The Caiman of Iquitos: Apex Predator, #2

By Bayard and Holmes, Piper Bayard and Jay Holmes

"An excellent reminder that great spies tell great stories."
~ Annie Jacobson, Writer/Producer of Jack Ryan

 

In a chilling continuation of their Apex Predator novels, Bayard & Holmes compel us into the darkest corners of the Shadow World. A world where billionaires are not subject to governments and assassins, rogue nations, and terrorists are their tools to obtain global dominance. In an explosion of unrelenting action, one man and his team risk everything to protect the Western world.

Former CIA Operations Officer John Viera is doing his best to lead a "normal" life and start a family. Fate has other ideas.
 

When a Russian ship is mysteriously torpedoed off the coast of Peru, untracked enriched uranium is revealed within its cargo. Protecting his family's multi-billion dollar business interests, the US president blocks agency investigations into the incident. Top intelligence officials covertly call in John Viera and his unofficial network of former operatives to uncover the new player on the nuclear chessboard. What they discover threatens the annihilation of the Western world.

From the jungles of the Amazon to the Sea of Japan, John and his network are the only ones who stand between international security and the Caiman of Iquitos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shoe Phone Press
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985048261

Bayard and Holmes

Piper Bayard is an author and a recovering attorney with a college degree or two. She is also a belly dancer and a former hospice volunteer. She has been working daily with her good friend Jay Holmes for the past decade, learning about foreign affairs, espionage history, and field techniques for the purpose of writing fiction and nonfiction. She currently pens espionage nonfiction and international spy thrillers with Jay Holmes, as well as post-apocalyptic fiction of her own. Jay Holmes is a forty-something-year veteran of field espionage operations and a senior member of the Intelligence Community with experience spanning from the Cold War fight against the Soviets, the East Germans, and the various terrorist organizations they sponsored to the present Global War on Terror. He is unwilling to admit to much more than that. Piper is the public face of their partnership. Together, Bayard & Holmes author non-fiction articles and books on espionage and foreign affairs, as well as fictional international spy thrillers. They are also the bestselling authors of The Spy Bride from the Risky Brides Bestsellers Collection and were featured contributors for Social In Worldwide, Inc. When they aren’t writing or, in Jay’s case, busy with “other work,” Piper and Jay are enjoying time with their families, hiking, exploring back roads of America, talking foreign affairs, laughing at their own rude jokes until the wee hours, and questing for the perfect chocolate cake recipe. If you think you have that recipe, please share it with them at [e-mail]. To keep in touch with Bayard & Holmes and to receive notices of their upcoming releases, subscribe to the Bayard & Holmes Covert Briefing at BayardandHolmes.com. You can contact Bayard & Holmes at their Contact page at BayardandHolmes.com, on Twitter at @piperbayard, on Facebook at Piper Bayard or Bayard & Holmes, or at their email, [e-mail].

Book preview

Prologue

Lewis Cambridge opened the email from MI6 and scowled. It was death in a three-piece suit. Five years of impeccable service in Quetta, now chief of station, and he was being ordered home. Not to Karachi. Not to Lahore or Islamabad. Home to a desk job in London.

He pushed his laptop away across the expansive metal surface of his desk, settled his stocky frame back into his ancient desk chair, and swiveled back and forth. The chair wheezed with a steady rhythm. At least he could control that.

It wasn’t right. He had operations open. And what about the traitor? If it was Martin, who had sold out his men to the Taliban and gotten them slaughtered in an ambush, MI6 had to catch him and make him pay. And if it wasn’t?

Lewis pondered the print of Queen Elizabeth II in its pencil-thin frame on the otherwise-bare wall. Her stern visage seemed to speak to him. We must all make sacrifices. It is our duty.

Duty to king and country. That was what had brought him to Quetta in the first place. Never mind that it was that overprivileged fop on the throne now, he still represented the establishment—an establishment that was critical to maintaining civilization.

