“Yes, yes,” Suarez said dismissively, his own wellbeing now dominating his thoughts. They reached the outer doors, where a gaggle of armed militiamen awaited them. Machado selected five to accompany them to the helicopter, and ordered the rest to defend the building. With the uniformed men flanking them, the high-ranking trio set out across the grounds.
Callas heard echoing cracks of gunfire from the surrounding city, but his attention was fixed on another noise—the rising roar of rotors. The helicopter was approaching. He slowed slightly, falling a couple of steps back so that neither Suarez nor Machado could see what he took from a pocket.
A pair of earplugs. He quickly pushed the soft silicone into his ears, sound dulling as if he were underwater.
A spotlight stabbed down from the sky, darting over the trees before finding the helipad. Callas followed it up to its source. A Hind, descending for a landing. It passed through the lights illuminating the palace. The Venezuelan tricolor stood out proudly on its flank.
The eight men held back as the Hind dropped onto the pad. Its rear hatch slid open …
Six figures dressed in black leapt out.
Callas shut his eyes and turned away, clapping his hands over his ears. Even with the plugs in, he knew that what was about to come would be loud—
The new arrivals, faces concealed behind balaclavas, had timed everything perfectly. The first man to emerge had already pulled the pin from a stun grenade, the fuse burning away as he threw it. It exploded in midair a second later—at head height right in front of Suarez and his group. The blinding flash and earsplitting detonation hit the unprepared men as solidly as a physical blow, obliterating all senses.
The utter helplessness of their victims didn’t encourage mercy from the attackers. Two men opened fire with suppressed, laser-sighted M4 assault rifles, short, controlled bursts slicing down four of the militiamen. The other survived only by chance, having tripped in his dizzied state and fallen into some bushes.
Callas lowered his hands. Even prepared and protected, the stun grenade’s blast had still been painful. But he ignored his ringing ears, instead drawing his gun.
Suarez staggered, groping blindly. Machado had managed to bring an arm up in time to block the flash, but was still reeling. He opened his eyes, and saw the general standing contemptuously before him—
A single shot from Callas’s pistol hit him in the forehead, blowing out the back of his skull in a gruesome spray.
One of the men in black ran to Callas. Though he was holding an M4, the gleam of his holstered pistol instantly told the general who he was: Stikes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so,” Callas replied, pulling out the earplugs.
“Good. Get Suarez aboard. We’ll cover you.”
Callas grabbed Suarez by the collar and hustled him along.
Even though the mercenaries’ rifles were silenced, the grenade and Callas’s gunshot had attracted attention. More militia were running toward the helipad. The surviving member of the presidential escort pushed himself to his knees, feeling for his gun—
One of the mercs, a muscular colossus, grabbed him by both ankles and yanked him off the ground as easily as if he were a doll. The giant spun like a hammer-thrower, whirling the man around—and letting go. The Venezuelan flew screaming over the bushes, slamming down like a human bomb on the leading militiamen and knocking them flat.
Stikes’s other men used more lethal weapons. The flat thuds of suppressed fire mingled with screams as they picked off other targets.
Callas pushed Suarez to the Hind’s hatch. The president was starting to recover from the blast, and resisted. Callas jammed his pistol’s still-hot muzzle under his chin and forced him inside.
Shouts from above. Two militiamen ran along one of the palace’s rooftop balconies, carrying a heavy machine gun. Stikes fired at them, but his shots cracked against the thick stonework as they ducked. One man slammed the gun’s bipod down on the parapet, his companion already loading a belt of ammunition as they prepared to fire on the mercenaries—
A black-clad man fired first. Not a rifle, but an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The warhead streaked up at the roof, blasting the parapet and the men behind it to pieces. Chunks of masonry rained down on people running out of the building.
“Let’s go!” shouted Stikes. The group retreated to the helicopter. He fired another burst, sending a man flailing to the ground, and followed.
He jumped into the cabin, slamming the hatch. Gurov, piloting from the rearmost of the two bulbous cockpits, increased power. The Hind lurched into the air.
