Empire of Gold

24


Eddie stomped on the brake. The V-100 screeched to a stop, tossing its occupants forward – and sending the mangled Tiuna sliding off its roof.

Rojas had just enough time to scream before the 4×4 dragged him away with it, breaking his back against the parapet – and slicing off his outstretched arm. The vehicle crashed down in front of the APC, the severed limb landing with a thump before Suarez. The President hesitated, then plucked the gun from its dead fingers.

‘Okay, he’s disarmed,’ said Eddie, restarting the Commando and flattening what remained of the Tiuna and its passengers. ‘Nina, where’s that tank?’

She searched for the V-300. ‘Behind us!’ The six-wheeled armoured car was thundering up the street in pursuit.

Eddie threw the APC into a turn on to another road as the V-300 fired, the shell shrieking past and blasting a crater out of the tarmac. Suarez spoke urgently, Macy translating for Eddie. ‘He says to take the next left – we’ve got to cross a bridge.’

Eddie swung the V-100 left at the next junction, the V-300 briefly coming back into view. ‘He’s still following,’ Nina warned.

‘Ask him which way once we’re over this bridge,’ said Eddie, getting directions in return. ‘Okay, we – bollocks!’ The bridge ahead was blocked, troops manning barriers across it. A small crowd faced them, but the soldiers’ weapons deterred them from advancing.

Mac looked into the parapet. ‘We’ve lost the fifty.’

‘Just have to go straight through, then.’ He examined the controls. ‘Does this thing have a horn?’

‘I think they know we’re coming,’ said Mac. The crowd hurriedly parted as the V-100 charged at them. Bottles and bricks thudded off its armoured hide. ‘Hrmm. Seems we’re not popular.’

‘This ought to change their minds.’ Eddie aimed the APC directly at the barricade. The soldiers fled as the hulking machine demolished it and swept across the bridge. Cheers rose in its wake.

Suarez spoke, drawing Macy into a brief argument. ‘He wants to put his head out the top so everyone can see him,’ she complained.

‘Might be useful at the right time,’ said Mac. ‘Not just yet, though.’

Nina looked back. The crowd was running for the bridge, only to scatter before the oncoming V-300. ‘It’s still coming!’

Eddie turned again to keep out of the larger armoured vehicle’s line of fire. But they were still a couple of miles from the TV station – and would almost certainly encounter better-defended roadblocks along the way.

At the Clubhouse, Callas banged an angry fist on a table at another radio report. ‘They have crossed the river! This is insane! Why can’t we stop them?’

‘How far are they from this TV station?’ Stikes demanded.

‘Less than three kilometres – and we still do not have control of it. The crowd protecting it keeps growing.’

‘Then tell your men to fire into the crowd.’

The general’s expression went from rage to hesitancy. ‘If I don’t have popular support, I will not be able to hold on to power – the army is not strong enough to control the entire country by force.’ He pointed at a television showing a live broadcast from the government-controlled station – the stand-off between civilians and military outside it. ‘That is going out across the country – across the world. If my troops are seen slaughtering unarmed civilians, I will lose.’

‘So make sure they’re not seen doing it,’ said Stikes with growing impatience. ‘Destroy the transmitter.’

‘It’s on the roof,’ Callas snapped back. ‘And before you suggest using tanks to destroy it from the ground, they can’t get line of sight on it! There are too many other buildings nearby.’

‘Then destroy it from the air . . .’ Stikes began, before tailing off.

Callas saw his calculating look. ‘What is it?’

‘A way to kill two birds with one stone.’ He turned to Baine, who had a savage bruise across his jaw and cheek. ‘Tell Gurov and Krikorian to get the Hind ready for takeoff!’

Despite Eddie’s best efforts, he couldn’t shake off the V-300. The heavily armed vehicle was slowly but relentlessly gaining, its more experienced driver extracting every morsel of speed from his vehicle as he chased the smaller APC through Caracas. And the chaos in the city was not helping; Eddie had several times been forced to slow or swerve to avoid fleeing civilians, while the other vehicle ploughed on without a care for collateral damage.