Lewis’s gaze took in his spartan office with its windowless, gray walls and rickety bookcase housing a collection of The Oxford Handbook of World History. The space was as dingy and uninviting as the surrounding Baluchistan hills.

Sana hated Pakistan. At least she would be glad to go back to the United Kingdom—a flat within hearing of Big Ben and good independent schools for the children. His mood lightened ever so slightly at the thought of how delighted she would be at the order. At least he would be meeting his duty to wife and family.

The queen frowned down with a countenance of steel. But what about his duty here? The foreign secretary had contacted him directly to notify him about Martin’s betrayal. He said there was no one other than Lewis at the station in which he could put his full faith to bring in the traitor, retrieve the stolen data, and find out who else might have turned. That certainly hadn’t changed any more than the imperative to bring Martin in, dead or alive.

Lewis dug his feet into the floor and brought his chair up short. He sat forward. . . . Of course. The foreign secretary. The foreign secretary would want him to stay and finish the job, especially in light of the new information.

Lewis pulled up Foreign Secretary Brown’s number on his computer and checked his watch. The secretary should have finished his breakfast by now. Lewis dialed him on his secure line.

A young man’s voice sounded in his ear. Foreign Secretary Brown’s office. How may I help you?

I need to speak with Foreign Secretary Brown, please. Tell him it’s Lewis Cambridge.

One moment, please, Mr. Cambridge.

Lewis tapped his fingers on his desk. Soon, a different man came on the line. Hello, Cambridge? Peabody said you have an update. Have you handled Martin and retrieved the drive?

"No, sir. I sent a courier to you with an update, but he apparently hasn’t arrived. I’ve found no trace of Martin’s whereabouts in the past six months. I contacted friends in GCHQ, and they haven’t seen any communications. I also spoke with an old school chum in the Treasury. He looked into Martin’s finances and said there is no indication he would have any issue with debts.

"And here’s a bit of strange business. A witness turned up, a fellow in Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence. He claims it was a bad apple from his office that sold out my men. Lewis chose his next words carefully. Do you believe there is anything to what this Pakistani fellow is saying? Could a traitor higher up the chain have been framing Martin?"

Silence saturated the connection. When Secretary Brown spoke again, his tones were frosty and imperious. If I didn’t have incontrovertible proof, I would not have accused Blackburn in the first place. Of course your people didn’t find anything. Martin’s no trumped-up chav. Now are you up to this task or not?

Lewis flinched at the word chav. All his life he’d heard it from those who would have kept him in his place as a builder’s son. He swallowed his pride. Yes, sir. You can count on me, but only if I’m here, sir. MI6 has ordered me home. I would appreciate it if you could please let someone in the upper office know that this is an inopportune time for me to transfer. The next chief of station, well, we don’t know who Martin was in bed with, now, do we?

Brown paused once more and then cleared his throat. His voice was lighter. Of course, Cambridge. Can’t have my main man being replaced before the job is finished. Consider it done.

Thank you, sir. You won’t be sorry.

Lewis ended the call and shifted his mind to the meeting ahead—some American who had contacted him and had information to offer. He seemed to think it was important, but these Americans were always getting jumped up about something. William would be at the park already with the vendor cart to give Lewis cover.

Lewis sighed. Let’s see what the day brings.

He raised his cup to the queen. To duty. He drained the contents, picked up his Quetta Gladiators cap, and exited his office.

Twenty minutes later, Lewis entered Benazir Park. Though it was only early May, the heat already wilted the weeds in the cracks of the cobblestone pathways that separated yards of gray dirt patched with stubborn grass. Shade from periodic palm trees and squatting shrubs that lined the walk did little more to alleviate the heat than did the rows of pencil-thin evergreens woven among them.

A soccer ball bounced past Lewis, followed closely by a herd of half a dozen children. Mothers looked on from white plastic chairs, gossiping and fanning themselves underneath tiny pavilions. Groups of men in both Western dress and the traditional Pakistani kameez tunic and salwar trousers collected in threes and fours around the park. No sign of a six-foot-two-inch athletic American with reddish-brown hair and a short beard in a gray tee, blue jeans, and trainers. Lewis checked his watch. He was still fifteen minutes early.

