Smugglers' Gold by Lyle Brandt

prospect did not tweak his conscience much. There was a class of people, he had found, who lived outside the law and settled their disputes without involving courts and lawyers. Generally, when they killed or maimed each other, it had no more impact on so-called polite society than when he crushed a cockroach. They existed in a world apart, and only when their violence spilled into “better” neighborhoods were any but the most extreme of moralists alarmed.
    No, Ryder thought, he
could
stand back and watch a killing, but he worried how it would affect Director Wood’s opinion of him, and his service with the agency.
    Having decided he must intervene, the question that remained was
how?
He had no time to ponder it and took the only avenue that instantly occurred to him, slumping his head and shoulders, making sure to drag his feet and mutter to himself distractedly as he moved forward, doing his best imitation of a drunkard.
    They were bound to see him, three of Marley’s adversaries facing the direction Ryder came from, but they did not seem to notice him at once. He overheard a bit more of their conversation as he lurched and staggered toward them, tilting like a sailor on a storm-tossed deck.
    â€œYou had your chance to quit,” one of the ambush party said.
    â€œI didn’t feel like leaving,” Marley answered.
    â€œWell, you’re—what’n hell is this, now?”
    So they’d spotted him. Ryder lifted his head, eyes narrowed down to slits, wearing a loose,
    lopsided smile. “Evenin’, gents,” he slurred. “Nice night for it.”
    All of them were watching his approach now, Bryan Marley likely wondering if the distraction could be useful, maybe even his salvation.
    â€œJust a sot,” the man nearest to Ryder told his three companions. “I’ll get rid of him.”
    Ryder met him halfway, stumbling on his last step so the thug would either have to catch him or jump back and let him fall. Instinctively, the burly man reached out to grasp Ryder with knobby-knuckled hands, his face a mask of pure contempt.
    Ryder let his momentum carry him, driving his right forearm into the stranger’s mug. He felt the nose crack, heard the shout of pain, then brought his right knee up into his target’s groin with crushing force. The shout became a wheeze, his interceptor doubling over, dropping to his knees, and vomiting across the wooden planks. To keep him there, Ryder hauled back and kicked him in the face.
    Marley was lashing out by then, himself, punching the nearest of his enemies with force enough to stagger him. The other two leaped in immediately, flashing knives, but Marley managed to avoid their blades, hopping away from them and off the sidewalk, to the unpaved street. One of them followed him, still swiping at him with his long knife, while the other turned toward Ryder.
    â€œDon’t know who you are,” he said, advancing, “but I’m gonna gut you like a tarpon.”
    Ryder scuttled backward, gave himself some room, and drew his Colt Army. “I’d think about that twice, if I were you,” he said.
    The bruiser thought about it for a second, made his choice, and cocked his arm as if to throw the knife. Before he had a chance to follow through, Ryder lunged forward, pistol-whipping him across the face. It staggered his opponent, drawing blood, and Ryder struck again immediately, kicking at his enemy’s right knee, buckling the leg. As he collapsed, Ryder stepped in and brought a boot down on his knife hand, crushing it, then bent down to relieve him of the dagger.
    Marley was dodging, feinting with his last standing assailant, parrying the brawler’s quick thrusts with a knife he’d drawn from somewhere underneath his coat. Steel clanged as blades collided, both men ducking, circling, as if they were used to fighting for their lives. The strange part, from the look on Marley’s face, was that he seemed