Chapter 8 - The Qualifiers
Down on the track, the roar of the crowd was a deafening wall of sound.
*“THE HORSES ARE AT THE POST!”* the track announcer's voice boomed over the public address system.
Rain drummed hard against Kira’s helmet. Mud flecked her goggles as she guided Storm into the tight confines of Gate 4. The stallion was coiled like a steel spring beneath her, his muscles vibrating with terrifying potential.
Two gates down, in Gate 6, sat Monica Voss aboard *Golden Emperor*.
Monica looked over at Kira. Her face was pale, her hands shaking slightly against the reins. She had clearly heard whispers that something had gone wrong in the barn—that her father’s enforcer had failed.
“You’re going down, Dawson!” Monica screamed through the wind and rain.
Kira didn't even turn her head. She locked her eyes forward, focusing on the muddy stretch of track that curved into infinity. She leaned low over Storm’s neck, whispering into his twitching black ear.
“Show them who you are, boy,” Kira murmured. “Show them what freedom looks like.”
*CLANG!*
The gates slammed open with a violent metallic roar.
Ten thousand pounds of horseflesh erupted onto the sodden track in an explosion of mud and thunder.
*“AND THEY’RE OFF IN THE BELMONT PRELUDE!”*
Monica Voss broke brilliantly on *Golden Emperor*, instantly seizing the rail and shooting to the front, followed closely by two pacesetters.
Storm, however, experienced a disastrous start. The horse in Gate 3 stumbled hard out of the gate, veering violently to the right and slamming directly into Storm’s shoulder. The impact threw Storm off balance, his hooves slipping in the deep, treacherous mud.
A collective gasp echoed across the grandstand.
Kira’s heart leaped into her throat. Her right foot was nearly torn from the stirrup, the phantom memory of her past accident screaming in her mind. But this time, her body was healed. Her core locked down like an anchor. With superhuman balance and precision, Kira shifted her center of gravity, pulled up on the left rein, and kept the stallion on his feet.
They had lost four full lengths. They were dead last entering the first turn.
“Steady, boy!” Kira called out, feeling Storm’s initial surge of blind panic. “I’ve got you! Settle!”
Storm responded to the absolute confidence in her hands. He dropped his head, found his rhythm, and began to lengthen his stride.
Up ahead, Monica was flying, setting a blistering, unsustainable pace through the driving rain. The fractions were suicidal—twenty-two seconds for the first quarter-mile. Monica was trying to run the entire field into exhaustion, convinced her lead was insurmountable.
Passing the half-mile pole, Kira made her move.
She didn't take the outside path where the mud was thickest and the distance was longest. Instead, she guided Storm straight through the middle of the pack, threading the needle between two tiring thoroughbreds with razor-thin clearance.
*“LOOK AT STORM MOVE!”* the announcer screamed into the microphone, his voice cracking with disbelief. *“KIRA DAWSON IS WEAVING THROUGH TRAFFIC LIKE A SURGEON! STORM HAS PASSED FOUR HORSES IN THE SPAN OF A FURLONG!”*
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With every stride, Storm gained ground. His black coat was completely caked in mud, but his lungs expanded with terrifying power, devouring the track. By the time they hit the far turn, only one horse remained ahead of them: Monica Voss on *Golden Emperor*.
***