He strolled toward the back of the park where William had set up his cart. Lewis did not meet William’s eyes or look his way when he passed, but the man would be at his side with firepower in an instant if the American proved to be trouble. Lewis settled in the middle of a concrete bench thirty feet from William’s cart, took his newspaper from under his arm, and began reading the sports page.

Lewis first spotted the American from the corner of his eye. The man glanced past him twice, no doubt confirming that Lewis met the description—medium height, black hair, and lines on his face that hadn’t cracked a smile in a decade. A bulldog that would die fighting before allowing a stranger to pass its master’s threshold. The American took off his ball cap and sunglasses, an offer of trust.

The hair on Lewis’s neck stood up. It was the man seen going into Martin’s flat just after the fiasco. Lewis folded his paper.

The American sat beside him on the bench. I’m John. Thank you for meeting me.

Lewis glanced his direction and gave a slight nod. Who do you work with?

Mutual friends. I’m looking for a specific mutual friend—Martin Blackburn.

Lewis’s body stiffened. When was the last time you saw him?

John put his sunglasses and cap back on. I didn’t actually see him, but I received a message from him last fall. He seemed urgent to meet, but when I got to his apartment, he was gone.

Lewis felt a wall slam down inside himself. He didn’t like this turn and had no reason to trust this American. As I recall, Martin was reassigned around that time. I haven’t heard from him since. Sorry I can’t be of more help to you. Good luck. Lewis stood and offered John his hand.

John looked up at him but did not stand. He seemed to be pondering his next move.

Damn stubborn Yank. Lewis pulled back his hand.

John held silent a moment longer and then locked his gaze on Lewis. Martin was looking for a traitor in your ranks. He felt certain it was not you, but he played it cautious and asked for my help instead of yours. We had no leads when he was reassigned to Cuba, but you must know he was back after three weeks. When I went to meet him, all I found was a tossed apartment, a speck of blood, and a very scared neighbor who said thugs were shooting at a Brit down the hall. Surely your people have been searching for him, too?

Lewis’s chest tightened. He sat back down. Why would Martin seek an American’s help to find a traitor if he was the traitor?

Lewis stared at the hedges lining the path. He looked up at the sky. He glanced toward William, selling his fruit cups to the children. Then he braced and turned to John, his eyes boring into the American like a human X-ray machine. Who are you with, and how do you know Martin? I need specifics.

It was John’s turn to pause and consider. I work for mutual friends. I met Martin a few years back when I was hunting down the Tali-maggot leader du jour outside of Jalalabad. Your guys were apparently on the same target. We saw them about to get ambushed and stepped in to help. After that, Martin did me a solid or two, as well. So he came to me when he suspected a traitor in your ranks. We’d barely started looking when he was reassigned. I didn’t expect him back. You clearly know something. I know Martin thought well of you. Perhaps we can work together to find him?

Lewis took in what John had said. It made so much more sense than the foreign secretary’s theory that Martin was a mole. What information could the foreign secretary have? Lewis felt it out, and his gut told him the foreign secretary had to be wrong. It had to be Pakistani ISI. But why point the finger at Martin at all? I was told by my superiors that Martin was the mole. He was ordered to Quetta to be . . . handled. I sent some locals to bring him in, and they botched the job.

Lewis sensed John’s body stiffen next to him, but the man’s face remained impassive.

Lewis continued. Martin broke into my headquarters after that and took me by surprise.

John chuckled. That would be Martin. Take trouble head on.

Lewis shifted, suddenly aware of the hot sun on his skin. He professed his innocence. Then he stole my car and disappeared. We found it abandoned in Khairpur. All of MI6 is after him. The foreign office wants him dead or alive, and most would prefer dead.

John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Just what is Martin suspected of doing?

