Present Day
In Lake Forbing, Ryan runs a local branch of a national brokerage firm. It’s located in one of those new office parks where the row of identical buildings looks like cottages. Most of his clients are little old ladies who need help investing their oil and gas royalty checks. He is the local golden boy whom they trust completely. I could probably match his client list to the guest book from his grandfather’s funeral, name by name.
In Glenview, Texas, Ryan runs a trucking and transportation business that’s located in a warehouse in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. The only signage on the entire property is a rectangular white metal sign with the words GLENVIEW TRUCKING stenciled in black letters. The phone number sends you straight to a voice-mail system, and there is no website or social media attached to this company. He never talks about Glenview Trucking, and I believe very few people, if any, know it exists.
Just as I cross the border into Texas, which is the halfway point between Lake Forbing and Glenview, I mentally retrieve that typed page of information I was given about Ryan and the business located here.
Glenview Trucking was established in 1985 by Ryan’s grandfather, William Sumner. William’s son, Scott, joined the business after he returned home from college in 1989. At
inception, the business was a legitimate enterprise that served the East Texas and North Louisiana area.
It still operates in its original capacity but in the late 90s, the business model expanded to include brokerage services for stolen goods. It is believed that currently two out of every three trucks that arrive are transporting items bound for the black market.
While the illegal side of the business is vastly more profitable, Glenview Trucking is an invaluable front that must be maintained.
Ryan took over operations after his grandmother, Ingrid Sumner, was diagnosed with cancer and his grandfather became her full-time caregiver but limited his on-site involvement to one day a week—Thursdays. Ryan has done an impressive job of keeping the company in Texas separate from his life in Lake
Forbing, LA, just as his grandfather and father had done before him.
*Opinion based on research but have no hard evidence to support—Ryan seems to make every effort to maintain the
business his grandfather started, and his father worked at until his death in 2004, in Glenview. I believe this business is immensely important to him and he will protect it at all costs.
My last job was unusual in the sense that I knew immediately I was sent to retrieve sensitive information that was being used as blackmail against Victor Connolly, but normally there is a lag between when I get the name of the mark and when I get my first set of instructions. I use that time to dig deep into every aspect of the mark’s life so I’m prepared when the time comes to get to work. While I’m waiting to see what the job is, I try to predict what the client hired us to do, even though I never know who the client is.
So that’s what I did when I got the name: Ryan Sumner.
At first glance, the financial services business, and its long client list of old ladies with their oil and gas royalty checks, seemed to be the obvious answer. But the more I learned about that part of Ryan’s life, the less it seemed likely. There wasn’t anyone on his client list who caught my eye as the reason I’m here.
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.
“Hey, man, what are you doing here today?” a man’s voice says. The inflection is high, like he’s surprised, but there’s a nervous quiver to it that gives him away. He’s scared.
There is no answer, so the man keeps talking as if his words are less dangerous than the silence filling the room. “I know I’m only supposed to work on Thursdays, but I needed a few extra hours this week. My ex is on my ass about money again. Wants to send the kids to some damn summer camp up in Arkansas. I’m like shit, they don’t have to go all the way to the damn Ozark Mountains to play tag and whatever other bullshit they do up there.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry, Ryan. I know I’m not supposed to be here today.” His voice breaks when he says Ryan’s name, and this has me more curious than anything else. Ryan has yet to say a word, and this man is terrified. All I’ve ever seen is sweet Ryan. Romantic Ryan. Fun Ryan.
Scary Ryan is intriguing.
“Come on, Freddie. Did you really think it was possible to make a side deal and have my trucks come through when I’m not here?”
His voice is now a bit deeper.
“No. It was dumb. Stupid. Really fucking stupid,” Freddie answers. The third person in the room hasn’t spoken yet.
There’s a squeaking sound as if maybe Ryan is leaning back in his chair and the springs need to be oiled. I can almost picture him. He’d have his hands laced behind his head. Maybe his feet are propped up on the desk. He would look calm, almost casual, but the voice lets you know he’s anything but.
“Seth, grab those wire cutters off Benny’s desk,” Ryan says in a deceptively calm voice.
There’s a rustling sound and then Seth says, “Got ’em.”
And then there’s an edge to Ryan’s voice that I’ve never heard before. “You’re going to tell me who else is involved or Seth is going to enjoy using those wire cutters on your fingers.” The chair squeaks again and Ryan adds, “What do you think, Seth, one finger for every minute we have to wait?”
