There’s always the chance the mark is just a means to get close to one of their friends, but it didn’t take long to rule that out as a possibility either. Ryan’s friends may be the type to cheat on their golf game, their spouse, or their taxes, but that’s the extent of their bad behavior.
But when I looked into the trucking business in Glenview, I knew that’s why I had been sent here. It’s impressive what Ryan has been able to do in the last six years. He took what was a two-bit operation and turned it into a lucrative enterprise with a reputation of white-glove service that has clients across the country. While there is still the occasional truckload of stolen Xbox and PlayStation consoles that roll through his place, he’s transitioned the business to moving more upscale merchandise and to the procurement of specialty items by request. He has become the concierge of the black market.
Basically, Ryan is a thief, just like me.
My first set of instructions verified my suspicions when I learned his trucking business had become profitable enough that it was targeted for a hostile takeover—not the first time I’ve had an assignment like this.
And while helping the client facilitate the takeover of Ryan’s business may have been what brought me here, my objective has shifted now that Mr. Smith has brought an impostor on the scene. The needs of the unknown client are now irrelevant to me. I’m going back over everything to discover why Mr. Smith chose Ryan Sumner and this job to test me.
Just before I arrive at my destination, I stop at an old gas station and pull to the back of the parking lot so I can change. The rental car may be a little out of place in this industrial area, but the disguise is on point. I’ve traded the pencil skirt and loose blouse for a worn pair of baggy Levi’s, a button-down khaki shirt, and a safety vest. My hair is tucked underneath a short wig and baseball cap, while the custom-made silicon facial prosthetics turn my features more masculine. I could pass for a man on his way to work.
I park in the lot for the building next door to Glenview Trucking, then walk toward the chain-link fence that separates this property from Ryan’s. This is only the second time I’ve been here, but I’ve watched countless videos of Ryan while he was working here. The intel I get before making contact is always thorough so I watched as the coat, slacks, and dress shoes he left the house in were quickly replaced with worn jeans, a T-shirt, and scuffed-up boots.
In the videos, he exits the building from the office door located in the corner of the warehouse and walks to the driver’s side of each and every truck that pulls up to the building. The driver rolls down his window and there seems to be an exchange of pleasantries before Ryan retrieves a remote from his pocket to open the bay door.
The structure is large enough that an 18-wheeler can pull into any one of the three oversize roll-up doors that run down the front side of the corrugated metal building, fit completely inside so it can be unloaded in private, and then exit through doors along the back wall. My plan is to enter the enormous building the same way I did the first time I came here.
There’s not as much action today. From the reports, the illegal shipments only come on Thursdays, when Ryan is here to inspect them himself. From the increase in volume over the last couple of years, he’s going to need to add a second day soon to keep up with demand. The legitimate operation brings in far less traffic. Ryan has done a good job keeping both sides of this business separate, and that includes the employees. There’s a skeleton crew here today, and none of these workers are ever present on Thursdays. I should be able to slip in without anyone noticing, since their guard will be substantially lower than that of the guys who are here with Ryan.
I wait on the other side of the fence, near where Ryan’s employees park, until a truck pulls up, then I quickly make a small opening using a wire cutter from my belt. When a man leaves the small office to greet the driver, I slip through and walk the short distance to the back side of the building, just like any other employee would. I pick the lock quickly then quietly open the metal door.
There’s only one guy inside, but he’s in the back right corner stacking boxes. He seems focused on his task, so I edge my way through the warehouse, toward the office that sits in the front left corner of the building. I peek through the small window set in the door to make sure the room is empty and then slip inside right as one of the bay doors begins to open to allow the truck through.
The office is a complete mess. Stacks of papers cover each of the three desks, along with empty coffee cups and a couple of pizza boxes. Thumbing through the filing cabinets seems like a better use of my time than picking through the trash.
I’ve turned information on this business over to Mr. Smith twice now. The first time was the general sort that described the day-to-day activity and key personnel, which I was able to get from some of his files here. While that information was helpful, it wasn’t what I needed to complete this job. That wasn’t surprising given that there are several employees who use this space while running the legitimate side of Glenview Trucking on the days Ryan isn’t there. He wouldn’t be so careless with sensitive information.
The second delivery included crucial data that make the takeover possible—all the financials, including where the money is and who the clients are. Lists of where he gets the stolen goods and merchandise as well as contacts in local law enforcement and border patrol who turn a blind eye. That treasure trove of information was retrieved from Ryan’s laptop. The same laptop he keeps with him at all times. I spent weeks patiently waiting for the right moment to access it.
I had found everything Mr. Smith needed to take what Ryan has spent years building and I was surprised by the pang of regret that hit me when I thought about how huge his loss would be. It was the first time I felt bad for doing my job.
The first time I wanted to give a mark a fighting chance to keep what was theirs.
I’ve also tried not to analyze why I was feeling this way, especially since I knew how important this job was for my own survival.
So even though I’m back to look through files I’ve already searched, there’s no real expectation I’ll find anything helpful. I just want at least one more look in case something new jumps out at me, given that my main focus has now shifted.
The idling engine of the truck inside the warehouse is loud enough that I don’t hear the approaching voices on the other side of the door until they are seconds from opening it. The small bathroom is the only spot where I can hide. I scramble into the shower stall, pulling the opaque white curtain closed just as the office door opens and two men enter.
I crouch down, lean against the shower wall, and put my head as close as I dare to the curtain.
From the small gap between the shower curtain and shower wall, there is a sliver of view into the office from the open doorway. The office chair closest to me is occupied, but I can only see the side of the chair and part of the man’s shoulder.
“Go ahead and call him in here.”
His voice is like a punch in the gut. It’s Ryan. Ryan is here. Not meeting clients back in Louisiana but sitting about six feet from me.
A door opens then shuts, and we’re left alone. I lean away from the curtain in case he heads in here to use the bathroom.
This is sloppy of me, and I’m never this sloppy, despite Mr. Smith’s feelings about my last performance. But if he could see me right now, I wouldn’t blame him if he questioned my ability to successfully complete this job.
The sound of paper shuffling is the only thing that lets me know he’s still at that desk, since I’ve lost the visual.
A few minutes later, I hear the door open again, and two different sets of boots shuffle across the concrete floor.