Fear Her Wrath II: Crucible of Glass

Chapter 14

Since taking over the Polish mob, Albert Rosinski upgraded from his nightclub on Vice Mile to a private yacht he kept anchored off the western edge of the Fen. Probably not the most responsible of financial decisions, but given that Albert wasn't exactly a criminal mastermind, I wasn't surprised. What did surprise me was that—even a week after the death of his brother—Albert was still in charge of the Polish mob. The Montagneses obviously had something to gain from this new arrangement—otherwise he would've already been at the bottom of Marbrose Harbor. I just couldn't figure out what.

Albert Rosinski called his new yacht the Pola Negri. I think it used to belong to some Greek drug smuggler before Albert bought it and renamed it for the Polish screen vamp who mesmerized both the Tramp and the Latin Lover back in the '20s. It was an impressive boat, stretching more than 60 meters from bow to stern. Maybe in need of some updating and a paint job, but certainly one way for Albert to flaunt his newfound wealth. Getting aboard wouldn't be too difficult. It was Albert's personal security I was worried about. My electro-staff was still in two pieces, stuffed in the closet of my bedroom where dad wouldn't find it. My tonfa would do in a pinch, but it wasn't the same. I was also low on knockout gas. If I ran into trouble, I would be fighting at very close range with a limited arsenal.

Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will.

The sound was so close that I jumped a little. Turning around, I saw that the Whippowil was practically looking over my shoulder. The glowing eyes of his bird mask, however, were fixed on the Pola Negri, almost like he hadn't noticed me. I wondered how long he had been following me; it was a little unnerving to have someone who could sneak up on me like that.

"You keeping an eye on me again?" I asked, feeling slightly irritated.

"Naturally," he said. "If you insist on looking for trouble."

"Excuse me—I'm the veteran vigilante here. I know what I'm doing. You're the one who's new."

"And yet I had to save you from the Piano-Tuner. Funny how that works out."

I shot him an annoyed look, which he obviously couldn't see through my mask.

"I'm paying a visit to Albert Rosinski. You can tag along if you want, but I don't need your help."

"If you don't mind."

"If you don't get in my way, I don't."

He reached up and touched the side of his mask, and I noticed that the red eyes had narrowed—like a camera lens zooming in on its target.

"Three guards on the deck," he said. "All with automatic weapons."

"Not a problem," I said stoutly.

(Okay, so I had just been thinking about how it was, in fact, a problem, but he didn't need to know that.)

We crept down to pier, keeping to the shadows. Getting aboard turned out to be a two-person job. The Whippowil pulled himself up with his hooked cane from my shoulders, then lowered his cane to pull me up after him. The deck was quiet, apart from the light footfalls of Rosinski's guards. We picked the one taking a smoke break near the stern as our first victim. The Whippowil used his cane to block his windpipe—I got him in the chest with my tonfa.

One down, two to go.

Splitting up seemed like the sensible way to finish the job. My victim was actually someone I recognized—Goldie Kominsky, one of Albert's longtime lackeys. I knocked his legs out from under him and smacked him as hard as I could over the head, which knocked him cold. A sudden thump on the other side of the yacht told me the Whippowil had finished his goon as well. I waited for his signal.