Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers

by Price, Judith

  Without hesitation Jill turned on her own lights and jammed her foot on the accelerator. Her back tires spat gravel and it took all her upper body strength to keep the steering wheel and the horsepower beneath it, under control.

  Jill knew this road like the back of her hand and there was no way in hell she was going to let a random car get the best of her. "You bastard!" she shouted. "Watch this!" She shifted gears, revving the engine even higher. She was soon within about five car lengths of the fleeing vehicle, whose brake lights flashed on and off as it rounded the sharp corners.

  Jill needed to think fast. What would she do if she caught up to them? Run the random SUV off the road? Maybe it was just someone who had lost their way in the mountains? What the heck is wrong with me? Jill second-guessed herself. But she knew what she had felt all day. "One plus one equals two, girl!" She was being followed alright, and now she was determined to find out who and why. She could almost hear Karine as she egged her on: "You go, girl!" And that’s exactly what she did.

  Jill did some mental calculations. She knew the PIT maneuver—pursuit intervention technique—well. She had opted for more training after Matthew McGregor, and was confident she knew what to do and how to do it. The PIT maneuver was a series of vehicular moves to stop a pursued vehicle. The pursuing vehicle would push the back end of the car in a forceful and specific direction, causing the pursuance's back wheels to lose traction, thus spinning them in the opposite direction. The technique was used by most, if not all, law enforcement in the field; it was very successful if executed precisely. But Jill knew she didn’t have the required bumper guards on her car ...

  “What the—”

  Jill braked fast and the car started to swerve to the left. An animal, maybe a wolf, stood between her and the black SUV. Blinded by Jill's headlights, the creature stood stunned in the middle of the road. Jill pulled hard on the emergency brake, barely hanging on to the wheel as the car spun out of control.

  "Shit," Jill cursed, just before the vehicle's ass end scraped around the edge of the cliff and came to a full stop.

  "Shit, shit, shit," she yelled, hitting the steering wheel. All she could do was watch the SUV;s fading taillights blink their way around and down the winding road. She could never catch them now. There was no use even trying.

  Chapter Five

  19:20 Zulu Time—WASHINGTON. DC.

  The plane was full of movement and chatter both of which annoyed Jill as she snaked her way to her first-class seat on the Qatar Airways flight to Doha from Washington. She stowed her carry-on, sank down onto her seat and took a moment to regroup. She was one of the last passengers to board. The clock on the screen in front of her blinked 11:20 p.m., only twenty minutes before scheduled departure.

  Finally, she was on the last leg of her journey to find David and she was exhausted. After Jill had lost the black SUV back in Tucson, she returned to the house and called to update Karine. She'd had to pack fast to make the Tucson/Washington connection. The drive to Tucson airport and the flight to Washington were uneventful. No sign of the SUV or anything else that looked in the least bit suspicious. She got a quick call from Eric, who was concerned after Karine briefed him about the SUV and the aborted chase. Jill knew she was being followed but couldn't come with a plausible reason why anyone would want to tail her—it didn't make sense. She felt better knowing that Eric was going to do some digging on this potential personal threat. She loved the fact that he still watched out for her.

  Jill took a moment to register the details of what the $11,000 charge to her credit card had bought. The cabin layout was well designed: it was open, airy, and ergonomic, and none of the seats were crammed together. Her plush Indian-red recliner was large, roomy, and equipped with a personal 17-inch screen.

  She looked around at the other first-class cabin occupants who would share her bathroom for the 14 hour flight and wondered what type of people could afford such lavishness. There was only one other woman, dressed in an abaya. The black floor-length robe, which boasted a beautiful gold bead-work trim, flowed over the woman’s seat. Jill knew that many Muslims believe—the principles of Islam require that women cover their hair, but just as with other religions, there are also many interpretations of the practice. This woman sported a simple black headscarf that outlined, but did not cover, her face. She was not wearing the black mask burqa that Jill knew some Gulf Arab women wear. A rather large diamond ring adorned the middle finger of her hand.

