The firemen were watching the house burn to the ground.

Most of the young women were sitting on the lawn.

Rheeda and two others were in the police car. The Fire Chief was leaning against the patrol car watching the young women. A limousine pulled into the gateway, inched forward, as though from force of habit, and rested front wheels on the macadam hump. Bolan already had the occupants sighted in. Turrin sat on the pa.s.senger's side, in front. The man behind the wheel he recognized as one of the goers of Seymour's poolside party. Two other men, their faces not visible to Bolan, were in the back seat.

Bolan shot the front tires off the car as they rested on the hump, then put a quick round through the windshield between the two men. Turrin's startled and frightened face pa.s.sed swiftly through the scope viewer as he hit the deck. A back door swung open and a large man staggered onto the drive, one hand held to a bleeding scratch at the side of his head. Bolan clucked his tongue; he had not meant to hit any flesh on that first salvo.

The sounds of the big rifle boomed across the open ground. The policeman leaped from his car and started toward the fire; all attention in that area was directed to the roaring inferno. Bolan chuckled and swung once again onto the car in the gateway. The driver was trying to move the car on shattered tires.

Bolan put an imaginary mark on the hood, under which the carburetor should rest, and levered two quick shots into there. The car stopped moving immediately; the hood blew open and resettled at a skewed angle, and flames licked up around the opening. All doors popped open and galvanized men erupted from the car and sprinted for the cover of the trees a few yards distant. Bolan had been expecting it, he punched a.444 through one man's leg and let it go at that, swinging about to scope in the police car. The cop was tugging at his holstered gun and running toward the burning car in the gateway. The confusion around the firesite was working to Bolan's advantage, this much was obvious; as yet, no one had connected the knoll with the gunshots. He decided to use the confusion while he could, and punched two shots down onto the police car, dropping two of its wheels onto the ground. The women vacated rapidly, darting about in panic while the Fire Chief's car settled onto two of its rims.

Bolan then slung the rifle at his shoulder and slid down the backside of the knoll, deciding that he had rattled enough teeth for the moment. He had to climb a tree to overcome the fence, dropping onto the roof of the car. He carefully stowed the Marlin, climbed behind the wheel and swung the car in a U-turn across the road, then cruised slowly past the scene of excitement he had just vacated. He caught a glimpse of the policeman, gun in hand and a baffled look on his face, staring at the remains of the wrecked limousine. The car's occupants were nowhere in sight. Curious sightseers were beginning to descend upon the scene, and already several cars were pulled over along the shoulder of the road.

Bolan gunned on past the entrance to the estate, a satisfied smile on his face, and set a course for the home of Leo Turrin, some eight miles distant in another suburban area.

He covered the distance in something under twenty minutes, arriving at Turrin's front door at precisely two o'clock. A pretty, dark-haired woman of about thirty answered his ring. She responded with a warm smile when Bolan introduced himself, and invited him in. He declined, preferring to deliver his message while standing in the doorway.

"My name is familiar to you, then?" he asked her.

"Oh, yes," she a.s.sured him. "He has spoken very highly of you, Mr. Bolan. Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in? I don't know when-was "No, I really didn't expect to find Leo here," Bolan said quickly. "As a matter of fact, I just left him a little while ago. I neglected to tell him something important--and I was in the area --I thought I could leave the message with you." "Do I need a pad and pencil?" she inquired, smiling brightly.

"No, it's a simple message," Bolan replied soberly. "Tell him that the iron man broke the contract, and that I would have returned it to him at the fire this afternoon, but that I figured he could wait another day or two." "I-I guess I have that," she said, gazing at Bolan curiously.

"Fine. And please remind him that I could have just as easily returned it to his wife and children." Bolan smiled. "That part is important also. Please don't forget it." The pretty brunettes face had clouded.

"Mr. Bolan, I-I don't..." "It's sort of a code," he said. "Leo will understand the meaning." "I see," she replied. Bolan had turned and was heading down the steps. She followed. "M-Mr.