My superiors are certain it goes beyond suspicion. Martin was behind an ambush that got three of my men killed, and he was selling our top-secret information to the Russians. I was instructed to look for a USB drive in his possession and to intercept it before he could pass it to his contact.

John’s brow furrowed. He was silent for a moment. Why would Martin do that? The man I know would never betray his men. He also hates the Russians and doesn’t need the money.

I was told Martin had a gambling issue.

John sat back on the bench and raised an eyebrow. That doesn’t sound like Martin, either. And you do know his mother is Annaleigh Wentworth Blackburn? Even if he did have a gambling problem, which I’ve never seen any evidence of, he has more than enough to cover any debts.

Lewis paled. Annaleigh Wentworth Blackburn. The billionaire heiress and investment broker. Blackburn was a common name. Though he knew Martin was upper crust, he never suspected that Martin was one of those Blackburns. No matter what trouble Martin caused or fell into, he did not need money. The foreign secretary must . . .

Lewis froze. Trepidation seeped through to his core. There was only one explanation that made sense. He’d been played. The ISI witness was right, and Pakistanis sold them out for the ambush. Brown was simply using the opportunity to frame Martin. But why? . . . The USB drive. Brown had set up Lewis to do his dirty business. But, again, why?

Lewis glanced at John. Perhaps an American was just what he needed right now, but he had to be certain before accusing someone as high in the government as Foreign Secretary Tony Brown.

And if it was Brown? Lewis glanced around the park, seeing it through the filter of new suspicions. Was someone already coming for him?

No. Brown was still convinced that Lewis knew nothing. He would not move on Lewis yet. He turned to John. Let me check into this one on my end. How can I reach you?

Meet me at Liaquat Park at the same time in one week. If you find something urgent, here’s the number of a phone I’ll have with me. John handed Lewis an innocuous-looking business card for Network Closers, LLC.

One week. Lewis stood, put his paper under his arm, and exited the park without a backward glance at John. He brooded on the foreign secretary, and his mood thickened. What was Tony Brown up to? And what could be on that USB drive he was so eager to obtain?

Lewis’s stomach churned at the implications. A traitor that high could gut the whole service, and who would believe a lowborn public servant like himself? It would be Anthony Blunt all over again.

Lewis glanced up the street and saw a barber pole. He knew the shop well. A shave could be just the thing to help him think this through. He opened the shop door, and an old brass bell over the threshold rang his presence.

The barber glanced up from sweeping hair off the floor around his chair. Mr. Cambridge. It is a pleasure to see you. Shave and a haircut this afternoon?

Yes, Mr. Patil. That will do nicely.

Lewis settled in. Mr. Patil cloaked him with a smock and fastened it around his neck. Lewis closed his eyes and welcomed the warm, moist cloth on his face. He sighed and sank into his thoughts, lulled by the rhythm of the barber’s ministrations.

Tony Brown was an international player—the owner of Brown Microsystems and part of the Brandenburg Steering Committee, a prominent billionaires’ cartel that fancied itself to be the EU’s own little Home Owners Association. He would have known Martin came from big money. Brown had been most eager that they should retrieve that USB drive.

That drive must be the key to it all.

And what about Martin? Remorse drove through Lewis like a spear thrust. He’d never liked the bloody tosser, but Martin clearly did not deserve to be hunted down. Hopefully, he was on some beach in Thailand picking up a venereal disease.

The bell on the shop door rang distant through Lewis’s thoughts.

Hello, gentlemen, Patil said. Please have a seat. I will be with you shortly.

Mr. Patil paused. A back corner of Lewis’s mind marked the change. Mr. Patil’s footsteps backed away from the chair. A heavy silence shattered Lewis’s thoughts. His adrenaline exploded.

Lewis burst up. His left hand flipped the towel from his face. A garrote caught the hand and pinned it to his neck. Flesh sliced apart. Blood shot from his jugular.

He snatched his pistol from his waistband with his free hand and fired over his shoulder. The garrote released. The assailant dropped.

