Private Dublin

Chapter 1

Thunderous applause filled the auditorium, and the filmmakers beamed as though the claps and cheers were dollar bills. I glanced at Justine, who was applauding politely. Even in a theater full of stars, she shone the brightest. Her wavy brown hair fell against the crimson cocktail dress she’d chosen for the premiere. It had a daring slit that showed off her long, tanned legs, and I could hardly take my eyes off her.

“What did you think?” she asked.

“Pretty good,” I replied. “Alan will do well from it.”

Alan Bloom was a former client, now friend, who was one of four producers of the movie we’d just watched. He was standing near the screen with the director, cast, studio executives and other producers. A Star Wars movie is always a big deal, and this, the first in a new trilogy, looked set to dominate the summer box office. The clamor of the crowd was as much a celebration of Hollywood’s continued ability to captivate global audiences as it was a response to the movie.

After a standing ovation, people began filing out of Los Angeles’s famous Samuel Goldwyn Theater, and Justine and I followed our neighbors into the aisle. Alan caught up to us as we joined the crowd thronging through the nearest exit. He looked wired. Like me, he was in a tuxedo, but he wore his better. Mine felt constrictive, ill suited to my line of work. Alan’s fitted like a second skin. Combined with his perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair, tan and dazzling smile, it gave him the appearance of a Bel Air James Bond, buzzing after the completion of a successful mission.

“Jack... Justine!” he called over the heads of the people around us. “What did you think?”

“You’ve got a great movie,” I replied. “Congratulations.”

“I loved it,” Justine said. “I think it’s going to be a hit.”

Alan’s smile broadened. “Thanks. It’s always such a relief when a movie plays well.”

The crowd swept us through the double doors into the marble lobby of the Academy, more precisely the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. It’s the headquarters of the organization that runs the Academy Awards and, in many ways, represents the seat of creative power in Hollywood.

The party was in full swing as we entered. Servers distributed drinks and canapes and the room was packed with chattering people abuzz with the energy of success. Deals were being made, careers enhanced, networks strengthened. Alan settled beside me and Justine as we sheltered beside a column.

“These things are always so hectic,” he remarked, grabbing a glass of champagne from an agile server. “You want one?”

Justine shook her head. “The atmosphere is intoxicating enough.”

“I’m driving,” I said.

He nodded and took a gulp. “I need something to settle the nerves.”

“Don’t feel you have to babysit us,” Justine told him. “If you need to work the room, go hustle.”

Alan scoffed. “If it didn’t look bad, I’d be on my way home to tuck myself up with a good book.”

“A producer who reads,” I said with a chuckle.

“That’s a cheap shot,” he replied with feigned hurt. “You guys are my cover. If anyone tries to cut in, just start talking about per diems, catering budgets, or something equally dull. Save me from schmoozing.”

Justine and I grinned at Alan, but my smile fell away as soon as I registered a frighteningly familiar sound. The violent staccato of machine gunfire.

I heard screams and peered round the column to see a charge begin. People near the steel-and-glass entrance to the Academy pressed deeper into the lobby, their faces reflecting horror and panic, as a man in a ski mask stalked into the building after them. Behind him I could see a couple of fallen security guards. The paparazzi and fans who’d gathered around the red carpet had dispersed, and people were yelling frantically. I caught cries of “cops,” and “ambulance.”

“We need to move,” I said, an instant before the masked gunman sprayed the room with bullets. “Now!”

The press of people turned into a panicked stampede, and screams joined a chorus of horrified cries as most people tried to flee back into the auditorium. Others attempted to escape through fire exits or doors to the service sections of the building. Some were gunned down as they ran.

I pushed Justine and Alan toward the auditorium, and as we moved, I locked eyes with the gunman. He hesitated for a moment before letting off a volley of bullets in my direction. I ducked into the short tunnel that led to the theater as the walls around me puckered and splintered under the impact of so many bullets.

The shooter was using some kind of machine pistol. I knew if he got into the auditorium there would be an absolute bloodbath, so I crouched against the wall by the doors to the lobby and ignored my thundering heartbeat. Behind me, people were pressing through the short tunnel into the theater.

Justine glanced back, but I gestured for her to follow the crowd to safety. As the shooter’s shadow fell into the mouth of the tunnel, I rose, rounded the corner, and grabbed his weapon. A blast of gunfire erupted, spitting flame and lead from the muzzle. The bullets thudded into the wall and ceiling, raining plaster and dust onto us. I drove my shoulder into the shooter’s chest, and as he collided with the wall, I caught him with a right hook that dazed him. I grabbed the gun and wrenched it free, but as I was about to turn it on him, I heard a sound that sickened me.

“Jack,” Justine said, anguish and pain palpable in her trembling voice.

I glanced over my shoulder to see her in the doorway to the auditorium. Alan was trying to support her as she clutched her stomach. A spreading bloodstain was turning her dress a deeper shade of red. She fell to her knees and looked at me pleadingly.

“Jack,” she said, “I’m sorry...”

I staggered toward her and barely registered the shooter push past me and run for the exit.

“Save the planet!” he yelled as he sprinted into the street. “Two degrees is extinction...”

The words jolted me to my senses and, for a split second, I thought about giving chase, but Justine needed me. I ran to her side and handed Alan the pistol.

“Hold this in case he comes back,” I said as I supported Justine.

“I’ll call 911.” Alan took his phone from his pocket and stepped away to dial.

I registered a few other people around us using their phones, speaking hurriedly to emergency operators, friends or family. I stroked Justine’s face. “Stay with me, Justine. Stay with me.”

“I’m cold, Jack,” she replied weakly. “I’m so cold.”

“Someone, help!” I yelled, as her strength gave out and her eyes rolled back in her head.