Bolan--if you will forgive my forwardness--comj what is your relationship with my husband?" He turned to her with a pleasant smile.

"Hasn't he told you? Don't you know what your husband's business is, Mrs. Turrin?" "Well yes, of course." A vague cloud of doubt seemed to momentarily eclipse the light in her eyes. Bolan guessed the eclipse had been there many times before. "But he has so many interests. I was--just--wondering..." "Where I fit in?" Bolan finished the question for her.

She nodded, her face a mixture of curiosity and embarra.s.sment.

Bolan hated to hit her with it. She seemed a very nice person. But there were overriding considerations.

"I'm one of his guns." "What?" Bolan casually opened his jacket and let her see the.32 snuggling into his armpit. "Didn't you know that your husband is a Mafiosi?" he asked calmly.

"A what?" She practically screamed, her face twisted into a stiff mask of shock and horror.

"I'm sure there's enough Latin in your veins to figure that out, Mrs. Turrin, Bolan said cordially. He moved on down the steps and into his car without looking back. She was still standing there in the doorway when he drove away, body rigid, hands raised to her face. Bolan felt like the biggest b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the world. It wasn't much fun rattling those kind of teeth. He sighed and headed the black sedan toward Walter Seymour's estate.

Well, a rattle was a rattle. It was that sort of a war. Tomorrow that pretty woman would be a widow. And tonight she would have a very frightened husband on her hands. There was no morality in a holy war. It was simply a matter of ultimate good versus ultimate evil. It did not really matter that good becomes evil in the heat of the battle. Combat reduces everything to evil--life itself becomes an evil thing in the heat of the battle. How many times in bygone years had he threshed through these same old stale ideas? Why torture himself with mystical concepts of good and evil? The Mafia was evil.

Any opposition to the Mafia is therefore good. The lines of battle were clearly drawn. The only morality in battle was to fight the good fight, to stand strong against the a.s.sault and to counterattack unfalteringly when the time was come. This was a soldiers morality. Mack Bolan was a soldier's soldier. He glanced at his watch. If the traffic did not get too bad, he could make Seymour's place by three o'clock. This battle would prove interesting indeed. Yes. Perhaps he would make it a death rattle. And perhaps the vibrations would make themselves felt throughout the inner circle, the high council, the family fathers. Perhaps he would rattle their house down.

Penetration He stopped the car on a narrow dirt road to the rear of the Seymour estate, removed his jacket, and pulled on green coveralls. He unholstered the .32 and shoved it into the waistband of his trousers, then belted on a leather tool belt, the type worn by telephone and power company linemen. One of the compartments held a broad-bladed hunting knife; there were also pliers, screwdrivers, cutting tools, and various other implements. A small mousset bag on a shoulder sling completed the outfit.

Bolan left the Marlin in the car, walked through a wooded lot, and easily breached the redwood fence to the Seymour place through the simple expedient of wrenching loose several of the boards. Obviously Seymour placed more reliance on live security than on Maginot lines, and Bolan suspected that much of that live security had been drained off to the Pinechester.

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 the hedgerow and onto the poolsite, his eyes flickering rapidly back and forth between Bolan and the pool.

"What the h.e.l.l?" 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ap.r.o.n. 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." "I've got him doing something else." Bolan persisted. "I need-was "Well, that's tough s.h.i.t!" the gunman roared.

"There's n.o.body else around! Get your own G.o.dd.a.m.n-to " "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-was They had rounded the corner of the poolside patio, and the gunman was reacting visibly to the confrontation. "Well, s.h.i.t, 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 a.s.sured 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-yore not a member of the family, are you?" She shook her head. "I Just work here," she cried shakily.

"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 mosset 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," The cook 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 belt 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. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 d.a.m.n well know it.

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 been busy busy busy, haven't you." Bolan chuckled. "They yelling?" he asked.

"At the very limit of their lungs, that's all.

There's a warrant for you. Arson, a.s.sault, a.s.sault with intent, attempted murder--shall I go on?" "Naw, save it," Bolan suggested. "There'll be a lot more to add before the day is done." The detective's tone was plainly troubled.

