Dangerous business

“Shit, fuck, shit, shit, fuck.” That’s all I can say when I see it: a police cruiser reflected in the side panel of a Jeep in the next row of the parking lot where I’m hiding.

Eight more minutes and I’ll be done. The last thing I need is some rookie cop messing up my job.

The van I’m using for cover, and the family that just left it, aren’t special. If it wasn’t them, it would be someone else. I’m here for a job.

These people look like typical Honda Odyssey buyers: young, professional, happy. If I do my job right, they won’t know until I’m long gone.

I first spotted them from thirty yards away as I “took a sip of water.” The young girl begged for the keys to pop the rear storage hatch. He called her "Jazzy." How cute.

They gathered their chairs and coolers and headed in the direction of the train’s departure platform — carefree and loving every moment. Off to enjoy a day of fun in Chicago. A perfect, happy family. Mom, Dad, Junior, "Jazzy."

It’s a shame I have to do this. Eighteen months after 9/11, just a fresh-faced, 22-year-old.

Junior plays baseball for the Bulldogs. ‘Lil Sis, an honor student at Sandidge Elementary. The bumper stickers tell me so.

I knew the cops would catch on, but I’ve been here for the previous three days and no one has seen a thing. This is the final day. The final “batch.” I’m almost home-free.

I just have to finish this job then I can kick back and wait for the phone to ring.

I sneak one more glance at the slowly-approaching cruiser. Fifty yards and closing. The look on the officer’s face tells me this is NOT a normal patrol. They are looking for something specific. The tingle and adrenaline I’m feeling say it’s me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think, man! Think!”

I don’t know how I ended up here. I didn’t want it to come to this. I tried everything to get their attention. I told them I cared. I told them I could help. But no one listened.

“Dammit, man. This is not the time for whining,” I’m already in too deep. I have to complete the mission.

“No mistakes, Ryan. No fucking mistakes.”

“Besides,” I think, “I planned for this.” Worst case, I’ll strip the Ed Hardy t-shirt I’m wearing for the Cubs jersey underneath, leave the backpack in a wheel well, and blend in with a group of travelers. From there, as we head toward the train, I’ll leave the evidence in five trash cans.

Excessive? Possibly. My prints aren’t even in the system, but you can’t be too careful. Have you seen CSI?

“No paper trail, Ryan. No loose ends. No fucking mistakes.”

A week ago, I used cash to purchase two train tickets. One headed north, the other south. My first thought was North, towards the city. But that’s the first place the cops will look.

So I’m going South. Joliet, baby. Maybe I’ll even hit the casino.

I’ve taught myself to use reflections to “see without looking.” I’m rarely without a 360-degree mental map of everything around me. This is Tradecraft. I take it seriously.

I’m about to peel off the Ed Hardy and commence Plan B, when the side panel of the Odyssey reveals my worst nightmare: two more cruisers. Both coming straight towards me. There is no way I’ll sprint 30 meters to the train platform without being seen. I’m surrounded.

Plan B is out. I have no choice but to go with Plan Z. Pancake myself under the closest vehicle and pray. I’ll be seen if they get out to look - but if they keep driving, I’ll remain invisible.

Heat is rising from the asphalt. I can’t imagine a scenario where I make it out unscathed. But it’s get burned or get busted — and I’m running out of time.

I slide under the Camry next to me and realize my backpack is sitting in plain view. I snatch it, Indiana Jones-style, seconds before two cruisers pass each other right where I am hiding.

I don’t breathe. All I can hear is my heart pounding and sweat splashing on the pavement. My shirt is soaked. It clings to my rippling abs and massive biceps.

When I can no longer hear the crackle of their radios or the rumble of Crown Victoria tires, I slide out, stand up, and scan the horizon. All clear.

I pick up where I left off. Taking a flyer for my new personal training business, “Fit Happens,” out of my backpack, I stuff it under that Honda Odyssey’s windshield wiper. Then I do the same on the Jeep and Camry. And I finish the rest of the parking lot.

Hopefully someone needs help with a fitness regimen.

I hate this. If I’m such a good trainer, why do I have to risk getting busted plastering cars with my shitty flyers?

But I complete the mission, go home, and wait for the phone to ring.