On the other hand, there are certain situations where a certain amount of physical violence can’t be avoided.

When the guy below me stepped out of the hallway and into the open, I jumped down from the loft and landed with both feet on his shoulders.

The air gushed out of him, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything before he was unconscious. He hit the floor limp, like a fat man rolling out of bed, and I came down on top of him, using him to cushion my own fall. The silenced automatic tumbled from his fingers. I picked it up.

A nine-millimeter automatic. Like the one I used to use. I had to smile. The sensation of the nine-millimeter in my hand was not an altogether unpleasant experience. It was almost like shaking hands with an old friend.

On the floor, the guy was starting to rouse.

There were no lights on, of course, so I couldn’t see much of him. He was my size, about, a little heavier maybe. He was wearing black: heavy turtleneck sweater, slacks, even the stocking cap pulled down over his ears. His cheeks were red, against otherwise pale, pale skin.

And now he was up into a sitting position, there on the floor, his eyes open, and before he could say a word I said, “Take off your clothes.”

He didn’t say, “What?”

He didn’t say anything. He was a pro. He just started taking off his clothes, sweater first. The ribbing of thermal underwear was revealed as the sweater gave way. I didn’t blame him for the long johns. It was cold out there.

“Just down to your underwear,” I said.