Prologue
GUNFIRE rang out, dispersing the huddle of pedestrians congregating along the peripheries of the cordoned-off street. Blood splattered across the sidewalk, and the panicked movie executive gave a full-blooded shriek and clutched his left arm. The second bullet had found its mark, biting into the flesh just below his shoulder.
A split second before the handgun barked a third time, the executive dived to the ground like a stuntman might. The bullet smashed into the base of the Artigas Mausoleum, narrowly missing him, hitting the reinforced concrete with a sledgehammer thump, and earning another grizzly screech. His trembling hands moved to his head, forming a worthless shield, and he braced for impact, anticipating further gunfire, close to throwing up at the horrid prospect of a slug lodging in his spine. With his bloated face pressed to the ground, snot and sweat and tears clinging to it, his audible voice wailed a tune of grief and horror. “¡Ayuda! ¡Dios mío! ¡Oh Jesús!”
No matter how hard he prayed, the ground wouldn’t part and offer some sort of makeshift crevice large enough to conceal his overfed body. He was done for—target practice for a hotheaded nutcase wielding a nice-looking shooter with rosewood grips that really caught the eye.
His terrified voice brought an immediate chill down Dominic Graves’s back. Dominic, the film’s star, the heroic lead in the macho picture A Bullet for Silver Face, was one of those rooted to the spot, his limbs momentarily unable to function. His terror-struck eyes plumbed the chaotic scene as the film crew scattered, and it was the sight of pedestrians running for cover that motivated him to flee the area. Self-preservation was at the center of his thoughts as he backed away from the gunman, but dumb confusion delayed him. He simply didn’t know where to run.
“Él va a matar a todos!” someone yelled.
For an instant, Dominic’s sight was obstructed by the blundering camera operator. The rotund man charged past Dominic like a demented animal, blocking the actor’s intended path, and then he collided with the director of photography. The thumping sound of their bodies coming together was met with a muted groan, and the camera operator was immediately flung backward with stupendous force, landing on his ass.
Dominic caught sight of the boom mic hitting the ground and the operator scampering away. Then a hysterical man behind Dominic roared, “Run! Protect yourselves! Clear the set!”
The words leaped at Dominic like gigantic flames. Alas, the foolhardy actor rarely heeded warnings, and if he did wise up in time, chances were he would find himself running in the wrong direction and experiencing the full force of the explosion.
He knew he was doomed. He had always been doomed. He knew it the moment he inked his name on a contract with that serpentine agent of his, Bernie Finkelman. The man had made it his mission to steer Dominic into the path of danger. For decades, his incendiary words had caused harm and conflict, and the abhorrent way he behaved toward his clients was utterly incredible. He was a man who thrived on emptying an actor of his well-earned self-esteem. His joy in life was to bully, abuse, and undermine everyone he met. It was common knowledge that several fine thespians among his clients had made an unhappy exit from life too soon. One tumbled out of their fourteenth-floor apartment window, creating a messy splash; another used a shotgun to decorate his bedroom walls with his brains; a third died in his sleep, aided by a lethal stockpile of prescription pills. According to their files, it wasn’t a lack of acting work that had diminished their lust for life, as each was regularly employed. Sadly, the work was far from impressive, and only the nature of their death brought attention to their obscure stage names.
Evidently, Dominic’s demise would be even more remarkable. He was about to grab a headline or two in news outlets in the worst possible way: Lead actor cut off in his prime. Perhaps that was too optimistic. Mercifully extinguished for the greater good was more like it.
Dominic stared at the gunman, observing the crazed look in his maniac’s eyes, and he found himself sobbing fitfully. He had lost control of his bowels already, and he was convinced that some of the lead in that pistol was headed his way. Which of his organs would remain intact and which would suffer horribly was all he could think about. Death and suffering seemed imminent, and the thought of it brought him to the verge of blacking out.
“Don’t do it!”
The shouted plea momentarily kept the weapon from making another vicious sound, but soon, the finger closed on the trigger once more. The way that madman was brandishing his revolver, directing the little muzzle at the sniveling wretch on the ground, seemed quite expert. The fact that he had put a slug in the monument rather than the man suggested otherwise. Apparently, he was as inept with the gun as Dominic was with following directions.
But practice makes perfect, and there was plenty of ammunition in the guy’s pocket to make damn sure he got the task done.
When the shooter steadied his arm, it was clear he had no thoughts of doing anything sensible, like putting down his firearm. He was beyond that, beyond reason.
The killing was about to begin.
“Bernie bloody Finkelman,” whimpered Dominic.
Though he had only himself to blame, he preferred to put the blame squarely on his agent.
What the hell had compelled him to come to Uruguay to work on this disastrous mess of a picture? How had that venomous brute managed to charm him into throwing his life away for star billing on a two-bit movie nobody in his home country would ever bother to see?
Howling in despair and with tears cascading down his cheeks, he surged forward and then burst into a sprint.
True to form, he was headed in the wrong direction.
The shooter pulled the trigger again, and more than a dozen people screamed in dismay and sheer terror.
