Courage Stolen

by R. Scott Mackey

  “We’re good, prof. They stopped somewhere close to Woodland.”

  “Got an address?”

  “They’re on County Road 97. Let me see what’s there.” She launched my phone’s browser and entered the street address. “It’s a company. Voncabo Corporation.”

  “Voncabo? I’ve heard of them. They’re a big time multinational company. Food and agriculture, I think. What do they do at the Woodland location?”

  She punched the keys on my cell phone, waiting as a new webpage launched. She read silently for a few seconds. “Says here they produce genetically enhanced seeds. Tomatoes, beans, broccoli, and peppers.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I said to her. It took me ten minutes to get back on 113. I hit eighty miles an hour as we flew past Davis towards Woodland, following Rubia’s directions.

  “You’re gonna need to go right at the next road, the first left after that.” Five minutes later, Rubia announced we were less than a mile away.

  The building sat all by itself off the country road surrounded by acres and acres of open space. About a quarter of a mile from the structure, I cut my headlights and slowed to about twenty miles an hour.

  “Can you grab my camera bag?” I asked.

  I pulled to the side of the road and took the camera bag from her. I removed my camera with the AstroScope telephoto lens I’d mounted on it prior to heading to Nimbus Dam. The lens was made for night shooting without a flash.

  “Let’s walk,” I said.

  We crouched as we walked towards the Voncabo building, using the occasional tree and shrub to shield us from view. About a hundred yards away, I spotted Seeger’s car and snapped a photo of it with the building also in frame. I checked the camera’s screen to make sure the license plate was readable.

  “Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Tell them what’s going on.”

  While Rubia called, I tried to locate the two men. The building was two stories, with an L-shaped foundation, stucco siding, and a pitched roof punctuated with scores of tall cylindrical vents. I looked through the camera to aid my night vision, sweeping from one end of the building to the other. At the intersection of the two legs of the L, I saw movement, a man jogging back towards the car. I snapped a photo of him. I made another pass across the building with the camera and spotted a second man also heading towards the car. I took a shot of him, then put the camera strap around my neck and started to jog towards them. Rubia finished her call and joined me.

  Less than a minute later, we were upon them. Both wore black ski masks and were about to enter Seeger’s car when I drew my gun.

  “Stop!” I called out.

  Both of them snapped their attention in my direction. Rubia and I pointed guns at them.

  “You’re not getting away with this,” I said.

  “Fuck you.” I recognized Seeger’s nasally voice at once.

  “You’re a regular pain in the ass,” Forrester added. “You’re too late.”

  Rubia and I advanced upon them, drawing to within twenty feet or so.

  “I scare you off the dam, and you come here instead. Just because you have three stacks of dynamite.” I moved even closer, Rubia by my side. “You’re like two kids who found a firecracker and just have to blow it up somewhere.”

  Forrester’s face twitched a little. I’d surprised him by knowing how many bombs he had. “You didn’t scare us off anything.”

  “Fine,” I said, my gun pointed at his face ten feet away. “Now get back in there and take it all back. I want all three of the bundles disarmed and away from the building before the police get here in about three minutes.” I looked over at Rubia to confirm the timing. She nodded.

  “Fuck you,” Forrester said. “How you going to make me do that?”

  “I’ll start by shooting you in the leg.” I moved my aim from his head to his right leg. “And my colleague here will do the same with your boy Seth over there.”

  “Be my pleasure.” She took aim at Seeger’s leg.

  “You’re bluffing,” he said. “Get in the car, Seth.”

  Forrester got into the passenger side of the car and shut the door. Seth slid behind the steering wheel, keeping his eye on Rubia’s gun until he was inside. I fired and shot out his front tire. Seeger sped away, flat tire and all.

  “What the hell?” Rubia said. “Why’d you let ’em slide?”

  “We couldn’t just shoot them. They were unarmed. We don’t have time to talk. I need to get those bombs out of there.”

  “No, Ray. He said it was too late. You’ll blow your ass up going in there.”

  “Forrester was working on something over in the middle of the building. You stay here, and I’ll go check.”

  “No!” Rubia said grabbing my upper arm.

  I started to shake my arm free, when I was knocked off my feet by a deafening blast. It felt as if someone had pushed me hard in the chest to topple me. I lifted my head and could see an eruption of flames at the building’s core. My ears rang and my head pounded. Then, in quick succession came two more claps of thunder as loud as the first. I struggled to my feet, dazed and wobbling. Rubia still lay on the ground five feet from where she’d been standing. I rushed to her unmoving body.

  I knelt beside her, fearing the worst. I put my hand to her cheek and then found a pulse point on the side of her neck.

  “The hell you doing?” she asked, her eyes springing open.

  “You scared me.”

  She raised herself up to her elbows and took a look at the scene in front of us. “Help a girl up?”

  I put a hand under her arm and helped her to her feet, relieved she was okay.

  We looked at the building. Both ends of it had been blown out. The explosion in the center had crumbled it, and flames shot a hundred feet into the air, spreading to engulf the rest of the building. The heat was so intense we had to draw back a hundred feet.