  The rest of the cabin was filled with men. Some were preoccupied with the in-flight entertainment and associated controls, some read newspapers in an assortment of languages, others were focused on their laptops. A man seated across the isle from her bulged out of his too-tight suit and spoke loudly in Arabic to the young flight attendant, his hand gesturing his displeasure. The flight attendant, with strikingly beautiful olive skin, jet-black hair, and big, black-lined, cat-like eyes, and bright red lipstick attempted to calm him.

  Jill was thankful when a second attendant arrived with a tray of juices, water, and champagne. Jill quickly reached for a glass of champagne, but the attendant pulled the tray back slightly, whisked a small napkin onto a flat area on the arm of Jill’s chair and gently placed the bubbly down. She was obviously well-trained in the art of service, her demeanor lacked professionalism, and her patronizing smile made Jill think that she was none to pleased about serving passengers—a thought that was reinforced when she pirouetted and paraded back to the galley with an sashay.

  The champagne was followed by an endless flow of red wine, and while the meal that accompanied it was tasty, Jill barely touched her food. Jill wobbled slightly when she stood up to allow yet another flight attendant to flatten her seat and make her bed with a duvet, pillow, and sheets.

  The flight attendant whispered, “Here, ma’am,” as she gently spread the sheets out, neatly tucked in the corners, and covered the bed with cushions, then handed her a set of neatly wrapped branded pajamas. The plastic crinkled as Jill grasped the nightwear groggily then set off to the bathroom. The corridor was dark now; the hum of sleep surrounded her. “Would it be so hard to make a bigger bathroom in first class?” Jill grumbled to herself while she struggled to don the pajamas in the tiny space.

  On her way back to her seat she scanned each individual, looking for a glance or any sign that anyone of them might be watching her. Nothing. With resolve she lay down and before long, faded into fitful slumber.

  Large lights above her slowly changed from blue to pink, and a disoriented Jill bolted upright. The PA crackled with the captains voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Doha.” Jill begrudgingly recalled her reality as she sipped her coffee, fortified somewhat by the fact that she'd had several hours of alcohol-induced sleep.

  Doha airport was confusing. There were signs in Arabic and English, but they seemed to direct people nowhere. Jill decided to follow the general flow of passengers in the hope they also might be headed to the baggage claim. At passport control, a row of glass booths housed blank-faced men wearing crisp white robes. Jill knew from conversations with David that the traditional men's robes were called dishdashas or kandouras. Red-checkered head scarves or gutra that hung over their shoulders and down their backs were held in place by twisted black coils called agal that sat like fallen halos on their heads. Jill watched her passport get stamped with a quick thump. She reached for it and thanked the official who waved her through without acknowledgment.

  Outside the terminal Jill gasped for breath as she hit a wall of heat and humidity. It was like walking into a sauna. “What the hell! Is this for real?” she asked herself. Beads of sweat swiftly formed on her forehead and upper lip as she looked around for a taxi . The sun was setting over the massive highway directly in front of the airport. To her left, typical airport chaos—the rattle of carts bumping across concrete; people looking down the line of cars for their own; people busy stuffing luggage into trunks. Several men in dishdashas were smoking. Too many were talki
ng loudly all at once. Jill could not tell by their body language if they were happy or not. Another mental note to add to her list of additional skills to hone: research more thoroughly the body language of Middle Eastern cultures.

  A man dressed in pants, a bright yellow dress shirt and a tight navy blue tie approached her with a clipboard. He said something in Arabic, then quickly switched to broken English when he saw the baffled look on her face.

  “Taxi, ma’am?”

  Jill nodded.

  He directed her to an all-white sedan. A small man jumped out, smiled, and in a thick East Indian accent said, “Taxi, ma’am?” His head bobbled and Jill nodded again. He hurried around the car, took her bag, put it in the trunk, then held open the back door and gestured her inside. He scurried back around to the front of the car, like a character out of The Amazing Race, and jumped in. Before Jill could tell him where to go, he put the surprisingly immaculate car in gear and accelerated. The sudden momentum pushed Jill back into her seat, and jolted her feet to the floor. She couldn't help but chuckle to herself, despite her fatigue.

