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.
Pushing away the nagging discomfort in the back of my mind, I continued my work on the padlock until it finally surrendered to my efforts with a loud click.
"Got it?" Dallas turned to face me with a smile.
God, that sweet, tantalizing smile. It never ceased to make me weak, even at the worst of times.
"Got it."
He walked over while I put away my tools and he reached down to grab ahold of the handle. "Let's see what's in this sucker, eh?"
He lifted the heavy metal door with ease while I pretended not to drool over the sight of his biceps flexing in the process. I knew he'd noticed, though, when I caught a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
He was in for it once I could get him into a motel room.
Once the door was lifted, we peered inside to see a medium sized cardboard box on the floor with the flaps folded over each other. There was a small cot with a blanket and pillow against the back wall. An empty whiskey bottle, some granola bar wrappers, and other trash littered the floor between the box and cot.
Before stepping in, I shined a flashlight around, inspecting for booby-traps or anything that could harm us or alert someone else to our presence. Neither of us spotted anything, and I decided it was okay to enter the unit.
"Damn. This is a dump." Dallas's brows rose as we stepped forward. "You think somebody was living here?"
I shook my head, frowning. "Why the hell would anyone want to live in a storage unit?"
I was starting to wonder if Alana might've mixed up the unit numbers. It didn't make sense that Santiago would rent storage space for someone to use as a living space.
"This case is getting more complicated by the minute," Dallas said.
Bizarre was probably a better adjective.
He stayed standing right in the entryway so he could still keep an eye out while I investigated the scene.
"What do you want to do? Swab the whiskey bottle for a D.N.A. test to see who was here?" Dallas suggested in an unsure tone that told me he'd definitely spent way too much time in an office rather than in the field over the last four years.
I looked at him, unamused. "This isn't C.S.I., Dall."
I couldn't remember the last time I'd processed D.N.A. at a scene. We only did that if we had absolutely no idea who in the flying fuck we were looking for, which only happened about two percent of the time for A.R.T. If evidence like that was involved, we'd usually leave it up to the F.B.I. or whichever other law enforcement entity we were working with.
"The investigation doesn't warrant that," I told him and frowned when I discovered that the box was empty.
I don't know what I was expecting, but I'd hoped that there would at least be something of use to us lying around.
I scanned the tiny unit again. The granola wrappers didn't matter. The blanket was all disheveled on the cot, as well as the pillow holding an imprint where someone had laid. That didn't tell me anything either.
"Are you finding anything?" Dallas asked, leaning back to glance down the way between units again.
I groaned in frustration, wishing a clue would light up or make noise or fucking come to life and wave itself in my face.
"Does a short blonde hair on the pillow count?" I held it between my thumb and pointer finger, looking to him with an exasperated expression.
He chuckled and shook his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest and leaning against the wall of the unit, watching my work – or lack thereof.
Then I spotted something. There was a wadded up ball of paper on the floor beneath the cot. I almost hadn't noticed it in the dim lighting.
I reached under and retrieved it, carefully trying to unfold it without tearing it.
"What's that?"
I didn't answer, squinting to read the typed ink on the crumpled page.
It was a list of instructions from Miguel Santiago to Agent Lindsey, written in Spanish.
I skimmed over the words quickly, a victorious feeling emerging within my chest after several long minutes of thinking we'd wasted our time going to the storage facility. This piece of evidence confirmed a lot of my theories about Lindsey's "unauthorized mission." Suddenly, it felt like we were much closer to cracking this case wide open.
"Read this." I rushed over to Dallas and handed him the note.
"This is all in Spanish." He looked at the paper, perplexed, and began reading it aloud, but quietly enough that only the two of us could hear. "Agent Lindsey, if you've made it this far, you know you can't turn back. I've arranged for you to sleep here, should you need to. Here are the requirements you must meet in order to earn my trust."
Below that were six bullet points listing exactly what we'd hypothesized had occurred.
"First, you will find the necessary weapons and post office box key I've provided inside the box. You will use any number of these weapons to go to Nuremberg and kill Raul Bellisario. Second, you will retrieve your payment once I receive proof of the murder from you. I will instruct you where to go. Third, I will provide you with a post office box number and you will use the gold key to open it. Inside, you will find new identification and passports. Use the I.D. to enter the Brandenburg prison and attain custody of Enrique Bellucci. You will both use new passports to board a flight to Barcelona where we will meet and I will assess your loyalty to me."