Lewis wheeled on the second thug. The man fired. Hollow points ripped through Lewis’s neck and torso. Lewis fired back. The man’s face disappeared in a red mist.

Lewis gasped for breath. Dark-red bubbles oozed from the hole in his chest. Help. I need help.

He staggered toward the door and into the street. Blood spurted from the hole in his neck and sprayed a young couple strolling past. They jumped, screaming, and ran.

Martin . . . John . . . Tony Brown. . . . Lewis’s bloody fingers clutched for his mobile. He gasped and fell into the street. Blood jetted across the cobblestones. Fog clouded his thoughts. With everything in him, he brought his mobile into view and drew his finger across the letters. . . . Martin right . . . Sana . . . Sana . . . the children . . . Sana . . . He hit Send.

Hands grabbed his mobile from him. Hands searched his pockets. Hands rolled him over. Hands patted him down.

Lewis’s chest constricted with every gasp. Pain exploded inside him. Help. His vision tunneled. The world tilted. He tried to roll upright. Help! Screaming . . . Oxfords . . . Men’s Oxfords . . . Lewis reached out, yet his hand didn’t move. . . .The Oxfords stepped away. . . . The world went black.

Chapter One

One Month Later

Heung Yeong-Ho rested his broad hands on the gunwale of the Russian freighter and savored the feel of salt air and freedom—no guards, no state surveillance, and no ambitious underlings. No tyrannical cousin breaking people like toys just to hear them shatter on the granite floor of his imposed reality. For one precious moment, Heung was only himself.

He leaned his solid, stocky frame against the cargo box behind him and turned his face to the Pacific sunset, soaking in the warmth of the equatorial rays. . . . And he dreamed.

His cousin, Esteemed Leader, would personally inspect the cargo he was bringing home, and it would win a reprieve from the dictator’s capricious moods for a little while. Perhaps Heung would even have his choice of assignments. He pictured his return to Lima, this time as the ambassador from North Korea to Peru. He would keep a private apartment in Miraflores with an ocean view, far from the prison atmosphere of the North Korean Embassy. He would have a rooftop garden and unmonitored internet service, and maybe even his mother would be allowed to come live with him and escape the tyranny of his violent, Juche-devout father.

A bark sounded to his right. Heung opened his eyes. The ship’s mascot, a black spaniel named Puanya, raced up the deck toward him. Heung opened his arms, and the young dog jumped into his embrace. Her nails scratched Heung’s new tattoo, and pain shot up his left forearm. He set the wriggling Puanya on the deck at his feet and fished a tube of Vitamin D cream from his pants pocket. He rubbed the cream on the fresh artwork that climbed up his arm—a tiger leaping from a stand of bamboo. He flinched, and his blood mingled with the bright-orange and green ink.

Why did it have to be a tattoo? Give him a firefight, a night landing on enemy shores, or a snatch job in a foreign country and his nerves never wavered, but to get a tattoo after what that chocolate-sucking Swiss⁠—

Voices broke through Heung’s thoughts. Two Russian sailors, one quite tall and one short, approached along the narrow path between the mountain of LEGO-locked cargo boxes and the gunwale. The spaniel at Heung’s feet squirmed and wagged her tail in greeting. The young men spotted Heung, shared a smile with each other, and broke into a K-Pop-style dance.

Pickle-pulling spawn of bathhouse goats. That’s South Korea. He forced a smile and mirrored a few steps back at them.

When the sailors drew closer, the spaniel leapt into the arms of the short one and licked him on the mouth. Ah, Puanya. You are better than my girlfriend. He kissed Puanya and set her back on the deck, where she returned to Heung’s feet. She like you. Is good luck when Puanya like you. He called the spaniel back to him. The two men and the dog pushed past Heung toward the aft of the ship.

Heung leaned back against the cargo boxes and closed his eyes once more, sinking again into delicious solitude.