“Sounds about right to me, Boss. These are pretty dull, though, so it may take me more than a minute to get one off.”
Seth barely finishes before Freddie is talking. He’s throwing around names and plans and dates at such a rapid rate that I hope Seth has forgotten about the wire cutters and picked up a pen and paper instead.
“You’re not telling me everything,” Ryan says. “You and those other idiots are too stupid to pull this off on your own. Tell me who else is involved.”
The guy’s voice cracks when he says, “That’s it, I swear!”
I hear the chair roll briefly, and now I’m imagining him leaning forward, his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped together in front of him. I hear what sounds like a stack of papers hit the floor. “You think I don’t know when someone has gone through my shit!”
Oh, hell. This poor guy may take the fall for something I’ve done. “Seth, take his phone, then get him nice and comfortable in the
warehouse. Get the other guys up here. I’ll let Robert know they’re ready for him.”
“Wait! Wait! There’s no reason to call Robert!” the guy shouts. He sounds even more terrified.
From the information I found, the “Robert” he is referring to is probably Robert Davidson, one of his biggest customers. And from my research, Freddie and his cohorts should be terrified he’s getting involved.
Ryan waits an uncomfortably long time before he finally answers. “You think the load you were trying to lift today was going to just appear out of thin air? You think Robert wouldn’t find out his goods never made it to their destination?” His voice grows louder with each sentence, the edge sharpening on every word. “You and those fucking idiot friends of yours jeopardized my entire operation for a few grand. You didn’t even know the value of the merchandise in the truck. You think you’re so smart to line up a buyer in advance, but you’re so fucking stupid because you made a deal with one of my own guys. I knew what you were trying to do thirty fucking seconds after you made contact with him.”
“Shit, Ryan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. The other guys talked me into it.”
“Stop talking before you really piss me off.” Ryan’s voice is loud enough that I flinch. “You’re not my problem anymore. You picked the wrong truck, my friend. Robert wants a few words with you and your buddies. Seth, get him the fuck out of my office.”
The silence is almost jarring after the last several minutes. I’ve never heard Ryan talk to anyone so brutally before. It’s hard to reconcile the man I’ve come to know with the man in the next room.
He works at the desk awhile longer while I hunker down in the stall. Seth is back before long, and it sounds like he settles into one of the other chairs. I hear bits and pieces of their conversation, but it’s just normal chitchat between two guys who have known each other a long time. They talk about the Texas Rangers’ chances of making the playoffs, and Ryan ribs him about some girl Seth has been hooking up with. There’s a long discussion about craft beer that has me wanting to beat my head against the wall if I could do it without giving away my hiding spot.
While I wait for the opportunity to make my getaway, this new Ryan takes shape in my mind. You have to be ruthless in business, even more so when you’re working on the wrong side of the law. I knew Ryan couldn’t have achieved such success without getting his hands a little dirty. But if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I would never have believed he was capable of threatening to have someone’s fingers cut off one by one. His methods may be a bit barbaric, but they also seemed to be effective, since Freddie gave his buddies up within seconds. I’m glad to have seen this side of him. I need to know what I’m dealing with when it comes to Ryan.
Finally, Ryan and Seth leave the office, and I wait another few minutes before slowly pulling the curtain open. I spot them through the window, immersed in conversation with a trucker who has pulled up, so I sneak out the way I came in, retracing my steps until I’m back to my rental car in the adjacent parking lot.
I check my phone and see I have a message from the tire shop letting me know my car is ready, and another that Ryan left fifteen minutes ago telling me that he’s almost done with his meeting and should be on the road soon. While I watch him, I text him back to say I’ll pick up dinner on my way home from work. Less than a minute later he’s pulling his phone from his back pocket. He steps away from the guys he’s talking to, turning his back on them, which means he’s now facing me. I didn’t see him earlier, so I’m surprised at how tired he looks. And a little haggard. His thumbs move over the screen and a few seconds later my phone buzzes in my hand.
Ryan: Today sucked. Can’t wait to see you
I try to ignore what those two sentences make me feel by reminding myself that Ryan will come home tonight, dressed in the suit he left home in this morning, and lie about why his day sucked. Then I’ll show him the ticket from the tire shop and bitch that they overcharged me.
Even though I expect his lies, does he expect mine?
