Free The Ravagers by Donald Hamilton

Ruyter, the competent girl-killer, was my baby, too. It was my duty, I reminded myself grimly, to see that nobody hurt a hair of their scheming, vicious, good-looking heads.
    At the very least, I told myself as I made the water run for the last time, the glove could have involved me in unnecessary complications, should there be somebody waiting when I got back to camp. I stalled long enough on the way to make reasonably sure there would be.
    They weren’t in sight, of course. I’d got a fairly secluded site toward the rear of the camp, shielded by trees and bushes, and they were playing it cute. I didn’t spot Johnston in the dark, but that Larry character would never go hunting with me. He was one of the jerks who can’t sit still, in a duck blind or anywhere else. I had him located in the brush before I was even out of the car.
    I left the lights on to illuminate the tent until I could get the gasoline lantern going. They waited until I had it burning brightly. They waited until I’d set it safely on the nearby picnic table and switched off the car lights. Then Johnston came out from behind a tree and pointed a gun at me. I raised my hands politely. Larry came out of his hiding place, if you want to call it that, and walked up to me, and hit me.
    It wasn’t much of a punch, but I let it knock me down, figuring that was the easiest way to end the fight before it started. A smart private op named Clevenger wouldn’t mix it with a couple of armed men he knew to be government agents; and I’ve never seen much point in hitting a man with a fist, anyway. All it gets you is some bruised knuckles and a resentful enemy who is probably not damaged enough to prevent him from getting back at you later. There’s hardly ever any sense in hitting a man with anything that doesn’t make him dead—that is, if you’ve got to hit him at all. But nobody’d told Larry Fenton that. Having knocked me down, he stepped forward and kicked me.
    “You killed her!” he panted. “Damn you, you killed her!”
    The kick was probably more than tough Mr. Clevenger should stand for. I looked at Johnston, staying well back with his gun. A good, experienced man, Mac had said, but at first glance he looked unimpressive: a plump little figure with gold-rimmed glasses. He had thinning brown hair combed straight back from a soft white face. You’d never give him a second look in a crowd. He looked as if he sold shoes or insurance for a living, and went home nights to watch TV with a plump little wife and a couple of plump little children.
    At second glance, I noted the cold, alert blue eyes behind the glasses, and the steady hand holding the gun. I was relieved. This man wouldn’t do anything hasty, nor would he let his erratic and amateurish partner go too far astray. It was safe to put on a show for him. He wouldn’t get nervous and shoot a hole in me by mistake. I spoke to him without looking at Larry, standing over me threateningly.
    “Pull it off me,” I said. “If it kicks me again, I’ll cut its little foot off, so help me.”
    “Take it easy, Clevenger,” Johnston said. “Take it very easy.”
    I said, “To hell with you,” and reached defiantly into my pants pocket. He didn’t shoot. I took out my knife and opened it deliberately. Larry started to reach for me, but Johnston waved him back. I said, “I’ll cut it off at the ankle, so help me. Just one more kick and he’ll be known as Footless Larry. And you, Chubby, stop waving that fool gun around, hear? You fire it off in the middle of a public campground like this and you’ll be making explanations to every cop in Canada.”
    Johnston regarded me unwaveringly. “You talk pretty big for a lousy private cop.”
    I said, “You act pretty big for a lousy spy, or counterspy, operating in a foreign country, probably without permission.”
    “How do you know what we are? And how did you learn that my partner’s name is Larry?”
    I said, “Hell, you told me the name