The place, indeed, appeared to be deserted. Walking boldly in the open, he made it to the swimming pool unchallenged, gazed about with almost fond memories, then produced a packet from the mousset bag, ripped it open, and tossed it into the pool. The water immediately began to take on a brilliant red coloration under the influence of the powerful marker-dye. He then kicked over two of the cabanas and shoved them into the pool. He watched them for a moment, wondering if they were going to float or sink, and had about decided on "float" when a man in white slacks and a red jacket jogged around the corner of hedgerow and onto the poolsite, his eyes flickering rapidly back and forth between Bolan and the pool.
"What th' hell?" the man growled. His hand went inside the jacket and returned with a pistol in tow.
Bolan ignored the pistol. "I dunno," he said calmly. "I think something's happened to your pool." His gaze was pure innocence; he turned his back on the security man to peer into the water. "Come and see for yourself," he suggested.
The man stepped up beside him, staring stupidly into the pool, the gun gripped tightly in front of him and pointed into the water. "I don't..." he started to say, the words eclipsing into a bloody bubble. The gun slipped into the pool and he raised surprised hands to a suddenly and unaccountably slit throat, then tumbled forward into the pool only a second or two behind the gun, the rush of blood hardly visible in the already stained waters. Bolan dropped to one knee and swished the blade of the hunting knife in the pool, then dried it, sighed, and sheathed it. The body had disappeared beneath the dye; Bolan rose and walked toward the house, his eyes raised and seeking power and phone cables. Locating them, he ambled casually to a rear corner of the house, pulled the insulated cutters from their holster, and deprived the Seymour home of telephone service, then moved a few feet further on and sliced through the main power cable.
There were immediate sounds of activity inside the house. A back door opened and a middle-aged woman emerged, rubbing her hands nervously on a gaily decorated apron. Her troubled gaze swept over Bolan, then she grunted and said, "Well, what is it now?"
"Doing some work on the lines, ma'am," Bolan said, smiling apologetically.
"Well, you picked a swinging time," she told him, obviously chafing with exasperation. "I'm trying to fix dinner. How long's it going to be off?"
Bolan ignored the question; another gun had pushed excitedly through the doorway. "Everything's off," he growled, the ever-present pistol dangling in a relaxed grip.
"What's the gun for?" Bolan asked, then quipped: "You going to shoot me for losing your lights?"
The man glared at him, but reholstered the gun. "How long they gonna be off?" he asked, his tone surly and complaining.
"If I can get a couple guys to help me, I'll have them back on in a jiffy," Bolan told him.
The man jerked his head in an impatient nod. "I'll help," he said. "What do we-?"
"I need two men," Bolan insisted.
"There's another guy out here somewhere. Well-"
"I've got him doing something else," Bolan persisted. "I need-"
"Well, that's tough shit!" the gunman roared. "There's nobody else around! Get your own goddamn-!"
"Okay, okay..." Bolan took him by the arm and walked him toward the pool. The cook was moving back inside. "I guess we can handle it ourselves," Bolan was saying chattily. "Trouble's down here by the pool. See, the-"
They had rounded the corner of the poolside patio, and the gunman was reacting visibly to the confrontation. "Well, shit, what's happened here?" he cried.
"Electron storm, see," Bolan was saying, straight-faced. "Inductance from the pool into the power cables, see. Come here, I'll show you." He had stepped to the side of the pool, and was peering into the water.
The security man moved slowly to join him, the gun hand sliding softly toward the armpit. He stood beside The Executioner, one hand raised to the back of his neck, eyes roving unbelievingly across the red waters and onto the floating cabanas.
"Electrons are powerful little demons," Bolan said soberly. "The power of the atom, you know."
"I still don't get it," the gunman mumbled. The hand had found the comforting contour of the pistol grip and was slowly moving into the open. Bolan's hand had been busy also. The hunting knife whipped up and over, slicing across veins, arteries, and tendons of the gun hand. The man gave a startled grunt and jerked hastily away, but the long flat blade had already found another mark deep in his abdomen and was now slicing back toward the surface in a twisting withdrawal. Bolan's other hand, at the man's back, pushed gently and the scarlet waters accommodated another visitor.
Bolan cleaned the blade once again, muttered, "There's no morality in a holy war," and returned to the house.
The cook met him at the back door. "They're still off," she complained.
"Should be okay now," Bolan told her. "I'd better come inside and take a look."
She nodded and stepped aside. Bolan went in and gazed around the kitchen. "Smell that?" he asked her,
"Just my pot roast," she replied uneasily.
"No- there's something wrong in here," he assured her. "You'd better go outside-get clear away from the house."
She nodded her head in quick agreement and stepped toward the door.
"Is anybody else in the house?"
She shook her head negatively and hurried outside. Bolan moved swiftly then, on through the kitchen and past the dining room and up the stairs to the upper level. He unsheathed the hunting knife and went from bedroom to bedroom, slashing every mattress in the house from head to foot, a task requiring less than two minutes. Returning through the living room, he noted a large portrait of Walt Seymour hanging over the mantel. Bolan coolly sighted his.32 and emptied it into the portrait, completely punching out both eyes. Then he reloaded the pistol, returned it to the waistband of his trousers, and rejoined the cook on the back lawn.
"I heard explosions!" she cried excitedly.
"Yes, ma'am," Bolan said. He walked on past her without another word.
She scampered along after him. "Should I call the fire department?" she asked breathlessly.
"No, ma'am," he said, turning back to gaze at her reflectively. "Uh-you're not a member of the family, are you?"
She shook her head. "I just work here," she cried shrilly.
"Then I suggest you find a job somewhere else, and quick."
"Why?"
"Because your employer does not have long to live, that's why. You tell him that." Bolan dug into the mousset bag, located a metallic object, and pressed it into the woman's hand.
"What's this?" she asked, eyes clouding in confusion.
"You give that to Mr. Seymour. Tell him it's from The Executioner. Tell him it will be just this easy when his time comes. Just this easy. You understand that?"
She nodded vaguely, holding the object up to view it better. "My son got one of these," she said dully. "It's a marksman's badge or something."
"Yes, ma'am. You just give that to Mr. Seymour, and give him my message."
"You're not from the power company," she said, the realization just dawning on her.
"No, ma'am. The house is safe enough if you want to go back in." Bolan left her standing there and reversed his route across the grounds, through the fence, and back to the car. He returned the tool kit and coveralls to the trunk compartment, climbed in behind the wheel, lit a cigarette, and inspected his hands for steadiness. They were shaking a little. It was okay, he realized, it was the proper time to shake. He started the engine and moved the car slowly along the dirt road. He would have enjoyed hanging around and watching Seymour's reaction to The Executioner's penetration of the defense perimeter-but there would be another time for that. If time did not run out for The Executioner. There would be a great hue and cry now, that much was certain. The newspapers would certainly get in on the act; no doubt pressures would be brought to bear on the police. A madman was running loose in Pittsfield. Bolan grinned and gunned the sedan up a little incline and onto a paved highway. A madman with a cause. The important thing was that the House of Mafia would be vibrating from basement to attic. He had shown them how vulnerable they were. The battle would be joined and it would get personal, highly personal. It would not be a matter of cold-blooded murder contracts; this would be a war of emotion, and fear, and the constant threat of sudden death. It was Bolan's kind of war. It was the kind of warfare in which he was an expert. The Matthews would surely recognize that fact now. They'd been penetrated, and they'd damn well know it.