Suarez’s directions, relayed through Macy, brought them on to an overpass bridging a wider avenue below. Traffic on the lower road was at a standstill, open doors where drivers had abandoned their vehicles showing that the situation was far worse than Caracas’s usual gridlock.

A roadblock ahead. The soldiers had been warned about the stolen APC and were readying weapons . . .

More vehicles emerged from behind buildings.

Very large vehicles.

‘Buggeration and f*ckery!’ Eddie gasped as a pair of T-72 tanks clattered to a stop at the roadblock, chunks of torn asphalt spitting up from their tracks. The Russian behemoths were dated compared to modern Western armour, but there was a reason they had been in continuous production for four decades: they were still tough and deadly. Their turrets rotated, bringing their 125mm main guns to bear on the approaching V-100.

And there was no way to retreat. The V-300 reached the overpass, its own gun swinging towards its target.

A glimpse of red and white on the road below, a familiar logo on the side of a stationary truck . . .

Eddie swerved the V-100 towards the overpass’s low wall. ‘You’re probably getting sick of me saying this, but really, really hang on!’

He aimed for the trailer, bracing himself.

The V-100 smashed through the wall and plunged towards the road below.

Everyone screamed—

There was a colossal crump of metal as the APC landed on the trailer, nine tons of steel crushing it and blowing its contents apart in an explosion of brown liquid and froth. The truck was a Coca-Cola transporter, the trailer a forty-foot-long advertisement for its cargo, tens of thousands of cans stacked to the ceiling. The cans flattened and burst under the V-100’s immense weight – but, with so many pallets on top of each other, each layer cushioned the falling vehicle just a little bit more as it dropped.

Even so, the impact when the armoured car hit the floor was still shattering. The trailer’s suspension collapsed, and the trailer itself sheared in half behind the prime mover’s rear wheels. The unsupported end slammed down, digging a foot-deep gouge in the road surface. On a foaming carpet of squashed red and white aluminium, the V-100 slithered down the makeshift ramp until its wheels touched the avenue.

Dazed, Eddie lifted his head. ‘Wow. That actually worked.’ He put the APC back into gear. ‘Mac, what’re those tanks doing?’

Mac peered through the parapet as the V-100 ground out of the wreckage. One of the T-72s appeared on the bridge, its turret tracking them, but its gun couldn’t angle down far enough to lock on. ‘We’re too low for them to shoot.’

‘What about the other APC?’

Nina shouted in alarm. ‘You’re not gonna like this!’

The V-300 burst through the wall after them, intending to use the same trick to soften its landing—

It landed on the back of the crushed trailer with a colossal bang, flipping the front end up like a see-saw. Thousands of Coke cans flew into the air, metal confetti raining down on the tanks above. The first APC’s landing had mashed the trailer flat, leaving nothing to absorb the impact of its larger and heavier cousin. All six of the V-300’s wheels were ripped from their axles, the turret jolting out of its mount to clang down like an enormous hammer amidst a snowfall of cans.

Eddie looked back at his shaken passengers. ‘Well, that’s them sorted, so cheer up! Have a Coke and a smile.’

Macy regarded him woozily. ‘Only if they have Diet.’

‘Eddie, over there,’ said Mac, pointing at an exit.

The Englishman made the turn, barging cars out of his path. The T-72’s gun followed it, but still couldn’t angle low enough to take a shot. ‘Macy, I need directions.’

Suarez gave Macy instructions. She relayed them, then added, ‘He says it’s less than two kilometres to the TV station.’

Just over a mile. Eddie recognised some of the taller buildings ahead. People were still running through the streets, but there was no immediate sign of the military. They would have to break through the troops attempting to take the television station and the civilians and militia defending it, but with Suarez’s presence the latter would be easy. They might actually make it!

A basso rumble of thudding blades from above—

The road ahead exploded, sending a car barrelling through a store’s windows. Rubble showered the V-100.

Eddie knew the cause. Stikes’s Hind.