  “Damn,” Rubia said, though I could barely hear her over the ringing in my ears.

  We beheld the conflagration and shook our heads, our efforts to avert disaster futile. I’d been unable to turn Riley Forrester or even the impressionable Seth Seeger. All of our reconnaissance yielded nothing more than a front row seat to horrible destruction. Nothing we could do now but wait for the police to arrive.

  thirty-one

  At noon the next day, I sat at a barstool and watched Rubia prepare the Say Hey for the early afternoon crowd. She refilled the refrigerators with beer and half a case of Chardonnay. While she did her stocking, I cut up celery stalks for the Bloody Marys and filled the garnish tray with Maraschino cherries, olives, and cocktail onions. We were both tired, having been detained at the Voncabo explosion site until three in the morning, first answering questions from Woodland police and fire, and then again when the FBI rolled in.

  The FBI team originally dispatched to Nimbus Dam had hustled out to the scene. The lead fed, a guy named Burton, was not too happy to learn I’d been the anonymous tipster about the dam. I reminded them I’d provided them with Forrester’s and Seeger’s identities and had no idea they would change their target to Voncabo, but he was still pissed at me. I suppose he had a point. He was somewhat placated, though, when I showed him the photos I’d taken of the two terrorists moments before the blasts.

  “Think the cops popped those two yet?” Rubia asked as she kneeled in front of the refrigerator beneath the back bar.

  “Unless they went on the run, I’m sure they have.”

  “Glad you took those pictures. Those should nail their asses. Those and our statements.”

  I shook my head. “It’s going to be a long ordeal, you watch. They’ll bring us into court to testify. I’ll look forward to it. Looking both of them in the eyes.”

  “Oh, hey,” she said, getting to her feet. “I heard from my LA guy.”

  “Your gang network friend?”

  “Gang network, yeah, that’s what it’s called. Try colleague.”

  “Whatever. What did he say?”

  �
�He’s heard of both your guys, Wu Wing and Bo Chen.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wu’s a lifer with the Golden Dragons down south. Been with them ever since he was twelve, thirteen years old. Started off selling weed and crystal on the street corners. Like they all do. He’s been kind of middle management the last ten years or so. Not smart enough to go any higher.”

  “Why did he come up to Sacramento?”

  “We figure Thomas Chan had some sort of connection in the Dragons or knew somebody who knew somebody. Anyway, word got out Chan needed a bunch of cash for his business.”

  “And the Dragons were more than happy to loan shark him a half-million dollars.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wu saw it as his big chance. To be jefe up here. He asked to drive the cash up from LA and then see what other shit he could drum up. The banger he brought with him, Bo, is a lamester. The southern guys were more than happy to have him come up here, too.”

  I sipped my coffee and thought. It made sense. And Chan was stupid or naive enough to think he could borrow that much money and earn ten percent interest a week right off the bat.

  “Did he have anything else to say about the gang or the two knuckleheads they sent up here?”

  “Not so much.” Rubia picked up the empty box she’d used to cart in the beer bottles and started for the trash in the back. “Oh, yeah.” She turned around at the end of the bar. “Said the two fingers they cut off—the ring and index finger—was for sure Dragon shit. They think it’s real funny, the ‘fuck you’ gesture and all.”

  “Yeah, real ha ha stuff.”

  “But he said it was weird the day after they cut off his fingers they killed him. Usually they cut off the two fingers to start then wait a week or two and cut off another finger. Makes people find the money someway, somehow. Like I said yesterday, killing someone right away means they wouldn’t get paid.”

  “So Wu was impatient…and stupid,” I said.

  “Looks like.”

  “I still think they might have killed Chan to send a message to Benzer.”

  “Maybe.”

  She went out back with the empty box. I thought more about the Chan murder scene. Knifed on his bed. The bandage covering the two missing fingers from the day before now removed. The SCS scrawled in blood on the bedroom wall. My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

  “This is Ray.”

  “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” It was Trujillo getting back to me at last.

  “You heard about Woodland, I’m guessing.”

  “First you’re dealing with Chinese gangsters and now eco-terrorists?”

  “All in a day’s work.”

  “Seriously, what’s going on?”

  “It’s kind of a long story. It’s your Granderson referral.”

  “Granderson? Really? I thought that was a stolen term paper or something some grad student was worried about.”

  “Sort of. But it got a lot more complicated very fast.” I drained the last of my coffee and set the mug down. “Nice of you to call me back finally.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Trujillo said, the normal crankiness in his voice returning. “It’s your damn fault. Those two thugs, the Chinese guys, ever since I collared them after you called, I’ve been in teleconferences and meetings trying to sort out who gets to charge them first, us or LAPD.”

  “Wait a minute. You have them under arrest?”

  “Of course, we rolled on it the minute after you called. I thought you knew.”