A piercing clang echoed through the cabin: a bullet hit. Stikes hurriedly strapped himself into the seat beside Suarez, Callas holding the president at gunpoint on the other side. The helicopter was heavily armored, but not invulnerable. He pulled off his balaclava and donned a headset. “Okay!” he yelled. “Hose them down!”
In the forward cockpit, the Hind’s gunner—an Armenian, Krikorian—grinned and pulled a trigger.
The helicopter’s nose cannon pivoted, unleashing a fearsome stream of fire from its four rapidly spinning barrels. Through the infrared display in the gunner’s helmet visor, the Miraflores palace was transformed almost into a video game, human beings a hot white against the grays and blacks of the grounds. All he had to do was look at each target, sweeping a cursor over them—and the human shapes exploded into glowing chunks as the blazing Gatling gun followed his movements. Bullets clonked off the cockpit canopy and hull, but the Hind’s armor shrugged off the 7.62mm rounds spitting from the militia’s AK-103s. The men firing at him were picked out by brighter flashes from their weapons; like a modern-day Gorgon, he killed them with a glance.
The Hind wheeled over the palace. Men on the upper balconies opened fire, only to be cut to pieces by more storms of gunfire. The helicopter kept rising, turning southeast and sweeping past skyscrapers.
“What’s our status?” Stikes said into the headset. “Did we take any damage?”
“No, we’re okay,” Gurov replied. “Did you get him?”
“We got him. How long until we land?”
“We can be there in—yah!” He recovered from his surprise and muttered in Russian before returning to English. “We have company. Another krokodil.”
Crocodile was the Russian nickname for the Hind. “Where?” Stikes demanded.
“Left side, ten o’clock.”
Stikes loosened his seat belt so he could look through the hatch window. Formation lights blinked in the darkness over Caracas—the other Hind.
Catching part of Stikes’s conversation with the pilot, Callas put on headphones. Still pressing his gun against his president’s chest, he peered through the window. “Do they know we have Suarez aboard?”
“Yes,” said Stikes calmly. “Otherwise they would have shot at us by now.”
Gurov’s voice came over the headsets. “They are on the radio … they are ordering us to fly ahead of them to a military base, where we will surrender and turn over Suarez.”
“Will we now?” Stikes said. He pulled his straps tight once more, giving his client a sly smile. “General, you’ve spent a lot on this helicopter. I think it’s time you got your money’s worth.”
Callas’s own smile was more predatory. “Yes. Do it.”
“Gurov, Krikorian,” the Englishman said into his headset. “Our friends out there—show them the quickest way to the ground.”
“Okay, roger!” replied Krikorian, excitement clear in his voice.
The Hind banked toward the Venezuelan gunship. Gurov spoke again. “They are back on the radio—this is our last warning. If we do not turn—”
“I don’t waste time with warnings,” Stikes snapped. “Krikorian, take them down. Now!”
Krikorian switched weapon modes, activating the Russian Igla missile mounted on one of the Hind’s wing pylons. The surface-to-air weapon had not been designed for an aerial launch, but the mercenary ground crew had wired it to the helicopter’s systems. A warbling tone in
his headphones told him that the improvised connection was working—the missile had found a heat source in the night sky.
The other Hind was almost directly ahead, closing fast.
He pulled the trigger.
The Igla shot from its launch tube, searing past the cockpit on a pencil of orange flame. The heavy, clumsy Venezuelan chopper had no time to dodge—
The missile hit the Hind practically head-on at supersonic speed. The explosion blasted apart the rear cockpit, instantly killing the pilot. Shrapnel ripped through the twin engines’ air intakes, shattering compressor blades and smashing turbines.
Power lost, the crippled Hind nevertheless hung in the air, supported by its main rotor as it continued to auto-rotate … then its great weight dragged it downward, spinning out of control to explode on top of an apartment building.
“Well?” said Stikes impatiently. “Did you get it?”
“We got it,” Krikorian reported with glee.
“Good. Gurov, get us back to the Clubhouse.” He leaned back with a satisfied expression as the Hind resumed its course to Valle Arriba.