Stikes squinted into the wind as he looked down from the gunship’s open hatch. The stolen APC had just made a desperate turn to avoid the craters torn from the asphalt by the Hind’s rockets. Krikorian fired again, another two S-8 missiles streaking from their pod on the stub wing, but these missed by a wider margin, a van blowing apart in a sheet of flame. Panicked people scattered.

‘Did you get them?’ demanded Callas, strapped firmly into the seat beside him. Baine, Maximov and the other mercenaries craned their necks to watch events below.

Stikes shook his head, shouting ‘You’re too high!’ into his headset. The rockets weren’t guided, relying on the gunner’s skill to fire them when the pod was pointing directly at the target. ‘Go lower and line up properly.’

‘We’re already too low!’ protested Gurov from the cockpit. ‘We could hit a power line or a building.’

‘I hired you because you claimed to be good enough to avoid that,’ Stikes said scathingly. Nevertheless, he saw the Russian’s point; they weren’t far above the rooftops, and Caracas had enough high-rises to turn the sky into an aerial maze. ‘Krikorian, use the cannon,’ he ordered instead.

In the forward cockpit, Krikorian grinned and switched weapons, the targeting cursor flashing up in his helmet sights.

He brought it over the fleeing vehicle, then pulled the trigger.

Eddie swerved the V-100 to evade further rocket fire. But none came – maybe the Hind couldn’t get a lock amongst all the buildings—

That hope was shattered a moment later, along with a chunk of the Commando’s armour, as a stream of 12.7mm cannon fire hammered the vehicle’s rear. Nina screamed and dived away from the damaged hatch as metal fragments spat into the cabin. More scabs of steel peppered the APC’s occupants, dents appearing in the roof as round after round slammed down.

If any came through the open parapet . . .

Eddie turned sharply at a corner, not going round the building on it, but through it. The V-100 demolished the shop’s frontage, scattering shelves and shoes before bursting out of the other side.

Above, Stikes saw the armoured car’s destructive shortcut. ‘Must be Chase driving,’ he said. ‘Gurov, follow them.’

Despite the danger, Mac looked up through the parapet to find the new threat. The Hind roared into sight. ‘He’s coming!’

Eddie sent the V-100 lurching across the street as the gunship opened fire again. Everyone had retreated from the rear hatch, and with good reason: the buckled door juddered violently as more bullets struck it – then with a piercing screech and a spray of sparks it ripped loose and clanged along the road behind them.

The onslaught continued, weaving along the hull towards the open parapet—

A wall dead ahead. Eddie didn’t brake – instead he drove the APC straight into it.

Mac ducked as more debris and clouds of plaster dust showered through the open roof. Outside, the orange glow of sodium streetlights was replaced by the off-white of fluorescent tubes as the V-100 ploughed through an office. Desks were crushed under the APC’s wheels, a couple of late workers who had stayed inside when the violence started running for cover.

He saw an exterior door in the far wall and aimed for it. Another huge crash, and they were back in the night air, the wind quickly sweeping the whirling dust out through the gaping rear hatch.

Mac irritably tried to brush himself down. ‘Another suit ruined. I should start charging you for my expenses.’

‘We’ll pay for the dry-cleaning,’ said Eddie. He recognised a skyscraper ahead as being close to their hotel – and the television station. ‘We’re not far off. Get ready to run when we get there.’

‘If we get there,’ Nina said. The Hind came back into view, descending towards them. ‘The chopper’s coming!’

Eddie turned into the first street he came to, the V-100 demolishing a payphone as it rode over the corner of the sidewalk. They were out of the Hind’s sight, but that wouldn’t last long. Ahead was a wider, tree-lined boulevard – with people running in both directions, some trying to escape whatever was happening further along the avenue, others angrily racing towards it. Some jeered at the armoured car as it rumbled towards them.

More quickly joined in. ‘Shit, they’re not moving!’ Eddie gasped. The crowd was forming a human blockade, trying to stop the military vehicle from reaching the main road. He braked, knowing he could hardly mow them down – but also that the gunship was closing with every second.