  I exhaled into the phone, part relief, part irritation. I knew it would’ve taken the gangsters some time to identify and track me down, so my immediate safety hadn’t been a big concern. But it would have been nice to know they’d been arrested. Even more critical was Benzer’s need to know. They knew where he lived and worked. He’d gone into hiding once he left the hospital, which turned out to be an unnecessary precaution.

  “How the hell would I know that?” I asked. “Benzer’s gone underground fearing those goons were going to kill him.”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to find him ever since you called.”

  “You never talked to him?”

  “By the time we got to the emergency room, he was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah, the ER receptionist said he got antsy and left before anyone looked at him. She said he seemed nervous.”

  Made sense. His injuries probably weren’t life threatening and after what he’d been through, Benzer probably didn’t want to sit anywhere he might be found by the gangsters.

  “What about Wu and Bo? Did they cop to the Thomas Chan murder?”

  “No. They won’t admit to it, but we’re trying to build a case. They said they didn’t touch Benzer either.”

  “How can you hold them, then?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I need you to come to the station and give testimony about what you saw them do to Benzer. For now, we have one of the neighbors who testified they saw the kid shooting the shotgun at a moving car, which I assume was yours. We also have two felons in possession of firearms and drugs.”

  “So they’re going to be locked up for a while then?”

  “Oh, yeah, they won’t be offered bail. LAPD has outstanding warrants out on both of them. Manslaughter and aggravated assault. One way or another they’ll be in jail for a long time.”

  We ended the call as Rubia returned to the bar. She looked around the interior of the Say Hey, nodded to confirm the place was ready for customers, and went to the front door to unlock it.

  “What did you say was the name of the liquor store in Oroville? The one Benzer’s parents owned.”

  “I didn’t. Don’t think my guy told me. But hell, professor, it’s Oroville. How many ghetto marts you think there are?”

  She was right. Oroville had a population of, at most, fifteen thousand. And the parents lived in an apartment above the store, making the search even easier. It was something of a long shot, but I didn’t know enough about Adam Benzer to know where he might turn if he needed to disappear for a while. His parents might be one option.

  An hour later, I rolled down Oroville’s Olive Highway to the first liquor store that popped up when I entered “Oroville liquor stores” into the web browser on my cell phone. The store was in a strip mall, next to a gas station, across the street from Oroville Hospital. I pondered for a few seconds if being close to a hospital would be good or bad for a liquor store’s business. Unable to come up with an answer, I nevertheless crossed Town & Country off the list because it lacked a second story, a requirement for an upstairs apartment. Glad to see my lack of sleep wasn’t diminishing my reasoning skills.

  I started to go to the second liquor store on the list—AJ’s Food and Liquor—when I decided to review the entire list first. At the bottom of the seven stores listed, I found a Benzer’s Liquors. My lightning powers of perception continued to dazzle me.

  I parked in front of the store in downtown Oroville. The adjective “quaint” would best describe the four-square block downtown, whose streets were lined with bushy trees and pickup trucks. I smiled at a woman pushing a baby stroller as I walked by her and entered the store.

  “Afternoon, there,” a man’s voice greeted me as soon as I entered.

  I smiled and approached the counter, where he sat on a stool behind a cash register. The counter was cluttered with a plastic tub filled with mini bottles of vodka and four separate racks filled with plastic lighters, lotto scratchers, hangover pills, and Copenhagen. Behind the counter, to the side of a wall filled with liquor bottles, was an open doorway I guessed led to an office.

  “Mr. Benzer?” I asked.

  “You’re not selling anything are you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Because if you are I’d have to ask you to leave. You saw the sign on the door. No solicitors.”

  “No, not selling. Let me get right to the point. I’m looking for your son, Adam.”

  “Wh
y?” He looked about sixty, bald and slender, though not in a fit way, his skin a bit on the pale side, and I noticed his index and middle fingered were browned from cigarette smoke.

  “Is he here?”

  “No.” He said it so fast, his face turning to stone, I knew he was lying.

  “I’m a friend. Or at least someone who’s on his side, I guess is a better way to put it. You saw his face was a bit roughed up. I’m not sure if he told you about it, but I was there when…when it happened. I helped him. I took him to the hospital.”

  “Sorry, don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen my son in months.” He crossed his arms over his chest. A father hearing a report his son had been beaten would at least ask about his son’s health. This man showed no concern at all.

  “Have you heard from him?

  “No.” The protective dad was not going to say word one about his son. I understood.

  “If you do happen to see him, please give him my card.” I reached into my breast pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to him. He didn’t reach for it, his arms still crossed, so I set the card on the counter. “Tell him the Chinese guys are in jail and will be there for a long time. Tell him he’s safe.”

  “Like I said, I haven’t seen him in months.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Adam Benzer said, stepping through the office doorway. He had a bandage next to his right eye and over the bridge of his nose.

  I nodded at him. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I went to my doctor up here. He gave me a few stitches, and they had to reset my nose,” he said, pointing at his face. “I’ve got a bruised kidney, but otherwise I’m okay.”

  I nodded. “They’re both in jail. Police in at least two jurisdictions have charges against them. They won’t be out anytime soon. Years, most likely.”