Licensed to Kill

Chapter 22

We'd checked off the prison, the post office, the bank, and Raul Bellisario's apartment. Our next stop was Ingolstadt Self Storage, in which Alana had pinpointed a storage unit that had been temporarily rented out to Santiago Enterprises, just like the P.O. box had.

By the time we reached Ingolstadt from Nuremberg, it was nearing dusk and we were both pretty tired. I was ready to call it a night and drag Dallas to bed, but he insisted we go ahead and visit the storage facility, unsure of what inconveniences may await us in the morning. He'd made up his mind that we should finish up our business in Germany and leave the country as soon as possible. That much, I could agree with.

Rows and rows of storage buildings came into view as we turned a corner around a line of thick, tall trees that hid the complex from the main road.

I already had a bad feeling just looking at the facility. Maybe I was being irrational, I tried to tell myself in my head. Maybe I'd just endured one too many bad experiences around storage units over the course of my career and I was letting it fuck with my head. Or maybe I just wanted to convince myself that I was overthinking things so my damn blood pressure would calm down a little bit.

"What number are we looking for?" Dallas questioned as we approached the entrance gate.

He punched in the four-digit code that Alana had given us and the gate slowly rolled back.

"Seven-forty-nine." I read off the unit number I'd written down thirty minutes prior.

We combed the lanes, eyes peeled in search of the unit. After several turns down rows that didn't have any signs pointing us in the direction of the seven-hundreds, I was starting to feel like we were on a wild goose chase.

As we reached the next to last row, Dallas finally came to a stop in front of the storage unit. It was in the air conditioned section of the facility and had a pretty large padlock on the door.

"What the hell would Santiago need an air conditioned unit for?" I scrunched up my nose at Dallas.

He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he's hiding dead bodies."

The words rolled off his tongue so nonchalantly, it almost made me feel sick to my stomach. Not because of what he said – because that probably was a reasonable possibility – but because of how he said it. Like he was giving a barista a simple order of black coffee. It disgusted me how natural it had become for us to say such gruesome things. Most of the time, I just brushed it off as being part of the job. But when I really allowed myself to think about it, it sickened me how used to this we were that we could say these things with such ease.

Dallas and I climbed out of the car, scanning our surroundings for combatants. Nothing looked unusual or suspicious. We didn't hear any noise except the rush of traffic going by on the nearby highway.

"I've got this," I said, getting to work on the padlock while Dallas kept watch a few feet away.

In between unsuccessful attempts with my lock picking tools, I constantly stole glances at him. I was sure he'd noticed at least twice, but he wasn't glancing back or saying anything, too focused on keeping a lookout.

I paused for a second or two to admire the way his jeans were tightly hugging his perfect ass and how nicely his bulletproof vest clung to his lean form. His back was to me as he eyed the aisle between rows of units that we'd come down to get back there. So far, nothing seemed amiss, but I wasn't about to let my guard down. I'd learned all too well that when a situation was moving along unusually easy, bullshit would likely infiltrate soon.