He looked at Suarez. ‘Macy, tell el Presidente to get his arse up in the turret!’

‘What?’ said Macy, confused.

‘If he wants to make a speech to his people, now’s the time - they’re blocking the way!’ Stones clattered off the APC’s prow.

‘Let’s just hope they’re all on his side,’ said Kit as Macy hurriedly passed on Eddie’s instructions.

Still clutching his bloodied arm, Suarez stood. ‘I talk to them,’ he said.

Over the crowd’s shouts and the clonks of thrown stones, Nina heard the Hind’s rotor thrum. ‘He’d better make it a really short speech!’

A couple more rocks clanged from the parapet as Suarez emerged – then the barrage abruptly stopped. Even dishevelled and covered in dust, he was still one of the most recognisable people in the country. His name quickly spread through the crowd, first in shock and disbelief, then excitement.

Macy translating for the benefit of the armoured car’s occupants, Suarez’s well-practised orator’s voice boomed over the V-100’s idling rumble. ‘People of Venezuela, my friends! Yes, it is I, your president!’ He paused to take in the cheers – and a couple of boos, which were quickly silenced by kicks and punches. ‘Earlier tonight, I was kidnapped by traitors and murderers, who want to take power for themselves. But I escaped! I am free, I am here, and I need your help to fight back!’

The rotor noise grew louder. Nina made a frantic ‘wind it up’ gesture at Macy, who tugged the President’s sleeve and hissed at him to talk faster.

Suarez took the hint. ‘I need to get to the television station,’ he said, pointing down the boulevard, ‘to expose these traitors and tell the country that I am safe, and I am! Still! President!’ Another, louder cheer rose from the crowd. ‘First we retake the TV station, then we retake our country!’

A great roar told those in the APC that he had convinced the throng to help. ‘He’s bloody done it,’ said Eddie, almost surprised, as people cleared a path.

‘Yeah, but he’s left it too late!’ Nina cried. The gunship’s roar rose as it closed in – and shot overhead, disappearing again behind another building. The pilot had been aiming to intercept the APC further ahead, expecting them still to be moving, and had been caught out by its non-appearance.

‘They’ve lost us!’ cried Kit.

‘Not for long,’ Eddie said grimly as he turned on to the boulevard. Ahead, he saw the television station’s jumbotron screen. It showed a view of the street from one of the building’s upper windows, which ironically gave him a better idea of what was going on than he could get through the V-100’s narrow windows. The TV station was protected by a human ring of protesters and militia, facing off against soldiers backed by numerous Jeeps and Tiunas. The arrival of more people coming to join the studio’s defence meant that the soldiers were caught between two hostile groups: an almost certain flashpoint for violence.

And the spark had just arrived. ‘Get him back inside before some sniper blows his f*cking head off,’ he told Macy. Now that Suarez was here, a confrontation was practically inevitable.

Macy pulled the President into the cabin. Mac took his place, searching for the Hind. The helicopter had turned above the boulevard, the image on the big screen changing as the cameraman tracked it. He jumped back down. ‘Chopper’s coming straight at us!’

The crowd reacted in confusion, not sure what to make of the aircraft. Clarification rapidly came as it fired two rockets, which exploded short of the APC and sent bodies and pieces of bodies spinning into the air. Eddie flinched. ‘Jesus!’

The survivors broke away in panic, people trampling each other as they tried to escape the battle. Taking it as a signal, the soldiers opened fire into the crowd. The television camera zoomed in to record the carnage.

The Hind fired again, this time with its gun. Tracer lines seared down at the V-100, blasting off more chunks of armour. Eddie swerved as he accelerated towards the line of troops, the bullet hits stitching a new line down the APC’s left flank—

Blam!

A deeper detonation shook the vehicle, the steering wheel jerking in his hands. The armoured car veered to one side. One of the huge tyres had finally succumbed to the assault and blown out. Its reinforced structure was just about holding it together – but every revolution was shredding it, and total failure was inevitable.

‘We’re gonna crash!’ he yelled—

The tyre disintegrated, pitching the wheel down on its steel run-flat insert – which had also been damaged by the gunfire. The hub sheared away from the axle.