"Why'd you, Mr. Bolan-was "I want to ask a favor." "Oh? You want to turn yourself in? That's about the best favor I can offer--the lockup." Bolan was chuckling. "Not hardly. I'd like for you to move my brother into the police ward at the hospital." "Oh, I did that early this morning." "Very thoughtful of you," Bolan said, his voice revealing his surprise.

"Yeah, I think of a lot of things," the cop told him. "You've really managed to isolate yourself from the world, haven't you." "Maybe." "Maybe, h.e.l.l. You've torn it good, Sergeant. Everybody wants you now, even the military. CID men just left here." "You sure lost no time calling them in." Bolan was plainly miffed.

"Uh-uh, not me. Somebody with political influence blew the whistle, no doubt. They're running scared, Bolan." "You don't sound too mad at me." "I'm not. I'm tickled to death. Unofficially, of course. Also unofficially there's a lot of people down here rooting for you. Don't expect any official sympathy, though. As far as the law's concerned, Bolan, you're just as rotten as the best of them--and let me a.s.sure you uh, wait a minute ..." Bolan could hear the vague mumble of background voices, then the Lieutenant was back on the line. "You been out in the Portal area lately?" he asked, the voice somewhat brisker.

"Could be." "Near the home of a Walter Seymour?" "Maybe." "Uh-huh. Well..." More background noises, then: "You can add two counts of first-degree murder to that warrant. You'd better come on in now, Bolan. This thing has gone far enough." "Not nearly." "Huh?" "Not nearly far enough. It's unconditional warfare, Weatherbee. You may as well understand that.

And listen. Don't send any plain-clothes cops in my direction. I'll shoot anything that moves against me, unless I can clearly identify the law." "You wouldn't shoot a cop, eh?" "I'd rather not. We'll have a crowded schedule, better bug off. I've enjoyed the chat." "Bolan--that informant I was telling you about..." "Yeah!" "He's on my other line right now. Like to hear some more interesting information?" Bolan chuckled. "I love gossip." Weatherbee cleared his throat heavily.

"You may not love this tidbit. That contract has been expanded. Not ten minutes ago. It is now open season on one Mack-the-Knife Bolan, with every hood in the East joining the game. You are now worth a hundred gee's, dead in the street, buddy. How do you like them apples?" "So, they are running scared." "You dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d, can't you see what you've done? You're attracting every gunsel in ten states into our town." "That's exactly what I want," Bolan clipped back. "Now you cops are going to have to move off the sidelines, aren't you." "Bolan, you're a lunatic! You-was "I'm a catalyst, Lieutenant! I've smoked a rat-pack out from under their cover of respectability--and now you're going to have to do something about them aren't you!" The detective's angry voice rattled the telephone receiver. "We're going to do something about you too, Bolan." "So we understand each other," The Executioner replied levelly.

"Yeah, we understand each other. But Bolan..." "I'm still here." "Don't shoot a cop." "I'd rather not." "You'd better not! Like I said, you've got some unofficial sympathy down here right now, but..." "We understand each other," Bolan clipped. He hung up and returned to the car. A glance at his watch informed him that the time was 4:40. He would just about have time to make it over to the Triangle office. His smile broadened and he started the engine and eased into the rush-hour traffic. He thought of Weatherbee and chuckled, feeling a bit sorry for the serious-minded cop. It was good to understand people, Bolan decided.

Understandings were highly important in warfare. They were, indeed, all-important. And now, Bolan needed to cement an understanding with the Mafia--a financial understanding. He angled into a turn-lane and headed directly for the loan company.

A Gut Transaction Bolan stepped through the door at five minutes before five o'clock, closed it quickly and locked it, and pulled down the shade. The girl at the reception desk showed him a startled attention, and Bolan showed her the little plastic-embossed card supplied by Turrin. "You're closed for the day," he snapped. His eyes flicked toward the closed door beyond the plastic and wood interview cages. "Who's in there?" he asked harshly.