  She explained to the driver that she needed to go to a restaurant called Al Binood, to which he responded, “Yes, yes, ma’am, no problem, no problem,” head bobbling again. He seemed to know where she wanted to go.

  So far, Doha looked much as she imagined it would from the images she had seen online. The four lanes that comprised the road on which they were traveling suggested that it was likely a main thoroughfare. The sun yawned behind them as they drove. On her right, the waters of the Arabian Gulf sparkled a beautiful turquoise blue, highlighted by a pale pink and cream-colored sky. The natural beauty was complimented by stunning man-made enhancements including an expanse of stone-paved walkway that lay between the road and the open sea. It was lined with lush greenery and waving date palm trees. Jill imagined how lovely it would be to take a stroll there with David once they were reunited—if it wasn't so Goddamn hot, that is! As they drover towards the cluster of tall, congested buildings that was Doha proper, the city began to engulf the taxi. The hustle and bustle, and concrete-jungle-like environment, immediately changed her mood. The sound of honking horns clogged the air over the thick lines of vehicles, driven with reckless abandon. Throngs of people hustled through the streets, and Jill noticed a hodgepodge of different races and cultures. Women covered head to toe in black abayas and shaylas that revealed only their eyes scurried children along by the hand, some with maids trailing behind, babes in arms. Men in dishdashas sauntered in twos and threes, many of them looking rather arrogant she thought. They moved much slower than the smattering of men of Indian and Asian descent.

  Others, dressed in both western clothes and what appeared to be pajamas, contributed a threadbare component to the overall tapestry of the sidewalks. Some of the men in pajamas were holding hands and walking in large groups. A cornucopia of small shops jammed with a colorful assortment of all manner of goods nestled on the ground floor of just about every skyscraper. The city was full of life. Amidst the chaos of city sounds and blaring horns, which could be easily heard through the taxi's closed windows and above the air condition on high, Jill detected what sounded like chanting.

  It must be the evening call to prayer, she reminded herself. “Ashhadu an la ilaha ilaha ilaha illa Llah, wa ashhadu anna Mohammad rasulu Llah.” There is no God but Allah, and Mohammad is his prophet.

  Jill remembered David telling her how he felt it was a soothing sound.

  ***

  It had been a cool November night, as the two of them sat in the hot tub sipping a delicious Cab Sav. David spoke while she listened. He enjoyed telling her tall tales about his adventures, as well as the countries and cultures that fascinated him. He captivated her with his vivid descriptions and she learned a tremendous amount about the world from his fabulous stories. Although Jill was a specialized terrorist profiler for the US, there seemed never to be any budget to fly her into areas where most of the terrorists were based. But David traveled often to many of those exotic, if sometimes dangerous places, and he became her personal conduit to parts of the world she had not, at least until now.

  Jill bounced back to the present with a sudden jolt as the taxi screeched to an abrupt standstill at a red light. The rapid halt propelled her into the back of the front seat. “What the hell?” Jill gasped. The driver glanced back at her in the rear-view mirror, but didn't seem bothered by his passenger's discomfort, as if this type of thing was regular occurrence. Jill looked around the now dark streets and realized the surrounding buildings looked familiar—but how could that be? She had never been here before …? Or had she? They had made a great deal of U-turns, and skimmed around traffic circles. It didn't take her long to figure out that they had been going around in circles for quite sometime.

  “Al Binood, you know Al Binood?” Jill asked.

  “No problem, ma’am, no problem,” he repeated, bobbling.

  Jill had no idea of what time it was, but she knew it must be getting late, and it was becoming clear the driver hadn't a clue of how to get to Al Binood.

  “Hello, can you take me to Le Meridian?” she said, somewhat exasperated.

  “No problem.” Again with that predictable reply.