Unbalanced, the V-100 toppled heavily on its side. It ground along the road in a huge shower of sparks, narrowly missing a fleeing group of civilians, then continued towards the soldiers.

The troops also ran from the sliding slab of steel – and the fusillade of fire spraying down from the Hind. Then the blaze stopped as the gunship passed overhead. The APC crashed into one of the Tiunas, bowling the military 4×4 over before finally coming to a stop.

For a moment, everything was unnaturally still, people on both sides paralysed by shock. Even the gunfire had ceased. The only thing moving was the Hind, which increased power and gained height to turn for another pass.

Then a figure crawled from the overturned APC. Suarez.

The civilians and militia saw him first, immediately surrounding the armoured car to protect him. The soldiers held their fire, unsure what was going on and waiting for orders.

More people emerged from the wrecked V-100. Kit flopped out of the rear hatch, Macy following Suarez from the parapet. Hands lifted them up; anyone who had helped rescue the President would get the same protection as their leader. Next out of the top hatch was Mac, crawling, one trouser leg dragging limply behind him – the straps securing his artificial leg had broken in the crash, the prosthesis still in the cabin.

He was followed by Eddie. ‘Evening,’ he said blearily to the two men who picked him up, wincing as he realised his forehead was bleeding from a deep cut. He looked for his friends. All were in similarly beaten states.

Where was Nina?

He shook off the supporting hands and staggered to the APC’s mangled rear to find Kit, a palm pressed against his bloodied head. ‘Where’s Nina?’ he asked the Interpol officer.

‘I – I thought she was behind me.’

Eddie pushed past him. ‘Nina!’ he shouted as he looked through the hatch, fearing what he might see . . .

A hand held up the case containing the statues. ‘Hold this, will you?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Eddie grumbled as he took it. Nina clambered out, her clothes ripped and smeared with blood from several cuts. ‘We’re in the middle of a f*cking warzone, and you still make me carry stuff for you!’

She gave him a pained but genuine smile. ‘Love you too, honey.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He gave her back the case and pulled her to the throng surrounding Suarez. The Hind was coming back. ‘Macy, we’ve got to get into that TV station now.’

Macy passed on the message. Suarez nodded, then exhorted the crowd to come with him, rousing cheers and yells of ‘Viva Tito! Viva el Presidente!’ Their leader at their centre, his followers moved en masse towards the building, Nina, Macy and Kit going with him.

‘I think I’ll stay here,’ said Mac, sitting back against the wrecked V-100. He looked morosely at his left leg. ‘A hopping man’s not much use in a situation like this.’

‘You still kicked arse even with only one leg,’ Eddie assured him. ‘See you soon.’

‘Fight to the end, Eddie.’

‘Fight to the end.’ He shared a look of brotherhood with the older man, then pushed through the mass to join Nina.

‘They’re out of the car,’ Stikes told Callas. ‘Krikorian, use the rockets, take out everybody within fifty metres—’

‘No!’ the general cut in. ‘If we do that, it will turn the people against me – even some of my soldiers.’

‘In that case,’ said the mercenary commander through his teeth, ‘we should destroy the TV station, and then take out the crowd.’

Callas shook his head. ‘No. Land this thing. I will take command of my forces from the ground. We can still capture Suarez – then I can make him turn power over to me legally. On television, in front of the whole world. No one will be able to challenge me.’

With barely contained contempt, Stikes said, ‘As you wish. We’ll circle to give you fire support if you need it.’ Callas nodded impatiently. ‘Okay, Gurov, find us a place to touch down.’

Nina looked back in dreadful anticipation, expecting the Hind to attack, and was startled to see it instead moving in for a landing. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Callas must want to finish us off personally,’ Eddie replied. ‘Macy!’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to move faster!’

She did so. Suarez boomed out more orders, and the multitude ahead parted to clear a path to the studio entrance. The big screen above showed the scene from an elevated angle, the movement looking almost like a zip being teasingly unfastened.

