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.
4 - The Understanding
Bolan stopped at a public telephone, thumbed a dime into the slot, and dialed the number for the central police station. "Lieutenant Weatherbee, Homicide," he told the switchboard operator. He waited, humming softly under his breath, until the familiar drawl of the detective came on the line.
"Weatherbee here."
"Bolan here."
"Oh? Where, uh, where you calling from, Bolan?"
"Forget the intrigue, Lieutenant," Bolan advised. "I just wanted to let you know that contract's still open."
"Yeah, uh, you've
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.
4 - The Understanding
Bolan stopped at a public telephone, thumbed a dime into the slot, and dialed the number for the central police station. "Lieutenant Weatherbee, Homicide," he told the switchboard operator. He waited, humming softly under his breath, until the familiar drawl of the detective came on the line.
"Weatherbee here."
"Bolan here."
"Oh? Where, uh, where you calling from, Bolan?"
"Forget the intrigue, Lieutenant," Bolan advised. "I just wanted to let you know that contract's still open."
"Yeah, uh, you've
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