"J-just Mr. Thomas," the girl blurted.

Another girl popped up behind a wire enclosure. Bolan turned his attention immediately upon her. "Are you the cashier?" he asked her.

"Yes, sir," she replied breathlessly.

"Got your day's accounts in order?" She nodded. "Yes, sir, just now." Bolan was moving around behind the cage. "Bundle everything up and take it into Thomas's office, the money too, everything." He pulled the receptionist to her feet and gently pushed her toward the back office. "Get in there and tell Thomas to get his books ready for a spot audit. Everything on the top of the desk, please." He was rattling the wire gate to the cashiers cage. "Let me in there, I'll give you a hand," he barked.

The receptionist turned back to him with a pained expression. "I forgot your name," she said.

"Just tell him I'm from Plasky's office," he snapped. "Move-move! I don't have all night!" The girl nodded and half-ran across the outer office, rapped lightly on the closed door, and swept inside. Bolan picked up a wooden tray and began stacking currency the cashier was removing from her cash drawer. The two of them noisily invaded the private office a moment later. Thomas, the office manager, scowled at Bolan and said, "I don't think-was "Good, don't think," Bolan snapped him off.

"You haven't been here long enough to start thinking." He jerked a thumb toward a ma.s.sive steel door.

"Get the vault open," he commanded.

The young man's face was showing an inner conflict.

"I'd like to see your, uh, identification," he said.

Bolan once again swept the plastic card into sight, held it briefly in front of the man's eyes, then returned it to his pocket. He smiled suddenly, a warm reach of friendship. "Look, don't be so nervous," he said softly. "Plasky thinks these spot audits will keep you on your toes.

You have nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Open the vault so we can get this over with." Thomas hesitatingly began working the combination of the door lock, then turned the big wheel and swung the door open. "What is your cash on hand?" Bolan asked tersely.

The cashier thrust a sc.r.a.p of paper tape into the manager's hand. He glanced at it. "Forty-two thousand, six hundred eighty-nine and forty," he mumbled.

"Oh G.o.dd.a.m.n, not that figure," Bolan replied with obvious exasperation. "The holding fund, Thomas, d.a.m.nit, not your nickels and dimes." The younger man blinked, stepped into the vault, slid back a section of steel wall, and produced a large leather case. "Why didn't you say so in the first place," he complained petulantly.

"Open it," Bolan commanded.

Thomas fished a key from somewhere inside the vault, inserted it into the case lock, then blinked past Bolan to the young women who were standing awkwardly in the center of the office floor. Bolan understood the look.

"You ladies wait in the outer office," he said.

The two girls exchanged glances and went out.

Thomas carried the case over to his desk, opened it, and glared at Bolan.

"I hope to G.o.d you don't want to count it," he said miserably.

"What's the tally?" "Two hundred and fifty thousand." "Certified?" The manager nodded and produced a sheet of paper from the top of the stacked currency. Bolan pretended to study the list of figures, said, "Uh-huh," and moved back toward the vault.

"Just exactly what are you looking for?" Thomas wanted to know.

"Come here and I'll show you," Bolan said. He jerked the other man inside the vault and slammed his head against the steel wall. The young man's legs rubberized and he slid to the floor. Bolan stepped past him and began hurling ledgers and records out into the office. He stripped the vault completely, piling currency into the open case on the manager's desk and piling everything else on the floor. He slammed and locked the vault door, then touched his lighter to the pile of papers on the floor, picked up the case of money, and went out to join the young ladies.

"I want all your records out here--out here on the floor," he barked. The girls looked at each other, then began opening drawers and arranging papers and file folders atop the counter. "Don't be so dainty about it," Bolan said roughly.

"This's an emergency!" He swept the records to the floor, then went over to a metal file cabinet and began unloading the drawers. Minutes later a bonfire was raging in the outer office, and the eyes of the young ladies were beginning to reflect the presence of a madman in their midst.

Bolan seized the cashier and pressed a marksman's medal into her hand. "Tell Plasky The Executioner said it was easy as pie," he said calmly.