Cardinal Deceit: Vatican Vengeance, #2

By Tom Mohrbach

The pope's beloved nephew is kidnapped. The abductors' initial demand is a face-to-face meeting with the Holy Father. Their goal is to change the leadership of the Catholic Church. They expected cooperation with limited resistance.

The Vatican's covert unit of highly-trained individuals referred to as "The Four" has a different agenda; maximum resistance with whatever means necessary to defeat the adversary.

Colton Bishop is back for another assignment! This time he's joined by the other members of his select team. Their exploits take them from the holy city of Rome, to the Suncoast of Florida, and on to Venice, Italy.

 If you enjoyed "Vatican Vengeance," set aside some time for this new adventure, as you won't want to put it down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Mohrbach
• Release date: Jan 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393119463

Tom Mohrbach

I am a retired police sergeant from Monroe, MI. Writing has always been a passion and hobby of mine.  After retiring from the Monroe Police Department, in 2011, I authored a weekly article in our county's newspaper, The Monroe Evening News. After three years, and over 150 articles later, I decided to focus my writing on a novel.  It has been a long process interrupted by other life priorities but has finally came to fruition. I released, "Vatican Vengeance," in December of 2018. "Cardinal Deceit," is my second novel and includes many of the same characters from Vatican Vengeance. If you are a fan of action/adventure, with an emphasis on action, give them a try. My chief writing influences are John Sanford (Prey Novels), Lee Child (Reacher Novels), Robert B. Parker (Spencer Series), Vince Flynn (Rapp series) and Daniel Silva (Gabriel Allon Novels). I currently reside in New Port Richey, Florida, with my wife, Cindy, and our Corgi-Chihuahua mix, Buster-Brown. We have a daughter, Danielle, who lives in Chicago, Illinois where she pursues her passions of the theater and writing.  Besides writing, I also enjoy spending time outdoors, fishing, hiking, and bow hunting.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Colton Bishop finished his shift at the famed Roman eatery, La Formisa, just prior to 3 a.m. Cooking was his passion. He pursued a culinary arts degree many years ago at Le Cordon Bleu in Florence. Afterwards, he spent several months in Tuscany under the tutelage of a renowned Italian chef, where he honed his culinary skills to a razor’s edge. 

Shortly after returning to Rome, he learned La Formisa was hiring a sous chef.  He applied, interviewed, and accepted the position all within a few days. Nine years later, he was their executive chef. He gained quite a following from both locals and tourists that sought out the famed restaurant and handsome chef.

It was an arduous 14-hour workday. As he walked the last few blocks home to his flat, his thoughts were on an earlier meeting with his other boss, Ricardo Mascola, a.k.a The Controller, who worked for the Vatican—as did Colton on a part-time basis.

Colton was an as needed private contractor for the Vatican, as opposed to a full-time employee. His exact job description for the city-state was ultra-secret, but his official cover was a menu advisor and occasional substitute chef to the pope’s private chef. His primary employment for the Vatican was of much greater importance than preparing the pontiff’s next meal.

Colton took his usual shortcut through an alley that emptied out to the rear entrance near his apartment, a stone’s throw from the Vatican’s south wall. He was halfway down the dark and narrow passageway when he heard a low whimper and insistent no, please no, from the far end. Despite the late hour and poorly lit passageway, he could see almost as good as if it were daylight, as he was born with exceptional night vision.

Slowing his approach, to allow him time to evaluate the situation, he observed four thugs, clustered in a semicircle, around a petite young lady, whose back was pressed against the soiled wall of a closed bakery. The yeasty smell of baked breads lingered in the cool morning air. 

The woman was wearing a cropped white blouse that didn’t quite make it to her waist. One of the thug’s hands was under it. His other hand was attempting to cover her mouth. The men didn’t appear to be members of one of the many local gangs, but rather, a clean-cut, fit-looking bunch.

Good morning gentlemen, Colton announced casually in flawless English.  He pegged the young men as being from England since two of them were wearing futbol jerseys advertising a team from there.

Sorry, but this alley is closed. You best turn and go back the way you came, the one whose hand was under the blouse of the young woman answered. The other three nodded their heads and glared at him.

Not a problem, Colton replied, but I need to take the lady with me, fellas. So, if you would kindly let her go, we’ll be on our way.

This whore? The same man inquired. She isn’t going anywhere.

Colton shook his head. Now, that was uncalled for. She is not a prostitute any more than you are a gentleman. Once again, I ask that you release her, so we can be on our way. 

I bought her a couple pints back at the pub, and she wasn’t even kind enough to give me a kiss.

It appears that you are looking for a bit more than a kiss. Release her now or you won’t be kissing anything for a long time, Colton replied with a bit of edge to his speech.

