A Parker Novel
Parker kicked the guy in the head, stepped to the right, kicked the gun from the slackening fingers across the room, dropped to one knee as the guy landed heavily on his left side, and chopped down hard on his neck with the edge of his hand.
That was enough; maybe more than enough. Parker shoved his shoulder so that he fell out flat on his back, and patted him quickly for more weapons. A .22-caliber Browning Lightweight automatic in a small clamshell holster attached to the inside of his right shin. Nothing else.
“What the hell is that?”
Parker looked up; it was Grofield, in the bathroom doorway, naked and with a cake of soap in his hand. “Either an angry husband,” Parker said, “or somebody from the people who got our money.”
Grofield came padding forward, dripping on the rug. Frowning at the unconscious man, he said, “No husbands this trip. He came here to kill me, huh?”
“Both of us,” Parker said. “He picked you first because he had a make on the car.”
“I’m too trusting,” Grofield said. He looked at the cake of soap he was holding. “I’ll be right back.”