It never worked. Jasmine leaned forward, using leverage and her 135 pounds of weight to cut off the blood supply from the man’s brain.
The Toyota drifted right, sideswiped a car, and wedged itself behind another vehicle. The driver’s body went limp and she quickly gathered up the garrote and shoved it back into her purse. Jasmine grabbed his jacket and yanked him to the right, toward the passenger’s seat.
She had never done this before, and although he was thin and relatively short, he probably weighed 150 pounds. While she was accustomed to lifting weights in the gym, the confined space made this a much more difficult task: she could not use her powerful leg muscles very efficiently. It was harder to move him than she thought.
Jasmine did not have much time. Mere seconds had passed but the Camry was partially blocking the right lane and people had undoubtedly seen the accident, though it was unlikely anyone saw what transpired inside the dark interior.
She gave a quick glance around: it was a three-lane road in each direction and they were next to a small community park on the right side, so there were not many people in the area on a cold and snowy night. And cars were flowing around the Toyota, rushing to wherever they were going. Sometimes the apathy of time-stressed Americans was useful.
Jasmine got his torso draped over the center armrest—leaving enough room for her to fit behind the wheel. She turned off the dome light and opened the back door, careful to avoid the passing vehicles in the adjacent lane.
Jasmine forced her bottom onto the front seat, then grabbed the man’s jeans and pushed and lifted and groaned, then reached over and pulled his shirt forward, directing his head toward the floor. That helped, and she was able to get his ass onto the console. She bent his knees and wedged them up near his chest.
Seconds later, her upper body drenched in perspiration from the Herculean effort, she directed the Camry down Pennsylvania Avenue. She would use Washington Circle, only a few blocks down, to turn around and head back to Arlington.
She had not made it very far when she heard a noise. A cell phone vibrating? Stopped at a light, she leaned closer to the driver’s body—but it was coming from the backseat.
Jonathan.
As soon as she got the green, she made her way over to the right and parked in front of a bus stop. She got into the rear of the vehicle and dosed Jonathan once again to buy more time, then patted him down and found his phone. There was a text from someone named Patrick:
in the back. got a table.
And a missed call. From Vail.
Jasmine craned her neck toward the windshield but did not see anyone taking an interest in the car. She returned to the task at hand and listened to Vail’s message.
She knew that voice.
Impossible.
I killed him.
No longer concerned about passersby, Jasmine pulled out her own phone and opened the SecureHome app for her surveillance cameras. She squeezed the handset while waiting for it to make the connection. Seconds later, she saw the basement of her house.
And Thomas Underwood’s body, which she had left on the floor in the middle of the hidden room, was not there.
I can’t go back there. They know.
Jasmine picked up Jonathan’s phone, returned to the driver’s seat, and pulled away. No need to use Washington Circle now. She had to find another place for her kill.
As she mulled that thought, she tore Jonathan’s iPhone from its case and tossed the device out the window. It struck the snowy asphalt and bounced a split second before a car tire crushed it.
And that’s when she figured out where she should go.
61
Vail’s phone buzzed—and Underwood answered. He listened a moment, then put it on speaker. “It’s Erik Curtis. That tracking device of yours is working.”
Thank god. “Curtis? What’ve you got?”
“Jasmine’s in motion, but so far we’ve got a clean signal.”
“Am I right? GW?”
“GW’s huge, but yeah, looks like the outskirts. On our way, not that far.”
“Can you text the location to us? I’m driving and Thomas has never used Uzi’s app.”
“Will do. And I’ll let you know soon as we get there.”
The second Underwood hung up, her phone vibrated.
“That was fast.”
Underwood shook his head. “It’s not Curtis. It’s a message from your boss, Lewis Hurdle. They’re locked onto Jonathan’s phone. Stingray.”
Vail straightened up in her seat. “Now we’re in business.”
Her Samsung dinged again. “Curtis’s text?”
“Yeah,” Underwood said. “He sent us the location.”
“Tell me where I’m going.”
“Uh …” His head jerked up from the screen. “They’re different.”
“What do you mean?”
“That tracker is not in the same place as Jonathan.”