"What if we find something terrible in there?" Her voice comes out quiet and strained. "You know… like he did other things to other people too…" She looks pale, and the fear in her voice makes my chest tighten.
I set the bolt cutters down long enough to turn and face her fully. "No matter what we find in there, I'll be here with you. If there are recordings or photographs, we'll keep them as evidence. You won't have to face this alone, Sabine. I promise."
She nods and wraps her arms around herself, and I pick up the bolt cutters again and position them around the shank of the padlock. The tool is designed for this purpose, and the lock gives way with a satisfying crack that echoes between the buildings. I remove the broken lock and lift the unit door, revealing the dark interior packed with boxes and furniture and various items covered in dust.
The smells of stale air and mildew hit me immediately, and I step inside while my eyes adjust to the dimness. Sabine follows me in and pulls out her burner phone, using the flashlight function to illuminate the space. The unit is approximatelyten by fifteen feet and filled to capacity with what appears to be random personal effects accumulated over years of military service.
Boxes line the walls stacked three and four high, and several pieces of furniture occupy the center of the space—a desk, a bookshelf, a filing cabinet with drawers that hang slightly open. None of it looks particularly organized or valuable, and I wonder if Bryan simply used this space as a dumping ground for belongings he didn't want to deal with during deployments.
"We need to search everything." Sabine moves to the nearest stack of boxes and starts opening them one at a time, sifting through the contents like she knows exactly what she's looking for. "The phone he recorded my assault on has to be here somewhere."
I start with the filing cabinet, pulling out drawers and checking the folders inside. Most contain mundane paperwork related to military service—training certificates, performance reviews, commendation letters. Nothing that would incriminate Bryan or provide evidence of illegal activities. I move through each drawer systematically while Sabine continues working through the boxes.
An hour passes, then two. The unit gets warmer as the sun climbs higher and beats down on the metal roof, and sweat begins to soak through my shirt. Sabine has removed her jacket and tied her hair back, and her face is flushed from the heat and exertion of moving boxes and searching through their contents.
Three hours into the search, Sabine stands and stretches with a grimace. "I'm hot and thirsty. Can you go get us drinks from the front office? I'll keep searching while you're gone."
Given the temps being warmer this far south and in that metal box, and the physical demands of what we are doing, her request makes sense. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Keep your phone on you in case you find something."
I leave the unit and walk back toward the front of the property where the office building sits. The sun beats down mercilessly now, and the asphalt radiates heat that makes the air shimmer. When I reach the office, I find the owner still sitting behind his desk, and I head straight for the soda machine in the corner.
The machine accepts my crumpled bills and dispenses two bottles of water, and I collect them from the dispenser while the owner looks up from his paperwork.
"Getting some use out of that unit already?" His tone is friendly and conversational, and I force myself to return his smile and respond in kind. I hate small talk, and more than that, I hate interfacing with small-town folks. But being a grumpy old curmudgeon will blow our cover.
"Just organizing some tools and equipment. Making sure everything fits the way we want it before we start hauling more stuff over." I lean against the wall near the door while I wait for him to lose interest in the conversation.
But he sets his pen down and leans back in his chair like he's just settling in. "You folks been working all morning? Must be eager to get that renovation project started if you're out here organizing for that long."
"My wife's particular about how she wants things arranged." I chuckle, like I'm that guy who thinks he knows better than his wife but won't say it aloud. "Better to do it now than have to reorganize later when we are in a hurry."
The owner laughs and nods agreement, and I see movement through the window as a pickup truck rolls through the gate and heads toward one of the units on the south side. Another vehicle follows behind it, a sedan with two people visible in the front seats, and they turn down a different driveway that leads deeper into the property.
The increased activity makes me nervous because more people means more potential witnesses, more chances for someone to notice us searching a unit that doesn't belong to us. I need to end this conversation and get back to Sabine before something goes wrong, but leaving too abruptly will seem suspicious and draw attention I don't want.
"Well, I appreciate you folks choosing our facility." The owner picks up his pen again and returns his attention to the paperwork on his desk. "You need anything else, just let me know. I'll be here until five."
I thank him and push away from the wall, heading out toward the unit with the drinks clutched in my hands. I just want to get this over with and get back on the road. Number ten on my list is waiting for me and so is Barone.
20
SABINE
I’m waist deep in boxes filled with Bryan's discarded junk when I hear a car pull up outside the storage unit. My hands pause mid-search through a cardboard box that contains old electronics, and I pull out several cell phones stored in plastic bags. The phones are outdated models, the kind that were standard issue five or six years ago, and my pulse quickens as I realize what I might've found. I'll need to charge them up one by one and power them on to see what they contain, but this is what I came here for.
I climb out of the storage unit with the box clutched against my chest, expecting to see Jace returning with the drinks he went to fetch from the front office. The sun blinds me momentarily as I step into the light, and I blink away the spots dancing across my vision until I can focus on the figure standing near the unit entrance.
Jason Bryan stands beside a black truck with his arms crossed over his chest, and rage twists his features into something ugly and dangerous. He's bigger than I remember from our last encounter, broader through the shoulders and more imposingin civilian clothes that do nothing to soften his military bearing. His eyes lock onto the box in my hands, and I see recognition flash across his face followed by fury.
"You stupid bitch." He spits the words out like venom. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you? Had to keep digging until you found something you weren't supposed to see."
The box slips from my hands and hits the ground, and the cell phones scatter across the asphalt as Bryan launches toward me. I have seconds to react, and my training kicks in before conscious thought can slow me down. I shift my weight and bring my hands up into a defensive position, ready to fight.
Bryan comes at me with his fist already swinging, and I duck under the blow and drive my elbow into his ribs with all the force I can generate. He grunts and stumbles sideways, and I follow up with a knee aimed at his groin that he blocks with his thigh. We separate and circle each other, both breathing hard, both looking for an opening.
I forgot how difficult sparring with a larger man is. That tussle with Jace a few weeks ago took a lot out of me, and now I'm facing someone larger than him.
He is stronger, with height and weight advantages that make this fight uneven from the start. But I'm lighter on my feet, faster, and I've spent years training for exactly this kind of close-quarters combat. When he lunges again, I sidestep and drive my fist into his kidney, feeling the impact jar my arm all the way to the shoulder.
