Dating back to the nineteenth century, Leopardstown Racecourse is built around a large grandstand and has capacity for up to 10,000 fans. Judging by the crowds thronging toward the complex, today would be a test of the upper limit. With more than 200 acres of course and training facilities, Leopardstown is a respected course that hosts some significant Irish racing fixtures.
We were waved into a space at the very edge of the parking lot by a marshal in a high-visibility vest.
“Thanks,” I said to Andi as she cut the engine.
“No problem,” she replied.
“I wonder what they do when it rains,” I commented as we traipsed through the long grass between rows of cars.
It was a fine day and the ground was firm, but in fouler weather, I could imagine a quagmire that might trap people and their vehicles.
“Bring wellies,” Andi said with a sideways grin. “And prepare to get muddy.”
We collected day passes Andi had bought online, and I slipped a lanyard over my head, so the pass rested against my chest like a medal. We joined a gaggle of excited racegoers to have our passes checked and were waved through security.
The grandstand was alive with anticipation. Most people were here for a fun day out, and even though it was almost two hours until the first race, some had already started drinking. There were a few professional gamblers who gathered in small, serious groups and checked their phones obsessively, looking at prices, running reports and rumors about horses’ form.
Our passes got us general admission and we found a spot in the main stand, not far from the winners’ enclosure, which lay to the east of the grandstand and was surrounded by hospitality and office blocks.
I’d never before taken much interest in horse racing, but I could sense the anticipation and excitement building. Andi and I walked the complex in the run-up to the first race, checking out the hospitality venues, which were all packed. We couldn’t see why Noah Kearney had sent us here. Finally, feeling somewhat frustrated, we returned to the main grandstand just in time for the first race.
I couldn’t help but be swept up in the buzz and thrill as the horses were settled for the start and calm descended over the course for a moment before the starter sent them off, which sparked roars and cheers throughout the huge crowd. There were screens dotted around the grandstand and a large one positioned almost opposite the crowded venue, and Andi and I watched the magnificent, highly trained thoroughbreds speed around the course, spurred on by some of the best jockeys in the world. The sport of kings had the spectators up on their feet, hands in the air, cheering, jeering and venting their excitement or disappointment, and Andi and I joined them, standing for a better view of the horses thundering around the last bend, jostling for the lead. One, called Hunter’s Lodge, was pulling away from the pack, and quickly established his dominance. The excitable commentator broadcasting over the public address system was yelling the horse’s name, and judging by the crowd’s reaction it must have been popular with the punters because a thunderous roar went up as its lead lengthened. The jockey pushed the animal to give its all. The cheering reached a crescendo as Hunter’s Lodge crossed the finishing line comfortably in first place. This took place directly opposite the grandstand and the crowd there was the thickest and most vocal. As the horses slowed to a trot, the crowd dispersed and with the clamor dying down, I heard the delighted chatter of people all around us who’d backed the winner.
“We should check out the winners’ enclosure,” I shouted to Andi above the furor.
“Kearney said the second race,” she replied.
“I know, but it won’t hurt to be there watching the comings and goings in advance.”
Andi nodded, and we joined the flow of people leaving the stand to collect their winnings or buy commiseration drinks. We worked our way through the grandstand, following the signs for the winners’ enclosure.
We stepped outside and tracked a group of men in tailored suits who showed their passes to a steward at a gate. Beyond it was a paddock, parade ring and a small seating area.
“Passes,” the steward asked us as he waved the group of men through.
“Is this part of the general ticket?” I asked, accentuating my American drawl.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” the steward replied. “This is the winners’ enclosure, for owners, their guests and select passholders. You’re welcome to use the main grandstand and any of the facilities in that part of the course.”
“Jack.” Andi nudged me sharply, and I immediately saw why.
Across the enclosure I saw a man step out of a building. He was followed by an entourage of bodyguards, who were scanning their surroundings. They carried themselves with the posture and bearing of military men and all of them knew how to move around their principal to maximize the effectiveness of their close protection. One of the bodyguards recognized me the moment we locked eyes across the enclosure. I understood then why Noah Kearney had sent us to this place.
This was the shooter from Los Angeles, the man who’d put Justine, Salvatore Mattera and eighteen others in hospital and five innocent victims in the ground. Here was the man I’d pursued across the Atlantic to Ireland.
Chapter 31
He bolted, turning back the way he’d come and darting through the doorway, almost knocking over two ladies in elegant dresses. I didn’t hesitate but pushed past the steward, who yelled at me to stop. Ignoring him, I jumped the waist-high gate and picked up speed as I ducked under the paddock’s metal rail and sprinted across the enclosure. The steward yelled at me again, and when I looked right, I saw the horses from the first race being led down from the finish, with a celebratory procession of people surrounding them. They were still some distance away and didn’t impede my progress as I sprinted across the grass and ducked under the railing on the other side.
The other three suited men who’d been with the shooter still surrounded their principal and stood ready, but I wasn’t interested in their man, or not at least at that moment, so I didn’t engage with them as I ran toward the building.
I barged past a couple coming out, ignored yells from the man, and shot along a corridor lined with hospitality suites toward a junction at the end. The startled glances of a group of women told me my target had gone right, and sure enough, when I turned a corner, I saw the shooter up ahead sprinting toward an exit about thirty feet away. He glanced back and the sight of me must have spurred him on, because he picked up his pace. I was equally motivated by the prospect of catching him, and my lungs heaved as my legs fired like pistons and propelled me toward him.
“Stop!” I commanded. “Stop that man!”
A long interior window offered a view of a lavish bar, and I caught bemused looks from the people inside, most of whom were busy enjoying the sponsor’s champagne. A few called out words of encouragement to me and sounded quite drunk already.
The shooter burst through the exit and slammed it shut behind him. I barreled out moments later and felt strong hands on my shoulders. I was pushed forward and lost my balance, hitting the ground hard. I rolled onto my back and saw he’d waited beside the door to surprise me with a sneak attack.
I knew he’d be on me instantly and leaped to my feet to face him. He came at me as I was rising, with a roundhouse kick aimed at my head. I blocked it and stood into him, so my shoulder caught the underside of his knee, sending him toppling backward.
I threw a punch and landed a blow on his cheek. He staggered back, dazed, before turning tail and running away across a paved garden area toward a stable block.