The Leopard of Cairo
By Bayard & Holmes
Terrorist plots, lies and adventure are plotted out in The Leopard of Cairo. Thanks to Bayard & Holmes, I have an excerpt to share with you, which you’ll find below, including a buy link and a bit about Bayard & Holmes, who are on the quest for the best chocolate cake when they aren’t writing and there are some other interesting and rather different things they do in their lives…
Firstly, here’s the synopsis and praise for the book, ahead of the excerpt/extract.
John Viera left his CIA fieldwork hoping for a “normal” occupation and a long-awaited family, but when a Pakistani engineer is kidnapped from a top-secret US project and diplomatic entanglements tie the government’s hands, the Intelligence Community turns to John and his team of ex-operatives to investigate — strictly off the books. They uncover a plot of unprecedented magnitude that will precipitate the slaughter of millions.
From the corporate skyscrapers of Montreal to the treacherous alleys of Baluchistan, these formidable enemies strike, determined to create a regional apocalypse and permanently alter the balance of world power. Isolated in their knowledge of the impending devastation, John and his network stand alone between total destruction and the Leopard of Cairo.
Praise:
“Wild adventure, delicious storytelling, tradecraft that only the insiders know. An excellent reminder that great spies tell great stories. The Leopard of Cairo is Bayard and Holmes’ best one yet. Do not miss the Truth and Fiction section at the back.”
~ Annie Jacobson, Writer/Producer of Jack Ryan
“This is a tightly woven thriller, and as an author, I appreciate the capability of Ms. Bayard (and Holmes) to blend seamlessly the personal lives and the dangers in the field for the main characters as well as those within the novel.”
– Claire O’Sullivan, author of the Whiskey River Mysteries
““Bayard and Holmes’s The Leopard of Cairo is everything I love in a story: action, intrigue, exotic locations. Here is a lightning-fast tale of intrigue, lies, and the mother-of-all terrorist plots. Big story, big adventure, big thumbs-up!””
—James Rollins, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Sigma Force series
Extract/Excerpt
John Viera jumped back from the swirl of soot. The bright green-and-blue Quetta city bus choked out another cloud, and a donkey beside it snorted, rattling its cart full of secondhand housewares. The vendor in the driver’s seat searched the crowd for one last customer. John ignored his hopeful glance and watched the bus chug deeper into the bowels of the Hazara Town market district.
The aroma of fresh bread sweetened the stench of exhaust that hung over the rush-hour crunch. John ducked into the bakeshop’s recessed doorway and scanned the street.
Bright paints battled vainly to beautify cement walls between dirty gray roll-down metal shop doors. Signs above the portals broadcast goods and trades in Urdu and English, revealing the creep of Westernization into the Islamic stronghold. Above John’s head, electrical wires crisscrossed, tying the one- and two-story structures together.
Vendors bustled to secure their wares in time for evening prayers. Mothers gripping plain cloth shopping bags herded children down sidewalks while bicycles competed with cars and donkey carts for street rights. None of them appeared to notice John. Western influence was widespread enough that he did not stand out with his collar-length umber hair, reddish beard, blue jeans, and khaki jacket.
Satisfied there were no immediate threats from the street, he glanced at his watch: 5:45. Martin would be waiting. John exited the bakery doorway and continued in the bus’s wake.
A bicyclist veered into traffic, and a truck swerved and jerked, cutting off a rusty sedan. The sedan’s horn blared. John flinched and pressed his hand to his ear.
¡Hostias! ¡Qué idiotas! He wished for a split second that he was still crouched in the mountains of Afghanistan, where he was sanctioned by the US government to capture or kill hostile actors, or at least to slam their heads in their car doors. In the city, though, he was constrained by rules of law and discretion. John quelled his irritation and strode to the corner.
He crossed with the light and visualized the remainder of his route to Martin’s. His MI6 counterpart had said his good-byes only a few weeks before, anticipating the welcoming women and rich cigars he would explore at his new post in Cuba. What ill wind could have blown the man from paradise back to hell so soon? Had he identified the mole in MI6? John picked up his pace.
An open truck shoved past, its load of sheep bleating protests through warped wooden slats, stinking of mud and hay. John wrinkled his nose. A block up the street, the truck spun a U-turn through an unlikely gap in the traffic and parked in front of a restaurant.
The bus ahead of John stopped at the corner across from the sheep. Passengers crowded on. Then a shopkeeper stepped from his corner store and threw his arms wide. The bus driver sprang to the sidewalk. The men clasped in a hug and submerged into conversation.
A fresh-faced woman in a pink hijab and sky-blue kameez veered around the talking driver, a little boy in tow. The child hugged a toy blow-up horse and grinned as if he clutched the Koh-i-Noor diamond. John gave the boy a smile when he passed.
Suddenly, three men in gray kameez tunics and salwar trousers burst around the opposite street corner. John’s head snapped up, drawn by their speed and focus. They stopped and scanned the crowd. One pointed toward the truckload of sheep and then pulled a pistol and fired.
John dove behind a parked car and drew his Makarov pistol from his waistband. Fight or flight? He stilled his urge to fire back. The last thing he needed was to become embroiled in a local turf war, particularly so near Martin’s. He only hoped his friend was not involved. He had to get to Martin.
More shots. Horns blared, and cars crowded one another to escape. The bus driver levitated into his vehicle. He threw it into gear and bullied his way around the corner. People who had sheltered behind the bus scrambled toward shops, even as shopkeepers slammed down their corrugated metal doors. Only two people weren’t moving—the child with the toy horse kneeling beside the woman in the pink hijab.