The soldiers could see what was happening too. ‘Stay close,’ Eddie warned Nina as he pushed up behind Suarez.

The Hind landed, rotors still whirling ready for a quick takeoff as Callas jumped out. Soldiers ran to meet him. He jabbed a hand towards the studios, ordering them to move in and take the building – and Suarez.

Alive if possible . . . dead if necessary.

Stikes watched Callas head away with his troops, then turned to Maximov. ‘You get out too.’

The giant Russian stared back, bewildered. ‘Boss? What do you mean?’

‘I mean I don’t employ idiots. This is all your fault – if you hadn’t let Chase trick you, Suarez wouldn’t have escaped. You’re fired. Get out.’

‘But—’

Baine pointed his M4 at Maximov and flicked off the safety. ‘You heard him. On yer bike.’

Maximov’s scarred face tightened angrily, but he unfastened his seatbelt and squeezed out of the cabin. ‘Zhópa,’ he growled. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

‘I think we can rule out a career in rocket science,’ said Stikes with a mocking smile. ‘Gurov, take us up.’

The Hind left the ground, blasting Maximov with dust. He shook an angry fist at the departing chopper, then looked round. The soldiers nearby regarded him with suspicion. The Russian hesitated, then turned the other way and hurried along the boulevard, disappearing into the approaching crowd.

The group was almost at the entrance. Nina saw the big screen tracking their approach. The shouts of Suarez’s name had become almost a ritual chant. The last clump of people in front of the building pushed back to make way for them—

Someone stumbled, almost knocking her over. The case was wrenched from her grip as the man fell. She tried to go back for it, but the crowd swept her along like driftwood. ‘Eddie! The case!’ she cried, but she had lost sight of it . . .

Kit held it up. He shoved past the fallen man to her. ‘I think you dropped this,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to lose the statues after everything we’ve been through.’

‘Or the disc,’ she added as he handed the case back to her.

He seemed almost to have forgotten about it. ‘Or the disc, yes!’

They reached the doors. They opened, station employees hurriedly pulling away their makeshift barricades of desks and vending machines. Eddie looked back as they entered. The soldiers were advancing. No shots had been fired . . . yet. But the two opposing forces would meet in seconds.

Clutching the case, Nina pushed through the doors behind Suarez. There were about twenty people in the lobby. ‘Can anyone speak English?’ she called.

‘I can,’ said a middle-aged man in a yellow tie. He did a double-take. ‘Are you Nina Wilde?’

‘Yeah, I am – but never mind that!’ She held up the case. ‘I’ve got a DVD in here – there’s a recording on it that’ll destroy General Callas. You’ve got to get it on the air as soon as you can!’

Shots cracked outside, people screaming. ‘Shut the doors!’ Eddie yelled.

Suarez joined Nina, adding his own instructions as she took out the DVD. ‘How long will it take you to start broadcasting?’ she asked.

‘Two minutes, less,’ said the man. ‘What is on it?’

Nina shrugged helplessly. ‘I dunno – just something really bad for Callas.’

He looked uncertain, then took the disc and ran for a set of double doors. Suarez followed as the staff restored the blockade.

There were several large plasma screens in the lobby, all showing the station’s current output: a view of the street outside. Eddie joined Nina and watched, seeing a phalanx of soldiers driving through the crowd, clubbing them with their rifle butts. The protesters pushed back, throwing stones and garbage.

More shots. Muzzle flashes flickered across the screens, people falling dead to the ground. Nina gasped and clutched Eddie’s hand. Macy put a hand to her mouth in horror, looking away. Some of those nearest the soldiers tried to retreat, but the weight of people behind them left them with nowhere to go. Others, trapped, threw themselves at the troops, armed with nothing more than their fists and feet. They were brutally battered to the ground as other soldiers fired into the mob.

One screen briefly showed a test pattern before switching to a studio. The image jerked about before the camera operator finally fixed on a chair. Someone ran up to it, waving – then Suarez appeared. He took the seat, holding his wounded arm with the blood clearly visible. The camera tipped up as if to frame it out, but Suarez shook his head. The picture tilted back, making sure the injury the President had sustained – and seemingly shaken off – was in plain view. Even in a crisis, Suarez still knew the value of creating an iconic image.

