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 tricolour stood out proudly on its flank.
The eight men held back as the Hind dropped on to 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 mid-air 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 towards 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 round – 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