TWENTY-TWO
Lying behind the bushes, Eddie watched the soldiers in the Clubhouse’s grounds with rising frustration and concern. The sounds of fighting from the city were growing in intensity, so Callas’s coup attempt was well under way—and seemed to be succeeding. He could see Rojas listening to messages over a walkie-talkie, and from his satisfied body language it appeared they were what he wanted to hear.
Another squawk and gabble of an incoming message. Rojas issued orders, some of his men hurrying around the mansion. Eddie ducked, but they went past, heading for the helipad. Rojas followed at a more relaxed pace, talking in Spanish over the radio. Eddie couldn’t be certain, but the voice on the other end sounded like Callas. The Venezuelan paused to check the breaking news on the TV by the pool, then muted the sound and carried on after the troops.
Eddie stayed low, watching the soldiers as they reached the helipad, awaiting an arrival. Callas himself, most likely, returning to his command post.
His guess was soon proved correct. The thunder of a helicopter overpowered the chatter of gunfire in the city below, the aircraft sweeping in over the golf course. A Hind—the one Eddie had seen at the base near Paititi, repainted in Venezuelan colors. So why had Callas needed it when he had control over the country’s own gunships?
The answer came once the helicopter settled on the pad. A man dressed in black combat gear emerged. Blond hair, a Jericho glinting at his waist. Stikes. Of course—Callas needed a gunship crew on whom he could rely 100 percent. Even men who thought they were committed to the cause might baulk at opening fire on their own people. So what had they been doing?
More mercenaries emerged, wearing balaclavas—then Callas himself, pushing another man at gunpoint.
Eddie recognized him. Tito Suarez.
“Jesus …,” he whispered, impressed despite himself at the sheer balls of the plan. They had kidnapped the president, probably right out of Miraflores. And by using Stikes and his mercenaries, Callas had eliminated the risk of any soldiers switching their allegiance when challenged face-to-face by their leader, as had happened with the capture of Hugo Chavez over a decade earlier.
Stikes donned his beret and spoke to his masked men, who grabbed the struggling Suarez and hauled him into the mansion. Rojas delivered a report to his superior. Callas nodded, then issued orders. Rojas saluted and relayed them over his radio, then turned and jogged back around the building. The soldiers followed him.
The two men guarding the corner of the house joined the group as it passed. Eddie’s heart jumped. They were redeploying—with Suarez’s capture, Callas probably wanted to secure a wider perimeter around the Clubhouse. This could be his chance to get inside …
He watched and waited. The main gates opened and a Tiuna drove out onto the street, followed by a squad of soldiers. One of the armored cars started up with a diesel roar: the six-wheeled V-300, carving up the grass as it made a wide turn and left the grounds.
Voices nearby. He looked around, seeing Callas and Stikes walking past the swimming pool. The general paused to lift the lid off a dish on a catering trolley near the TV and pop a piece of food into his mouth. “You want some?” he asked Stikes.
The mercenary shook his head. “Are you sure you want to set up roadblocks so far out from the Clubhouse? If they were nearer, it would be a tighter defense.”
“I want to cover the intersections,” Callas replied. “Besides, now that the coup is under way, I no longer care about upsetting the neighbors.” He replaced the lid, then continued with Stikes into the house.
Eddie checked his surroundings. The soldiers at the rear of the Clubhouse were still looking outward across the golf course, while those at its front were grouped around the vehicles near the main gate. There was a chance someone might glance back at the side of the house, but he would have to take the risk …
He broke from cover and ran across the lawn.
No shouts of alarm. He hadn’t been seen—yet. The single door was almost directly ahead, but he couldn’t just charge in—he had to make sure the room beyond was empty. At the gate, a soldier looked around—
And saw nothing. The headlights of the parked Tiunas had wrecked his night vision.
Eddie reached cover and pressed against the wall. He drew his knife and went to the door.
There was light inside, but only dim. He peered through the window. A darkened kitchen, the illumination coming through a half-open door at the far end. He tried the handle. It turned. He slipped inside.
