Chapter 4 - The Storage on Atwater
The Riverfront Storage complex on Atwater Street was a bleak, sprawling maze of corrugated steel buildings surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with rusted razor wire. The facility backed directly onto the Detroit River, where the gray, choppy water slammed against rotting wooden pilings beneath a thick layer of morning fog.
The main office was a small cinderblock hut with a sun-bleached sign in the window.
Rachel slammed her police badge against the bulletproof glass of the office window. A sleepy attendant in a grease-stained hoodie unlocked the door, his eyes going wide at the sight of two armed officers.
"Unit 114," Rachel demanded without preamble. "Who holds the lease?"
"Uh... let me check the system," the boy stammered, his fingers pecking nervously at a dusty keyboard. "Unit 114... yeah, that's rented under the name Sarah Vance. Paid six months in advance in cash."
"Has anyone accessed that unit in the last seventy-two hours?" Miller asked, stepping into the small office.
"I... I don't know, man. We don't monitor the back row late at night. The gate keycards track entries, though." The boy pointed to a log screen. "Card 114 was scanned at 12:22 a.m. three nights ago. And then again about twenty minutes ago."
Rachel felt a cold surge of adrenaline hit her stomach. "Which way?"
"Row C, all the way in the back by the river," the boy said, grabbing a master key ring. "Building Four."
Rachel drew her Glock 17 from her holster, holding it low against her thigh. Miller unbuttoned his coat, his hand resting on his service revolver.
"Stay in the office," Miller instructed the attendant. "If you hear gunfire, call dispatch immediately."
They moved fast, their boots silent against the wet concrete lane between the endless rows of gray steel doors. The fog off the river was thick here, swallowing the tops of the storage units and smelling of cold mud, diesel fuel, and dead fish.
Row C was a narrow corridor between two long blocks of units.
At the far end, parked diagonally across the lane with its engine idling with a dark, sputtering cough, was a battered, emerald-green 1998 Ford F-150. The bed of the truck was filled with rusted scrap metal, old tires, and plastic tarps.
Unit 114 was a double-wide roll-up door at the very end of the row.
The heavy brass padlock lay on the ground, cut in half by a pair of bolt cutters that still rested against the steel frame.
The roll-up door was pulled down, but not closed—left open about three inches at the bottom. From inside the windowless steel box came the sound of heavy objects being overturned, plastic bins crashing against concrete, and a man’s harsh, ragged breathing.
"Victor Vance!" Miller called out, positioning himself behind the rear quarter panel of the truck. "Detroit Police! Step out with your hands visible!"
The noise inside the storage unit stopped instantly.
The engine of the F-150 revved wildly, exhaust fumes pouring into the foggy lane.
"Rachel, watch the truck!" Miller yelled.
Before Rachel could move, the roll-up door of Unit 114 was kicked upward with a violent, deafening CRASH.
A man erupted from the dark interior. He was massive—six-foot-three, wearing a filthy oil-stained canvas jacket, his face covered in a jagged dark beard, his eyes wild and bloodshot. In his right hand, he swung a heavy, steel tire iron with blinding speed.
The iron struck Miller’s shoulder, sending the detective staggering backward into the chain-link fence, his revolver skittering across the wet concrete.
"Move!" Victor roared, lunging toward the idling truck.
Rachel stepped into the middle of the lane, raising her sidearm with both hands, her sight alignment locked onto the center of Victor’s chest.
"POLICE! ON THE GROUND NOW!" Rachel screamed, her voice echoing off the steel walls like a thunderclap.
Victor didn't stop. He threw the heavy tire iron straight at her head.
Rachel ducked instinctively as the iron whistled past her ear, shattering against the concrete behind her. In that half-second window, Victor threw himself into the driver's seat of the F-150, slammed the transmission into reverse, and stomped on the accelerator.
The truck roared backward, its rear bumper smashing into the chain-link fence inches from where Miller was trying to stand up. Tires shrieked, burning rubber against wet concrete.
Victor shifted into drive, turning the wheel hard to run Rachel down in the narrow lane.
Rachel didn't flinch. She squeezed the trigger twice.
BANG! BANG!
The heavy 9mm rounds punched clean through the driver’s side windshield. The F-150 veered wildly to the left, its front bumper slamming into the steel door of Unit 112 with a horrifying crunch of folding metal and shattering glass. The horn began to sound—one long, continuous, dying blare.
The driver’s side door swung open slowly. Victor Vance collapsed onto the asphalt, clutching a shoulder wound, bleeding heavily onto his canvas jacket, coughing as he raised his hands in defeat.
Miller scrambled forward, kicking Victor’s arm back and pressing his knee firmly into the man’s spine, snapping steel handcuffs around his wrists.
"Where is she?!" Miller growled, his voice thick with pain as he held his injured shoulder. "WHERE IS SARAH?!"
May you like
Victor spit blood onto the pavement, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn't answer; he just stared at the open door of Unit 114 with a sickly, terrifying grin.
Rachel ignored the bleeding man and sprinted into the darkness of the storage unit.