Nina looked at another screen showing the fighting outside. The soldiers were much closer. ‘This barricade won’t keep them out, will it?’

Eddie shook his head. ‘Just hope whatever’s on that DVD does the trick.’

Suarez started to speak. All but one of the screens changed to show him, the broadcast going out live to the country. His voice echoed from the loudspeakers outside. Macy gave a running translation, despite her nervous glances at the doors. ‘People of Venezuela, today has been a dark day for our country. Traitors have attacked Miraflores, and tried to kill me.’ He held up his injured arm. ‘A man I thought was a friend, Salbatore Callas, led this revolt . . . funded by criminals and drug lords. I have the proof – and now I will show it to you.’

Suarez then spoke in English. ‘Dr Nina Wilde . . . I hope you are right.’

‘Oh, great,’ said Nina. ‘Now if it turns out to be Callas’s boudoir tapes, I get the blame!’

The president gestured to someone off-camera. The image changed.

Nina recognised the Clubhouse balcony where she had met de Quesada. The drug lord was seated at the very edge of the picture, almost out of shot and distorted by the fisheye effect of a wide-angle lens; the video had been shot on a concealed camera amongst his belongings. Callas, however, was almost dead centre, instantly recognisable in his uniform.

De Quesada had apparently edited the raw footage down to the most incriminating highlights. Again, Macy translated. ‘So, just to be perfectly clear about our deal,’ she said as de Quesada spoke, ‘in return for twenty per cent of the value of my drugs that cross Venezuela, you will give them completely unrestricted passage from the Colombian border to the ports where they are shipping to America and Europe. Yes?’

‘Yes, agreed,’ said Callas.

‘And what about the DEA? If you take power from Suarez—’

‘When I take power.’

‘When you take power,’ de Quesada corrected himself, ‘you will not let them back into your country?’

Callas smiled. ‘I only want the Americans’ money, not their policemen.’

A cut, the Colombian leaning forward in his seat. ‘And what about Venezuelan drug policy under your rule?’ he asked. ‘It’s not a big market, but it’s still worth millions of dollars a year. Since I’m helping you, I don’t want to have my . . . subcontractors being arrested.’

‘Your dealers will have immunity,’ said Callas, though with evident distaste. ‘Providing they keep a low profile.’

‘They will be very discreet, I assure you.’ De Quesada smiled again, then stood. ‘So,’ he said, extending his right hand, ‘we have a deal?’

Callas shook it. ‘We have a deal.’

‘Thank you.’

The screens went black, then Suarez returned, looking off to one side at a monitor and seeming as astounded by what he had just seen as those in the lobby. But Nina was more interested in the one TV still showing what was happening outside. ‘Eddie, look!’

The soldiers were staring up at the big screen beneath the cameraman’s vantage point. The protesters were doing the same, everyone’s attention captured by the broadcast. The camera zoomed in on the troops. Confusion was clear on their upturned faces . . . quickly turning to shock and outrage.

Eddie watched as the new emotions rippled through Callas’s forces. ‘This should be interesting . . . ’

Callas, standing with a group of his commanders amongst the military vehicles, struggled to conceal his dismay as Suarez returned to the giant screen. Part of him knew that the game was over; the incriminating recording had just been broadcast to the entire country, and more worryingly to his forces outside the television station. While he was using carefully chosen corrupt men to ensure that narcotics traffic across the Orinoco followed his rules, he knew that the vast majority of Venezuela’s soldiers despised the drug lords.

But another part refused to give up. He had come so close! And Suarez was inside the building. He could still be captured, some fairy tale about the recording being faked with computer graphics and a vocal impersonator concocted. ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘What are you waiting for? We’ll take the building – I want Suarez to pay for these lies!’

A young captain faced him. ‘General, was that – real?’

