enthusiasts, they rose to the Italian’s last-minute gamble.

The two cars, slowing now, continued round the circuit. Niccolo was showman as much as sportsman. Deliberately idling the red Ferrari, he waved Millan alongside—and the roar of appreciation continued as, side by side, the two cars made a joint lap of honour.

At last, the circuit completed, they turned off the track to enter the paddock area, Niccolo beaming all over his fume-blackened face, one hand upraised in greeting.

Millan, sitting back a little in his car, acknowledgements fewer, emotions cloaked behind a somewhat strained air of good fellowship.

The cars halted and were surrounded by a minor wave of pressmen. Shutters clicked, a scattering of cine cameras whined, while the two men posed side by side.

A procession of race officials appeared on

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