War Against the Mafia
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

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