‘Of course it wasn’t real!’ But Callas could see that doubt had taken root. He decided that sheer volume was the best way to overcome it. ‘You idiots! This is exactly what Suarez wants, for you to think I’m in league with drug lords.’

‘But that was the Clubhouse, I recognised it.’ Other men nearby voiced agreement.

‘Never mind that.’ He jabbed an angry finger at the studios. ‘I want Suarez captured, now!’ Nobody moved. ‘Do what I tell you!’

Other soldiers closed in, faces dark, betrayed. Another officer spoke. ‘We want an explanation, general. Did you really make a deal with some Colombian so he could sell drugs to our children?’

‘Get back,’ Callas warned. The advance continued, more troops surrounding him. ‘I’m warning you, do as I say!’

‘Get him,’ growled the captain.

Several men lunged at Callas. He grabbed for his sidearm, but they pinned his arms behind his back. ‘You bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Suarez will wreck the entire country – I’m its only hope! Everything I do is for the good of Venezuela!’

The captain stood before him, lips tight. ‘Let’s find out who is telling the truth.’ He nodded to the men holding the general. ‘Bring him.’

Stikes observed the scene below through binoculars as the Hind continued its orbit. ‘Looks as though we’re out of pocket on this job, boys,’ he said coldly as he watched Callas being frogmarched through the crowd. ‘Gurov, get us out of here.’

The gunship changed course, sweeping away into the darkness over the city.

‘It’s Callas!’ Nina said as the cameraman zoomed in on the man being forced towards the building. ‘They’ve arrested him!’

‘We’ll see,’ said Eddie, more wary. ‘It might be a trap.’ But the gunfire had stopped, and the soldiers were retreating to leave a space outside the entrance. The two sides genuinely seemed in a state of uneasy truce.

Suarez hurried into the lobby, followed by the man in the yellow tie, now powering up a professional video camera. The President ordered that the barricades be moved from the doors.

‘You sure that’s a good idea?’ Macy asked him.

‘I want to see him face to face,’ came the reply. ‘And the people have to see that I am still in charge.’ Then he addressed the little group of foreign visitors in English. ‘I have not said thank you – you saved my life. You saved my country. Thank you.’ He added something in Spanish, then strode to the doors as the blockade was cleared.

‘What did he say?’ asked Kit.

‘That we’re heroes of the socialist revolution, and we’ll all get medals,’ Macy told him. She grimaced. ‘That’s not something I’m gonna be wearing around Miami.’

‘I can see it wouldn’t be too popular,’ said Nina, amused.

Eddie huffed. ‘Can’t we just get money?’

The station personnel opened the doors. There was a moment of tension as Suarez was revealed to the world outside, standing in plain view of any potential assassin, but it passed. People began to cheer. Suarez waved his hands for silence as he stepped into the open. The cameraman bustled after him to record the scene.

The soldiers brought the struggling Callas to a stop in front of the President. Nina and Eddie watched as the two men faced each other. Suarez spoke first. ‘Salbatore. I never thought it would be you who turned against me.’

‘That’s because you’re blind, Tito,’ Callas spat. ‘You’re living in a fantasy world.’ Sarcasm twisted his lips. ‘All your glorious revolution will do is make everyone poor. Our country needs strength, not dreams!’

‘The strength of the dictator?’

‘Isn’t that what we have now?’ the general countered.

Suarez drew in a long breath, his expression cold. ‘Salbatore Delgado Callas,’ he said. ‘You are under arrest. Your crime is treason.’ He nodded to the soldiers. ‘Take him away.’

They turned, pulling Callas with them. He resisted – causing one of the soldiers to stumble.

It was enough for Callas to break one arm free.

He snatched the pistol from the captain’s holster and whipped it round at Suarez—

A single gunshot cracked across the plaza. In Suarez’s hand was the pistol he had taken from Rojas. The soldiers holding the general jumped back in shock. Callas stared at the bullet wound in his chest, mouth wide in silent pain.

He looked back at Suarez, trying with his last breath to bring up his own gun and pull the trigger . . .

Then he collapsed at his enemy’s feet, blood pooling around him.

The coup was over.