Final Vector Read Online Free PDF

did, an overweight middle-aged woman in Lycra shorts and a tight cropped T-shirt shot him a half-fearful look as she raced past.
    He watched her with amusement and took that as his cue to go.
    Tony Andretti, formerly of Syria and Afghanistan and now living in the United States of America, picked up the battered brown leather briefcase without bothering to look inside it--he had no doubt whatsoever that the information he had paid for was safely tucked inside because Michaels did not have the balls to screw him over--and strolled through the park in a direction opposite the one Michaels had used when he left a few minutes ago. It was just a picture-perfect afternoon, and Tony feasted his eyes on the scenery, taking his time because his workday had just ended, and he had nowhere else to be for a while.

Chapter 7
    The artificial cool of the Pentagon's climate-controlled interior was ordinarily a welcome relief to Nelson on humid days. Today, however, the air-conditioning did little to control his heavy perspira-tion, which ran in rivulets down his face and neck, trickling under the collar of his shirt and spreading in an ever-expanding arc under each armpit. Nelson tended to perspire a lot anyway, but after the extreme stress of the illicit meeting with . . . well, whoever the guy was, Nelson felt as though he had been through the wringer. So he continued to sweat. A lot.
    Navigating the labyrinthine interior of the building with its confusing and seemingly random office-numbering system had always reminded Nelson of an experiment where scientists send rats through a maze with different rewards as enticements to facilitate the learning process. He saw this building as perhaps some great cosmic experiment, filled as it was with thousands of people scur-rying to and fro, each absorbed in completing his or her own task.
    He had long ago mapped out the optimal route through the building to get to his office, and after breathing a sigh of relief and sinking into his chair, Nelson had tossed the briefcase onto his desk, preferring to get his pounding heart and racing pulse under control before examining the inside of the case to verify that the agreed upon ten thousand dollars was actually even there. First things first.
    25
    Nelson laid his head on the cool surface of the maple desk, instantly turning it slick with his sweat. Still breathing heavily, he tried to force himself to relax, clear his mind, and convince himself he had actually gotten away with it.
    He only now realized that he had half expected a bunch of grim-faced FBI agents or military police to surround him as he exited the park or entered the Pentagon, forcing him spread-eagled onto the pavement while they patted him down for weapons, perp walking him in front of dozens of television cameras and newspaper reporters to a waiting police car before whisking him off to jail.
    But then when he had walked through the wrought-iron park entrance and encountered no angry police and no rabid reporters and no television cameras, Nelson had been surprised but thril ed, rushing back to the office, moving faster than he probably had in years.
    Now he felt completely drained. Between the physical exer-tion and all the stress, Nelson wanted nothing more than to drive home, where he would toss his jacket and tie over the back of a kitchen chair and go straight to bed. Unfortunately, it was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and guys like Nelson at the lower middle level of management didn't just take an afternoon off, even if they had successfully completed a very busy lunch hour of treasonous activity.
    Finally he raised his head, feeling the earliest traces of a tension headache building in the base of his skull. Rising slowly--
    God, he was sore; could he really be that out of shape?--Nelson shuffled to his closed office door and thumbed the button on the knob, locking it from the inside.
    He knew he was probably overdoing the cloak-and-dagger stuff a bit. Not many people had