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 towards 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 downwards, 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.
22
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 round 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 colours. 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 one hundred per cent. 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 recognised 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 round 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 on to the street, followed by a squad of soldiers. One of the armoured 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 round, 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 defence.’
‘I want to cover the intersections,’ Callas replied. ‘Besides, now that the coup is under way, I no longer care about upsetting the neighbours.’ 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 outwards across