Suddenly, a clang like Thor’s hammer split the air and then a massive boom. The ship pitched. Heung flew toward the gunwale. His upper body whiplashed forward over the rail, and he grappled to maintain his balance.

Water blasted twenty meters above the deck, spraying Heung and hurtling him backward. His feet flew out from under him, and his back slammed to the deck. He gasped. Water dowsed him. He sucked it in and violently coughed it back out.

Panic shot through him. He fought it back and scrambled to his feet. He staggered toward the ship’s bridge. The lifeboats were there. Just get to a lifeboat.

Another explosion from deep in the hull shook him like a toy in the jaws of a pit bull. The ship listed to starboard. Heung crashed to the deck.

Sirens blared. Feet pounded on metal ladders. Heung wrenched himself to his hands and knees. He battled back another surge of panic. This couldn’t be happening. Not when he was so close to the end of his mission. So close to his reward.

Heung heaved to his feet and dashed up the narrow passage between the gunwale and the cargo boxes. In front of him, an old open lifeboat swung out and lowered on cables. The ship pitched. The dozen sailors in the boat clung to the rail. Men crowded toward the second and last lifeboat. Heung just had time to make it.

A screech of grating metal rent the air. Heung looked up. A crane boom plummeted toward the deck. Sailors shrieked. Heung leapt back. The beam smashed with a tangle of metal and cables. Two sailors tumbled to the deck, blocking Heung’s passage.

The final lifeboat began its descent. Heung grabbed a cable on the fallen boom and scrambled to the top of the metal behemoth. He waved at the sailors in the lowering boat. Wait! Wait!

One man returned Heung’s wave and spoke to his comrade at the control. The sailor at the control glanced over his shoulder. Heung clambered forward. He would make it.

Then, without skipping a beat, the Russian sailor at the control held up his fist with his thumb shoved between his index and middle fingers—the Russian gesture of contempt. The lifeboat disappeared from Heung’s sight.

Heung vaulted to the deck and dashed to the gunwale. The boat hung twenty feet above the churning waters. He had to get to it.

A loud crack split the air. A broken cable shot past Heung’s head. The bow of the lifeboat dropped vertically, its front cable broken. The sailors plummeted into the hungry sea, their cries shrieking up the hull.

Heung gasped for breath. Think. There were rafts. Perhaps one was left. He’d seen one on the port side during his initial survey of the ship.

The ship listed farther to starboard. Heung battled his way uphill to port. The raft was gone. He searched the water. It was about to pull away with an old salt and the same two young sailors he had spoken with only moments before.

Heung sprang up, waving his arms. Wait!

Puanya squeezed out from under the leg of the short sailor and barked. The sailors saw him, and the short one pointed toward the side of the ship.

Heung followed his direction to a knotted rope hanging down the hull. He scurried down, and the young men helped him into the lifeboat. The old sailor with them gunned the tiny motor, and they powered away.

Heung breathed.

Puanya crawled into his lap and pushed her body in close, quaking. Heung stroked her to calm her and glanced around at the other men in the raft. Thank you.

The tall one was pale, his eyes unseeing and his mouth slack.

The short one, alert with adrenaline, nodded to Heung. We must help together, no?

The old man kept his hand on the rudder and his eyes forward on the sea.

Once they were about a quarter mile away from the sinking ship, the old man cut the engine. Heung and the others watched in awe, helpless as the ship capsized in slow motion and disappeared beneath the waves.

A profound silence hung in the air. Heung swallowed hard, a stone in his stomach. His cargo was lost, sinking to the bottom of the ocean along with his bright future.

What happened? asked the short man. A mine perhaps? I have heard that sometimes the old ones break loose from their moorings and float around the world.

The old man shook his head. It was torpedo.

Who would torpedo you? Heung asked. And why? They won’t recover any of this cargo.

I do not know. The old man’s hard stare bored into Heung. Perhaps you tell us.

Heung’s heart turned to steel. He had no trouble holding an impassive face. He returned the stare. How would I know? I am only a passenger.

A passenger to North Korea. The old man glared.