Apostle Read Online Free PDF

full-out sprint, he came around a stand of trees and noticed the front door of his Trailblazer was wide open, and parked right behind the SUV, blocking it in, with its engine still running, was a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe.
    Bullet stood on his hind legs with his huge front paws pressed against the Tahoe’s driver’s-side window. He was barking even louder and more angrily than before, his long, sharp teeth gnashing together.
    Harvath drew the Taurus TCP .380 he jogged with and approached the Tahoe. As he got closer, he saw that it had government plates. He didn’t know what it was doing here, but he didn’t like it.
    Leaving Bullet to distract whoever was inside, Harvath kept his gun out of sight and approached the passenger-side window. Sitting in front were two men of medium build with short hair and dark suits. They looked like Feds, Secret Service or maybe FBI, but that still didn’t explain what they were doing in the middle of nowhere parked behind his SUV and why one of his doors had been opened.
    Harvath had always lived by the maxim have a smile for everyone you meet and a plan to kill them. It was what had kept him alive in his particularly dangerous line of work. The key was in striking the right balance between healthy suspicion and crippling paranoia; not an easy feat with the number of enemies Harvath had made over the years. Part of the appeal of Maine had been that nobody knew him here and he could relax. It was a plan that had been working right up until just a few moments ago.
    Tightening his grip on his weapon, Harvath tapped the glass with his free hand and caught the men inside by surprise.
    The suit in the passenger seat lowered his window, but only partway. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. “Is that your dog?”
    “And my truck,” replied Harvath, nodding toward the SUV the men had blocked in.
    “You want to call him off?”
    After scanning the inside of the Tahoe, Harvath whistled. Bullet growled for a few seconds, then leaped down and came around to Harvath’s side of the Tahoe.
    “What’s your name?” demanded the passenger.
    Harvath didn’t like the man’s attitude. “William Howard Taft,” he replied. “What’s yours?”
    Cutting off his less-than-affable partner, the driver answered, “I’m Benson. He’s Wagner. We’re United States Secret Service.”
    As if they had rehearsed this a million times, both men reached into their jackets in unison, ostensibly to remove their credentials.
    “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Harvath. “Let’s take it easy. Nobody needs to be in a hurry.”
    Benson motioned for Wagner to relax, and, using his left hand, he pulled back the left side of his suit jacket to show Harvath what he was doing. Slowly he slid his thumb and forefinger into his inside pocket and retrieved his credentials. He then opened his ID wallet and extended his arm toward Harvath. “We’re from the Portland office.”
    “What were you doing in my truck?”
    “It was unlocked,” interjected Wagner.
    Harvath ignored him and kept his eyes on Benson.
    “We were looking to see if you’d left a map or some indication of which direction you were running,” answered the driver.
    “Why?”
    “We needed to speak with you as soon as possible. Your girlfriend…” said Benson, his voice trailing off as he replaced his credentials and looked down at a notepad on his armrest for the name. “Tracy. She told us we could probably find you out here. She said this was where you normally run.”
    “She didn’t mention that dog, though, did she?” added Wagner angrily. “That fucking thing almost bit me. It’s like a goddamn polar bear. I’m lucky I got back into the car in one piece.”
    Harvath patted Bullet on the head and smiled. Benson seemed okay, but he didn’t care much for this other guy, Wagner. “Good dog,” he said to Bullet, and then, turning back to Benson, asked, “What do you want?”
    “The president needs to see you,” the man replied.
    “Which