The thug released the young woman, who slumped to the alley floor while crying softly and hugging herself. Dark brown eyes looked uncertainly at Colton through long raven bangs. He smiled reassuringly at her. She returned the smile, albeit with considerably less confidence than his projected. 

Okay, I let her go. You had your chance to be a wise lad and move along but instead you choose to play the hero. Now you’re mine, dumbshit. Nobody threatens me without getting an ass whooping, the Brit said, while taking a classic boxer’s stance, leading with his left side and fists held high.

His buddies stood in a line a few feet behind him and ahead of the girl.  The unspoken message was clear: even if Colton got through their friend, he had to get past them to get to the woman.

Fifteen seconds, Colton replied.

Fifteen what?

Fifteen seconds. You know, it’s a measure of time. There are 60 of them in a minute, Colton answered.

No shit, Sherlock. I’m not stupid. What about it? the Brit asked.

It’s the amount of time before I’m helping the young lady up from the ground, and all four of you are laying on it.

Is that right?  The thug glanced back at his friends and gave them a can you believe this guy look. Before he could turn back around, Colton quickly closed the gap between them and delivered a crushing right hook to the left side of his ribs.  A few cracked audibly. The injured Brit dropped his guard to hold his injured side; Colton punched him in the mouth with a hard left-jab that loosened four of his teeth, dislocated his jaw, and knocked him backwards onto his ass.

The other three friends looked anxiously at each other as though trying to decide who should retaliate. This indecisiveness was seized by Colton, who quickly stepped over their fallen comrade, then head-butted the middle of the three. He screamed as his nose shattered. Colton followed the head butt with a hard knee strike to his groin. The screaming increased.

Before Brit number two crumpled forward to the alley floor, Colton spun around backwards to his left while ducking his head low, just as a hard, right punch sailed harmlessly over his head where his face had just been. Colton drove his left elbow deep into the third Brit’s midsection. The man groaned and wheezed, as all the air went out of him like a punctured inner tube. Colton, still in a crouch, reached up and grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair and forcefully yanked him forward, flipping him hard onto his back, where he remained motionless.

The last guy standing had enough time to launch a hard, forward kick to Colton’s right side. Colton, who was still in a crouch from flipping the guy’s friend, saw the kick coming in his peripheral vision. He lifted his right arm while pivoting his body slightly to the left, allowing the kick to only graze his side. He trapped the guy’s leg against his body and quickly stood.

The man was hopping around frantically on his other foot and pinwheeling his arms, desperately trying to keep his balance. Colton firmly grasped the attacker’s foot in his left hand and drove his right elbow down hard into the knee cap. It shattered, apparently causing excruciating pain, as the guy let loose with a string of expletives that would have impressed a member of the Royal Navy.  Colton shoved him backwards into several nearby metal garbage cans where he crumpled unceremoniously to the alley floor along with his comrades.

Colton surveyed the scene. Roughly 15 seconds had elapsed since the melee began. The four Brits were all down and whimpering like the young lady was seconds earlier. He approached her and held out his hand. She hesitantly took it then smiled at him as he helped her stand. 

Grazie, she said, and continued speaking in her native tongue. That was incredible. I don’t know how to thank you. Who are you? She inquired. 

I’m Colton. Are you okay? he inquired in Italian as well.

I think so. He didn’t.... Um, he didn’t... she said while smoothing down her blouse and skirt.

It’s okay, I understand. Do you want me to telephone the police for you?

No, no. That isn’t necessary. I doubt they will be bothering anyone again anytime soon. She remarked, while walking over to the thug who had his hand up her shirt just a minute before. He was now holding two of his teeth in his hand and rubbing his crooked jaw with the other. He warned you. Now you won’t be kissing anyone anytime soon, asshole. She spat on him and walked back to Colton. Would you mind walking me home? I live just a couple blocks away. I’m Jewell and I’m so glad you came upon us.

Her eyes openly appraised Colton from head to toe. At just over six feet tall and 190 pounds with an athlete’s lean physique, and shoulder-length, chocolate-brown hair that framed piercing gray-blue eyes, he was accustomed to such stares from women.

My roommate is on holiday. Perhaps you would be interested in a glass of wine? Jewell smiled shyly and met his eyes.

The moment was interrupted by a set of headlights from a sanitation truck turning into the alley. The driver leaned out and looked curiously past Colton and the young woman, at the four men strewn about the alley in various degrees of distress. Colton took the woman’s hand and led her around the truck. As he approached the driver’s side, he paused and remarked, So sorry about the mess, but the dumpsters were already full.

On arrival to her flat, Colton thanked Jewell for the invitation for a nightcap but explained he had a very long day and that he had urgent business in a few hours and needed to grab a couple hours sleep.  He retrieved his restaurant’s business card from his wallet and handed it to her. I’m the chef here. I’ll be off for a week or so but please stop by after that. I’m there most nights.  Ask for me. I’ll take a break and dine with you.