  The lobby of the Le Meridian was bright gold and gaudy. The hotel’s only noticeable difference from an American hotel was the amount of men blatantly staring as she walked in the smoke filled lobby. Over the years, she had received many compliments on her tight body, and she was used to being gawked at by now. Some people thought she was a fitness model and she would inevitably get the question “Are you from Italy?” Vainly she would sometimes admire herself in the mirror, appreciating the way her dark hair, green-gray eyes, and olive skin were ever-present, gifts from her Navajo genetics.

  As she waited for her room key, she observed the bright gold and marble decor which left her almost as cold as the frigid air conditioning that made the place feel a bit like a meat locker. She began to scan the room, out of habit, but also on the against-all-odds hope that somehow David might be there. She returned her glance on one man in particular—he seemed to be starring at her—then she continued scanning the rest of the lobby. She was brought back to the task at hand when the young Filipina woman behind the counter held up a pen and asked her to sign the check-in form. When she handed her the key, Jill asked if there was someone who could help her locate a restaurant. The woman pointed, and Jill followed her finger across the room to a short man in a gold uniform complete with a long-tailed jacket in the corner.

  She made her way over to the corner desk where he stood, but after a fruitless back and forth she realized the small man was not going to shed any light on how to get to Al Binood. As she walked toward the elevator, she thought she felt the gaze of someone staring at her from behind, but when she turned slightly and glanced back there was no one there.

  Once in her room, Jill was unable to escape the growing dread in her stomach. She kicked off her shoes and threw her black pants suit into a pile on the floor and headed into the spacious bathroom for a hot shower. She barely had the shampoo rinsed out of her hair when the water turned cold.

  “Shit!” she grumbled aloud. She toweled off, took one of the two fuzzy robes out of the closet, wrapped it around her lithe body, and plopped down on the bed.

  “What now?” She asked herself aloud.

  Even in expensive first class, there truly was no real deep sleep on the aircraft, or any aircraft for that matter, and Jill pondered the value of the trip. Not that she was a tightwad like David, but still it was a lot of money to spend for a fourteen-hour trip. Trying to think clearly when sleep deprived was a rule she needed to adhere to, so she laid down in the comfy bed. As her mind began to calm, she had a strange feeling that someone was watching her. But her brain was too tired to register what her gut was trying to tell her. Soon darkness enveloped her …

  Chapter Six

  05:37 Zulu Time—DOHA, QATAR

  A crow lands on the old gray split ra
il fence. I watch it as I lay on the warm blanket, grass prickling through. The scent of white lilies fills me when a soft hand touches mine. My mother speaks in her native tongue while tickling my tiny toes. I don’t understand what she is saying. She holds out a small leather pouch and points at the crow gazing down at us.

  Jill awoke disoriented. She rolled over to see the bedside clock: 8:37 a.m. Today the hunt for David was about to begin. But she didn't leap out of bed as someone else might have done. Instead, she remained curled up between the crisp sheets, desperately trying to recall her vision.

  The pouch—the pouch.

  Grams always carried a pouch of earth from the sacred mountains of their homeland. Why in the vision was her mother giving her the pouch? She told Jill many stories of the pouch’s power. “All things are equal and everything has a spirit,” she would tell her. She was a singer, a healer, and she taught Jill that she, too, might have inherited her clairvoyance.

  “Hmmmm…” Jill hummed out loud. She would have these visions only when she was deep in thought before she slept. Yet she hadn’t had one since the day after David left; before that, she couldn’t remember. It had been a very long time.

  Jill had her own pouch. Her RV pouch. As a retired remote viewer who no longer worked for the FBI, she took an oath not to use what her intense viewer training had taught her outside of the FBI. Besides, she felt she could no longer remote view since McGregor, as all she could sketch was that location. And reliving the experience was the main reason she started a career in the USMS—US Marshal Service. She couldn’t continue viewing that location again. In truth Jill had lost her RV mojo. She couldn’t seem to connect to the energy path she needed anymore. Frankly, she was glad to have a desk job and for the most part she felt safe.