Where would the prisoners be kept? A cellar, most likely. He crept to a closed door in the hope that it led to a lower floor, but instead found a lounge with French windows opening onto the poolside. “Arse,” Eddie muttered, realizing he would have to search the whole house. He went to the other door, seeing a hallway beyond.
He was about to go through when he heard boots clumping on the polished floor. He pulled back, watching through the crack as someone approached. One of the mercenaries …
Eddie felt a shock of recognition. Kevin Baine. He hadn’t seen the former SAS man for over nine years. Stikes had obviously remembered him, though—and recruited him.
Baine’s steps faded as he rounded a corner. Eddie entered the hall, heading in the opposite direction. An open door led back into the lounge, so he ignored it, checking that the passage around a corner was empty before proceeding.
A narrow staircase went upward. A closed door was at its foot. Cellar steps? He reached for the handle—
The door opened.
Eddie found himself face-to-face—or rather, face-to-chest—with a huge black-clad man. Another mercenary, a holstered pistol and a stun grenade on his combat webbing. He looked up. Surprised eyes stared down at him through the holes in the balaclava.
He drew back the knife, about to stab the merc in the stomach—
The eyes widened in recognition. “Little man!” said a delighted Russian voice.
Eddie arrested his strike, jerking the blade out of sight behind his back. He knew the voice, but couldn’t believe he was hearing it. “Maximov?”
The giant peeled off the balaclava to reveal a bearded, heavily scarred face, the worst injury a gnarled knot of tissue at the center of his forehead. “What are you doing here?” said Oleg Maximov, grinning at the Englishman.
It was two years since Eddie had last met the huge ex-Spetsnaz soldier, first as a foe, later an uneasy ally during the search for Excalibur. He had then been in the service of a Russian billionaire; that he was here now suggested he had looked farther afield for employment. “Didn’t Stikes tell you I was coming?” he said, desperately improvising.
Maximov looked puzzled. “No. When did you join company?”
He feigned nonchalance. “Oh, I’ve known Stikes for years—we were in the SAS together. I had sort of an open invitation to join 3S, but didn’t get the chance to take it up until recently. I’ve been
busy with the IHA—plus getting married, stuff like that.”
“You finally picked a day? Congratulations!” Maximov slammed a meaty hand down on Eddie’s shoulder. “To the pretty redhead, da? Hey, I saw her on TV. In the Sphinx. What is she doing now?”
So Maximov didn’t know that Nina was here? “Archaeological stuff. Kind of boring, which is why I decided to see if old Stikesy had anything exciting on the cards. Got to admit, regime change in Venezuela was more than I was expecting!”
“Me too,” said Maximov, nodding. “But job is job, money is money, hey?”
“I know what you mean. Oh,” he added, sensing an opportunity, “can you come with me to talk to President Suarez? That’s why Stikes wanted me here—I’ve, er, met him before, so I might be able to get him to tell me the information Callas needs.”
He knew that the more he elaborated on his story, the more danger there was of falling into a hole—but he also knew that Maximov had not been hired for his brainpower. The name-dropping seemed to have convinced the Russian that he was here legitimately. “Okay,” said the big man, nodding.
“So,” Eddie said, stepping back and ushering him into the hallway, “what’ve you been doing since the business with Jack Mitchell?”
“Mitchell?” Maximov growled as he headed back the way Eddie had come. “That little shit, I should have crushed him. What happen to him, anyway?”
“He’s dead. Very, very dead. Stabbed, electrocuted, drowned, in that order.”
“Ha! Good. I work a lot in Africa recently. Always little wars, da?”
“Do you know Strutter?” Eddie asked, gambling that the small world of the mercenary might provide common ground—and a way to keep Maximov distracted.
“Strutter, yeah! A zhópa, but I meet Stikes through him, so not all bad.” They passed the kitchen, the Russian going to another door. “Okay, here.”
Eddie decided not to feel too annoyed that he would have found the stairs to the cellar immediately if he had turned right instead of left to begin with, instead following Maximov down into the mansion’s bowels. His new companion could have his uses, even if only as a human shield. He turned the knife in his hand.