The letter went on to say that Agent Lindsey could never speak of any interaction with Santiago or Bellucci to anyone, or she and her Alpha Recon team would be killed. It also stated that if she didn't do as she was told and kill Bellisario, she'd be killed.
Dallas and I shared a look of bewilderment once the information in front of us had set in.
"This still doesn't explain any of the shit with Lancaster, though," I complained, raking my fingers through my hair. "We're still missing so much."
"I don't think this really told us anything we didn't already assume, Tali. It just solidified our guesses."
I nodded slowly as I could feel an oncoming stress headache. "We need to find out how Lindsey and Santiago connected in the first place, what in the hell Lancaster has to do with it, and what happened after Lindsey and Bellucci landed in Spain."
Dallas pursed his lips and watched me carefully with a hint of concern, like he could tell my head was starting to pound. He'd always been so skilled at reading me when no one else typically could. That was both a comforting and annoying trait of his.
I leaned into him and rested my forehead against his shoulder with an exhausted sigh. He wrapped his arms around me and I couldn't help but smile when he kissed my head and rubbed my back. Nobody could get me to relax the way he could. Many people had tried, but no one had the effects on me that Dallas had.
"We're going to figure it out, Tali," he said in a nurturing voice. "It won't be long until we're cracking a celebratory bottle of Scotch over the conclusion of this shit."
This time, my smile was forced when I met his eyes. I was sure he could see right through my fake happiness, but he chose not to comment on it.
It had been a record amount of time since I'd last thought about alcohol. I'd been so focused on the case, so focused on Dallas, that it hadn't really crossed my mind since London. Realizing that took me aback. It was next to impossible to believe that I hadn't been going through horrible withdrawal symptoms.
Maybe the difference was Dallas, I thought silently. Maybe when he was gone, alcohol was my lifesaver, and when he was with me, he was. I wanted to believe that just having him around was enough to magically cure my alcoholism. I wanted that so bad. I wanted to put that black mark on my life behind me. But hearing the mere mention of opening a bottle suddenly had my throat feeling dry as a desert and my cravings trying to fight their way to the surface. Cravings I hadn't felt in days.
I tried my best not to look at the floor where the empty whiskey bottle lay. I wet my lips at the thought.
"Are you alright, Tali?" Dallas asked, his eyes boring into mine like he could read my mind.
I shoved my cravings aside and headed back to the car. "I just need some rest, Dall. Let's call it a night."
He said nothing while I got in the car and he pulled the door back down on the storage unit. I watched him walk around to the other side of the vehicle and climb inside with a heavy breath.
We glanced back and forth at each other for what seemed like hours as he drove us out of Ingolstadt and to the next town to find a motel. I was trying to occupy my mind with anything other than the intrusive desire for alcohol.
That's when it dawned on me.
"Dallas, I think I just figured something out," I said, my words rushed together. "If Lindsey wasn't allowed to let anyone know about her involvement with Santiago or Bellucci, and she really was committed to them, she wouldn't have been careless enough to leave those instructions in the storage unit or the note in the P.O. box."
His brows furrowed as he tried to digest my words. "Okay... So what are you-"
"I'm saying that Lindsey didn't leave those behind out of stupidity. She left them on purpose for someone else to find."
Now, he looked even more confused. "Are you trying to tell me that you think Lindsey wants someone to track her down?"
"That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. No Alpha Reconnaissance agent would be that absentminded that they would leave evidence behind. It doesn't happen. A.R.T. only hires the best of the best."
Dallas made a face at the last part. "They didn't hire me."
"As I recall, Butthead, we tried several times to recruit your cocky ass, but I.D.A. promised you a promotion if you stayed with them," I pointed out matter-of-factly. "Besides, it's probably best that we didn't work for the same organization. We'd never get any work done for all the fucking we'd be doing."
He agreed with a hearty chuckle followed by a smirk. "If that was the job, I'd work overtime, baby."
Something about the way he said that so confidently caused a sizzle to dance through my limbs and a hitch in my breathing.
My earlier thoughts of getting him in bed returned, and I scooted closer to him, leaning over the console to run my hand up and down his forearm and tease him as best I could.
"The sooner you find us a room, the faster you'll get a taste of that overtime, Mr. David."
He grinned as wide as a Cheshire cat and pressed down harder on the accelerator. "Yes, ma'am."