She hid her disappointment poorly regarding the refused nightcap. Her full lips went from a smile to a pout but brightened visibly upon the dinner invitation. Okay, Colton, I will definitely take you up on that offer. She raised up on her tip toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. Her scent was very pleasant, like vanilla and caramel. He lingered on her soft, full lips, while considering skipping his needed sleep.

His history of relationships with women were many of short duration. He couldn’t commit to one woman despite the best of intentions, but he found he couldn’t possibly stop romancing them. The Vatican staff psychologist once told him that he loved the pursuit, and the catch, but like an angler out of season, he only practiced catch and release, much to the disappointment of most his dates. He once was enamored with an American woman from Michigan, named Maggie, but that was not to be either.

Colton weighed a couple hours of pleasure with the young woman before him compared to a couple hours of needed rest. He knew now was not the time, as Papa—the pope—needed him sharp.  He reluctantly pulled away from the young woman’s embrace and said, I’m sorry but I really have to go, He turned around and headed back to his apartment, very much looking forward to meeting Jewell in the future.

CHAPTER TWO

Diego De Luga was on a grassy hillside almost two kilometers away from the pistol range where the Swiss Guard honed their proficiency in small caliber weapons. A huge farm-field of durum wheat was all that lay between the hill and the range. He lay prone, perfectly motionless while gazing through the scope mounted to his British L115A .338 sniper rifle. His spotter, Pietro, was a rookie with the Swiss Guard who came highly regarded from the Swiss Army for which he served four years of active duty. 

This is a tremendous distance. Perhaps you should have not wagered such a large sum with the Sergeant-major, suggested Pietro. 

Ah, ye of little faith! quipped Diego.  We can do this.

Pietro was pleased Diego said we. Too many snipers didn’t give their spotters enough credit.  Afterall, thought Pietro, without their critical input such long shots would be practically impossible. 

Pietro called off the information regarding wind, elevation, and distance adjustments as Diego attempted to become one with his rifle, getting the proper point of aim, cheek-weld, and slowing his breathing and pulse rate. 

Finally, Pietro announced, At your ready, send it.

Diego eased back the trigger. The rifle barked and kicked, sending the bullet towards its target over a mile away. 

Sergeant-major Alois Anrig was at the range and had assured all personnel were clear of downrange.  Several of his Swiss Guard were gathered behind him watching intently down range through binoculars. He gazed through his spotting scope at the watermelon resting atop the barricade 100 yards away. Diego was a tad cocky for his taste.  Sure, the lad had some serious skills regarding long distance shooting, but to think he could make this shot on his first attempt, especially with the wind what it was today? Not a chance, thought Alois. He could use the extra cash. 500 Euros was a nice chunk of change.

Without warning, the watermelon exploded as though it was dropped from a ten-story building. His men behind him burst into cheers and applause. Alois lowered his head, shaking it from side to side. The cocky lad made the nearly impossible shot on his first attempt. 

Part of him wished that Diego was still a member of his unit, but the lad had a stubborn streak and was more of a lone wolf than a team player.  Teamwork was paramount among the guard.  In the end, Diego was allowed to resign from the guard rather than be terminated. He was hired a few months later to assist with training the guard in the art of long-distance sniping. 

God only knew what he was doing with Ricardo Mascola’s secret unit, but Alois could hazard a guess. 

CHAPTER THREE

Marco Romano was delighted to have found a signed copy of Salvatore Quasimodo’s early poems. He was a lover of poetry, especially Italian poets. Passing away the afternoon browsing second-hand bookstores was just what he needed on a rare day off from the Vatican.

He descended the stairs into the dark and dank of the Metro station. A miasma of urine, tobacco, and body odors assaulted his olfactory glands. His metro arrived on time. He clambered aboard with the hundreds of other late afternoon commuters. He was soon lost in his book. 

Loud, agitated voices near the rear of his car intruded on his reading. He glanced up to see a large black man and a bald Caucasian male arguing.  The Caucasian was heavily tattooed and had a prominent Nazi tat on his forehead.  Both men had clenched fists and were nose to nose. The tension in the car was palpable and others near the two men began to move away. 

The black man roughly shoved the skinhead in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards into an empty seat. The skinhead withdrew a long knife from his black boot and stood with rage in his eyes.  He hurled several racial slurs at the other man, who stood his ground only a few feet away, then threatened to disembowel him. 

Marco sighed and thought, So much for a relaxing commute. He closed his eyes and rapidly slowed his breathing and pulse while focusing on the last image of the skinhead in his mind. The darkness was filled with immense rage and hatred. Marco mentally forced his way through all the rage and filled the void with an image from the skinhead’s past: him cradling