Final Vector Read Online Free
Tony shook his head and sighed again. Nothing in this life was ever easy.
He had to admit, though, that this accident was an incredibly lucky break. It would take the authorities quite some time to discover that Lisa Jensen had not actually been killed in this hor-rendous car wreck; she had been murdered. And by the time they pieced it together, it would no longer matter, at least not to Tony.
This unexpected bit of good fortune had saved him from being forced to follow the Jensen bitch to her home and killing her there, which had been the original plan. This was better.
He fumbled in the pocket of his Windbreaker--it was woeful-ly inadequate against this weather, but how could he have known he would be spending so much time outside in the storm?--for his switchblade, finally wrapping his fingers around its heft and yanking it out. He was beginning to shiver quite heavily but tried to ignore the chill. This would be over soon, and then he could climb back into the toasty warmth of his idling car, where he would have hours to dry off while driving back to D.C.
The switchblade snapped open with a snick, sounding as loud and clear as a lightning strike to Tony, which was impressive considering how much noise the rain and wind made as it whistled in his ears. He reached into the passenger compartment of the Toyota, moving slowly and carefully to minimize the risk of slicing his arm open on a stray shard of glass, supporting himself with his right hand on the crushed frame of the vehicle's windshield. With a practiced flick of his wrist, Tony deftly sliced Lisa Jensen's throat, opening a gash that ran from the right side of her jawbone to the left.
Blood spurted. It was not the cleanest kill Tony had ever made, but under the circumstances, he was satisfied with the result. After the initial burst of bright crimson arterial spray added more of Lisa Jensen's blood to the interior of a car already soaked with it, the volume rapidly slowed, then ended entirely.
Within ninety seconds, Lisa Jensen was dead, and Tony no longer had to worry about this particular loose end--he had tied it up into a very nice, neat bow.
Chapter 4
Crying hard, the driver of the beer truck--whose name was Bud Willingham, a never-ending source of amusement to his fellow drivers, who thought it was the funniest thing in the world that a guy named Bud was driving a truck filled with Bud--crawled out from under the wreckage and struggled back into the cab of his truck. He was soaking wet and freezing and certain he was about to lose his job. Oh yeah, and he had probably just killed someone.
If you looked at the scene from the inside of the truck, you would never know there had just been a horrible car accident were it not for the smells of burning rubber and melting plastic. The minimal amount of damage his big rig had sustained and the Toyota he had rammed were mostly invisible from this vantage point.
Bud grabbed his cell phone from where he kept it clipped to his sun visor and punched in 911, giving his location to the dispatcher.
The operator asked him to stay on the line until the ambulance arrived, but he hung up. He then removed the portable fire extinguisher from the back wall of the cab directly behind the driver's seat and leapt back down to the wet road. He began spraying the base of the fire in wide arcs around the carcass of the smashed car trapped beneath his vehicle.
He sprayed the fire-retardant foam until the canister was empty and then threw it to the pavement in frustration where it bounced once and skittered to the side of the road. He had made virtually no dent in the still rapidly expanding blaze. Helpless to do anything else but wait, Bud trudged to the side of the deserted road and waited for the emergency vehicles to arrive, which he fervently hoped would happen soon. He jumped in surprise when out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark sedan drive slowly away from the scene toward the interstate's southbound ramp.
Bud had
He had to admit, though, that this accident was an incredibly lucky break. It would take the authorities quite some time to discover that Lisa Jensen had not actually been killed in this hor-rendous car wreck; she had been murdered. And by the time they pieced it together, it would no longer matter, at least not to Tony.
This unexpected bit of good fortune had saved him from being forced to follow the Jensen bitch to her home and killing her there, which had been the original plan. This was better.
He fumbled in the pocket of his Windbreaker--it was woeful-ly inadequate against this weather, but how could he have known he would be spending so much time outside in the storm?--for his switchblade, finally wrapping his fingers around its heft and yanking it out. He was beginning to shiver quite heavily but tried to ignore the chill. This would be over soon, and then he could climb back into the toasty warmth of his idling car, where he would have hours to dry off while driving back to D.C.
The switchblade snapped open with a snick, sounding as loud and clear as a lightning strike to Tony, which was impressive considering how much noise the rain and wind made as it whistled in his ears. He reached into the passenger compartment of the Toyota, moving slowly and carefully to minimize the risk of slicing his arm open on a stray shard of glass, supporting himself with his right hand on the crushed frame of the vehicle's windshield. With a practiced flick of his wrist, Tony deftly sliced Lisa Jensen's throat, opening a gash that ran from the right side of her jawbone to the left.
Blood spurted. It was not the cleanest kill Tony had ever made, but under the circumstances, he was satisfied with the result. After the initial burst of bright crimson arterial spray added more of Lisa Jensen's blood to the interior of a car already soaked with it, the volume rapidly slowed, then ended entirely.
Within ninety seconds, Lisa Jensen was dead, and Tony no longer had to worry about this particular loose end--he had tied it up into a very nice, neat bow.
Chapter 4
Crying hard, the driver of the beer truck--whose name was Bud Willingham, a never-ending source of amusement to his fellow drivers, who thought it was the funniest thing in the world that a guy named Bud was driving a truck filled with Bud--crawled out from under the wreckage and struggled back into the cab of his truck. He was soaking wet and freezing and certain he was about to lose his job. Oh yeah, and he had probably just killed someone.
If you looked at the scene from the inside of the truck, you would never know there had just been a horrible car accident were it not for the smells of burning rubber and melting plastic. The minimal amount of damage his big rig had sustained and the Toyota he had rammed were mostly invisible from this vantage point.
Bud grabbed his cell phone from where he kept it clipped to his sun visor and punched in 911, giving his location to the dispatcher.
The operator asked him to stay on the line until the ambulance arrived, but he hung up. He then removed the portable fire extinguisher from the back wall of the cab directly behind the driver's seat and leapt back down to the wet road. He began spraying the base of the fire in wide arcs around the carcass of the smashed car trapped beneath his vehicle.
He sprayed the fire-retardant foam until the canister was empty and then threw it to the pavement in frustration where it bounced once and skittered to the side of the road. He had made virtually no dent in the still rapidly expanding blaze. Helpless to do anything else but wait, Bud trudged to the side of the deserted road and waited for the emergency vehicles to arrive, which he fervently hoped would happen soon. He jumped in surprise when out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark sedan drive slowly away from the scene toward the interstate's southbound ramp.
Bud had
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