CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The storage facility in question was a generic run-of-the-mill complex. Fifty individual storage sheds with garage-style doors, about twenty by twenty in diameter, sat on a crammed lot. When Mackenzie and Ellington arrived, the gates had been closed and locked, as the police had been calling around and instructing the owners to do. A man—presumably the owner—stood behind them pacing while speaking to someone on his phone. When he saw Mackenzie and Ellington pull up and park, he ended the call and unlocked the gates.
“Is there still movement in the unit?” Mackenzie asked as they got out. She didn’t even bother with introductions or formalities. They were on a clock, potentially rushing toward a unit to save a life. She had gone so far to as to call for an ambulance as
