She had a contingency plan in place with a neat little diversion—a pipe bomb along with a phony tweet and Facebook post replete with a bombastic radical Islamic claim of responsibility. If she timed her escape right, in the minutes and hours after the explosion, she might be able to make it work. A serial killer did not warrant the attention and resources a terror group did.
She pulled down the tree-lined street and slowed opposite some densely wooded parkland. Flurries were still fluttering this way and that, making the icy ground even more slick.
Jasmine found the spot she was looking for and brought the Toyota to a stop.
Jonathan moaned as she shoved the gearshift into “park.” She dug into her purse to ready the ether and reached for the door handle—
But the driver’s side window shattered, showering her face with glass.
“What the f—”
She felt two hands on her neck
Looked up and saw
Her father
She grabbed his forearms, knowing instinctively not to try to pry his fingers away from her skin.
She heard him yelling something—“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”—and for the first time in her life, she believed him. Dug her nails into his muscle-taut flesh, had to be drawing blood.
But he did not yield.
She slid her arms down to his wrists. With all her body weight, she yanked suddenly and forcefully to the right.
Marcks was not expecting it and lost his balance, striking his head on the door frame. She leaned left and again pulled hard right and again slammed his face into the metal, the jagged remains of glass slicing his nose and eyes.
One more blow to the head and his grip loosened and his hands left her neck and he dropped out of sight.
Unconscious.
But for how long?
Jasmine turned around toward Jonathan—but the rear passenger door was swinging closed.
And the seat was empty.
68
Jasmine hoisted herself into the back of the Camry. With the Uber driver blocking the passenger seat and her father likely, hopefully, unconscious outside her front door, it was the fastest way out.
She stepped into the freezing night air. Fifteen yards away Jonathan was stumbling forward, slipping and sliding like a drunken sailor chasing a pretty woman down the street.
Jasmine jogged after him, using a broad-based gait to maintain her balance. She knew that ahead of him was a tall fence that enclosed a children’s play area. As he would soon see, he had nowhere to run, even if he was fully lucid—which, by now, he might be. Her prior victims were older individuals. A young man’s metabolism could be different, so she had to assume the drug had cleared, or was close to clearing, his system.
She caught up to him and tackled him from behind, took him facedown onto the icy ground.
But he twisted onto his back and kicked her in the nose, stunning her and driving her head back.
She literally saw black—and pinpricks of stars twinkling all around her. Her vision cleared and she got slowly to her feet, careful to keep her footing—but Jonathan was in full escape mode and he was scrabbling forward on the slick, frozen snow, moving his legs fast but not getting very far.
He suddenly stopped and straightened up. He had undoubtedly seen the obstacle in his path because he turned to face her.
Nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
Jasmine pulled out an exceptionally lethal knife and smiled. Maybe this would be more enjoyable than she had thought.
69
We’re half a mile away,” Underwood said.
“Is Marcks there yet?”
“His signal just stopped moving. Maybe.”
Vail accelerated and swerved on a patch of black ice, sideswiping a car. C’mon, Karen. Stay in control.
“You need to slow down,” Underwood said, his voice steady even though his right hand was clutching the dashboard while his left maintained a white-knuckled grip on the Samsung.
“If Marcks is there—” She did not finish the sentence—because she did not want to consider the implications. Two killers with my son. No matter how she parsed it, this was not a good situation.
Vail’s brights illuminated the landscape in front of her. “This is that park. Where she killed Rackonelli.”
“Right up ahead,” Underwood said, pointing into the snowy darkness. “A block away.”
Her lights hit what looked like a man lying still in the street beside a white sedan.
“Big body,” Underwood said. “Could be Marcks.”
Vail was going too fast for a residential street in this weather. She tapped her brakes and skidded a bit. “Wait in the car, Thomas.”
“What?”
“You’re not a cop anymore, you don’t even have a gun.”
“And you don’t have any backup.”
As they approached, Vail saw two cars, not just the white sedan.
“You’re retired.”
“Fifteen years from now, you think you’d be waiting in the car while someone else goes after the killer?”
Off to the right were two figures. “That’s Jonathan!”
“And Jasmine.”
Oh my god.
70
Jasmine advanced on Jonathan, a karambit knife fisted in her right hand, its anodized black blade all but hidden from his sight.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” she said. “I’m trying to help you.”
Jonathan’s breathing was rapid and shallow, spewing vapor into the dark, moist air. “Who are you?”
“Your mom’s friend.”