Blood seeped across her shoulder and rib cage. She gestured toward a shop with her good arm and shouted in Urdu. “Run. Now. Run.” The child burrowed closer.
John shoved his pistol in his waistband and charged to the woman. He swept her up and spoke to the boy in Urdu. “Follow us.” He sprinted toward a spice stall. The child dropped the horse and dogged John’s heels. The shopkeeper met John’s eyes, shook his head, and crashed down his metal door.
A bullet whizzed past and shattered a divot from the cement wall. John ducked away from the flying chips. The woman in his arms screamed, and her gaze sought her son. The boy tugged the end of her kameez and let go.
“Here,” cried a voice.
The bus driver’s friend crouched, holding open a slice of doorway at his corner shop. John ran, the boy beside him. The man rolled up the door to let them in and then slammed it down behind them.
Frightened people shuffled aside, and John laid the woman on the floor. Bright red oozed from her shoulder, shading her blue kameez a deep purple. She gripped her arm close and grimaced. John whipped off his jacket, peeled out of his T-shirt, and pressed the cotton against the wound.
The woman groaned. “Hakeem. Where is Hakeem?”
“I have him.” A man pushed forward and showed her the child in his arms. “He is unharmed.”
John spotted the shopkeeper. “Call an ambulance, and bring some towels.”
“We don’t have towels,” the man said. A woman with her hands full of T-shirts pushed past him.
“We can use these. I’m a nurse.” She knelt beside John. “I will care for her.”
“Thank you.” John moved out of the woman’s way and turned to the store owner. “Where is your bathroom?”
The man pointed to a door at the back of the store. John wedged through the people and opened it onto a reeking closet where a window gaped wide above a hole in the ground with a footprint on each side. He pulled himself through the window into an alley, and he landed on his feet and ran.
Three blocks later, he slowed to a walk. A knife vendor gawked and John glanced down. His blood-smeared jacket hung open, revealing his bare six-pack. He zipped up the coat.
A block away, a sign reading Changezi’s tilted across the street front of a three-story cement apartment building. In front, a white panel van purred to life and whisked away as John crossed the street. John circled toward Changezi’s dwelling at the back of the building. He turned the corner and froze.
Changezi’s goat pen hung open, and his three nannies clustered at his front door. John’s skin prickled. Even Changezi’s youngest child would not be so careless with such valuable property. He drew his pistol and shooed the goats the five steps into the pen. Then he knocked at the manager’s door. Silence answered—a sound unprecedented from a home with two wives and five young children.
John bounded up the steps to Martin’s old apartment door. A bullet hole gaped next to the doorknob, and splinters littered the ground. His heart racing, he hugged the wall, pistol in hand, and tried the knob. The door swung wide. More silence.
He ducked low and peeked around the corner into the apartment’s shadowed hallway. Nothing. He crept up the passage to the living room.
A threadbare divan squatted under a window next to a weathered table that had been tipped sideways. Two straight-backed chairs stood by an upended bowl with two apples on the floor.
“Come out,” John said.
A man rose, his hands up. His gaze riveted to the bloodstains on John’s jacket, and his knees quivered. “Don’t shoot. I have a wife and child. Please.” A woman in a navy-blue headscarf peered from behind him. She clutched a bundle in her arms.
John lowered his weapon slightly. “I’m looking for a man named Martin. He’s English. My height and build. Blond hair and blue eyes. Have you seen him?”
The man’s eyes grew wide. He shook his head. “I saw nothing.”
John dropped his pistol to his side. “I don’t even need to know your name. What happened, and did you see him?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened.”
The woman’s glance darted from John to her husband and back. Then she lowered her eyes and stared at the child in her arms.
“It’s clear a bullet came through that door recently. I’m not with whoever did that. I only want to find my friend.” John retrieved an apple from the floor and settled into a chair with the manner of an overlord. “I can see something happened here, and I’m not leaving until you tell me.” He raised the apple to take a bite.
“Wait,” the man said.
John moved the apple away from his mouth and cocked his head.
“I saw a blond man in the hallway. I was taking out my trash, and he ran out of the flat next door. He jumped down the rubbish chute. Then three men ran up the stairs and started shooting. I barely made it back inside.”
John stood. “Have you seen these men before?”
“Never.”
“What did they look like?”
The man shifted and glanced toward the door, as if expecting the men to reappear. His voice was barely audible. “Black hair and gray clothing. That is all I saw.”
John’s mind flashed on the shooters at the market, and dark fear unfolded. He tossed the unbitten apple to the man. “Thank you.”
He readied his Makarov and stole from the apartment. The next door slanted ajar. Standing against the wall, John reached out and tapped it. It creaked open. A sharp whiff of bleach wafted into the hallway. He peered inside.
Chaos. A table skewed sideways, kitchen drawers dangled, and stuffing sprouted from chair cushions. No sign of Martin. John scanned the debris and noticed a minute red spot on the carpet. He knelt down and touched it. Then he sniffed. The iron tang of blood filled his nostrils.
John bolted down the stairs to the trash room. A red trail spotted from the Dumpster to the back door and stopped. A chill ran up his spine. He combed the alley. It was empty—no one and no clues. Martin was gone.
If this entices you to read further, you can buy here: Amazon
About the Authors
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-five-year veteran of field espionage operations 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.
Website: https://bayardandholmes.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/piper.bayard
Twitter: https://twitter.com/PiperBayard
Bookmarks and Stages by Lou 