Paul Levine: Illegal

"Where you think you're going, chica?" A man's chilling voice. Mr. Zaga.

She reached for the mallet, but Zaga's foot swept her legs out from under her, and she tumbled to the dirt floor. He twisted one of her arms behind her back, pinned her down with a knee digging into her ribs. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, his breath caressing her neck. "Just like always. Sim makes a mess, and I gotta clean it up."

Payne peered up at the second-floor windows of Rutledge's sprawling farmhouse.

Dark and quiet.

The only sounds came from the fields, crackling insects, and whirring sprinklers. That would change soon enough. Payne wondered if Rutledge was a sound sleeper.

Payne's plan was both simple and dangerous. Rutledge had no wife and no children. But he had those three old peach trees he treated the way perfumed ladies treat their French poodles.

Payne had parked on a side access road and, lugging a chainsaw, crawled over a fence of painted white logs. Thanks to the wonders of Vicodin, he wasn't in pain. More like numb and light-headed. Very little feeling from the shoulders down, other than a tingling in his fingertips, as if he'd grabbed the wrong end of a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

Something in the air had changed. What was it? A sizzle. Not quite a sound, more like a scent. Overhead, the stars were obscured by thick clouds.

It smells like rain.

Payne used two hands to muscle the machine-a McCulloch Xtreme he'd bought at a twenty-fourhour Wal-Mart-to the base of the nearest peach tree. He should be wearing a helmet, work boots, and cut-resistant pants. Instead, he wore U.C.L.A. shorts, black Nike Zooms, and a T-shirt with the slogan "I'm Already Against the Next War."

Payne tried yanking the cord, but his right hand wouldn't close properly. Awkwardly, he used his left hand. The starter kicked over and the chainsaw coughed and sputtered to life.

He bent over in an awkward crouch. If the chain slipped or bucked, he could slice his thigh. With all the painkillers, would he even feel it? The chain bit into the wood, making a high-pitched whine, like a frightened horse. Chips blasted his bare legs. He shot a look over his shoulder toward Rutledge's house. Still dark.

The tree trunk was less than two feet in diameter, the wood soft, and the task did not take long. He put the saw on idle, yelled "Timber!" and pushed. The tree fell with a whoosh of branches and leaves, ripe peaches smushing into the ground. The air smelled of wet earth and sweet fruit, mixed with gasoline fumes.

Still no sign of life from the farmhouse. In the distance, to the southeast, summer lightning backlit the clouds that shrouded the Sierra Nevadas.

Halfway through the second tree, the chain jerked and kicked back. Payne got control just before the saw would have pierced his femoral artery. A moment later, a light came on at a second-floor window.

Hurrying, Payne finished off the tree. The silhouette of a large man emerged onto the balcony.

Simeon Rutledge.

Shouting something Payne couldn't make out over the roar of the chainsaw. Rutledge disappeared from the balcony, and the second tree toppled.

Payne crouched at the base of the third tree just as Rutledge reappeared on the balcony. Gun in his hands. Rifle or shotgun, too dark to tell.

A blast. Definitely a shotgun. But the trees were a good two hundred feet from the house. The buckshot ran out of steam before reaching Payne, the pellets pelting the leaves like a soft spring rain.

Another blast, another shower of buckshot, dribbling through branches and rolling harmlessly across the soft earth.

Payne kept at it, the chainsaw chunking through the last tree.

One more gunshot echoed across the yard.

Payne pushed the tree over and clicked off the chain-saw. In the distance, the rumble of thunder. Yep, rain was coming.

Rutledge shouted something. His ears still ringing from the chainsaw, Payne waved at the old man, the way a gardener might acknowledge his boss.

"?El jefe!" he shouted. "You were wrong! The trees didn't outlive you."

"Dead man!"

Now Payne could hear him.

"You're a dead man, Payne. And she's a dead woman!"

His blood aflame. Rutledge burning for revenge.

Payne dropped the chainsaw and took off at a trot. He would disappear behind a stand of live oak trees and circle back to where Rutledge would never look for him. The front of the house. Enraged that Payne had gotten away, Rutledge would move quickly to fulfill his threat. And, without knowing it, he would lead Payne right to Marisol.

Payne could not be sure about any of these things. All he believed with absolute certainty was that if he did not rescue Marisol, within the hour she would be dead.

The pain was a roaring fire, a welding torch applied to ribs and spine.

Marisol did not even try to struggle as Zaga squeezed the breath from her. She was facedown, Zaga on top of her. He shifted position, dug an elbow-sharp as a pickax-into her ribs.

Breath shot from her lungs.

Then a sharp jab in her lower abdomen.

The pruning shears!

In the pocket of her apron. The thumb lever that locked the blades now tore at her flesh through the thin fabric.

If I can get my hand under my body, I can grab the shears.

The cellar was lit only by the narrow beam of her flashlight, aimed above her head. She tried to judge just where Zaga's face would be in the darkness. Pictured herself plunging the curved blades straight through an eye. But his weight kept her pinned to the dirt floor, the shears trapped in place.

Zaga made a sound, a half laugh, half snort, as he ran a hand up the back of Marisol's right leg, tearing at the fishnet stockings.

"So they finally dress you like the puta you are."

His hand slid under the short dress and pulled at the elastic of the lacy underpants. "What do you think? One rapidito before you leave us?"

"Let me up, and I'll treat you good, Mr. Zaga."

Another snort-laugh. "Oh, you'll treat me good, but you'll do it facedown in the dirt. You and your precious almeja you don't share with nobody."

He slid a finger into the crack of her ass.

His phone rang.

Zaga adjusted his weight, reached into a buttoned pocket of his Western shirt, and pulled out his cell phone. He checked the LCD display and answered, "Sim, I was just gonna call you."

Marisol sucked in a breath, drawing in dust along with oxygen. Above her, Zaga was silent, listening. If he stood, she would have a chance to go for the shears.

"He did what? The bastard!" Shouting into the phone.

Another few seconds of silence.

"Sure, I know where she is. I got her right here. Bitch was trying to run."

Why is el jefe asking about me?

"Jeez, Sim. Why dirty your hands? I'll take care of her. Then me and Javie can go after Payne."

Another pause. Then, "Okay, okay. I know who's boss. And Sim, I'm sorry about those Elberta trees. I know how you felt about them. Jesus."

Zaga clicked off the phone and slipped it back in his pocket. "The boss got a hair up his ass. He wants to do you himself."

Zaga got to his feet, dusted off his jeans. "No use arguing with the biggest bull in the pasture."

He grabbed Marisol by one arm and slung her to her feet.

As she rose, Marisol grabbed the pruning shears from her apron. Her momentum carried her close to Zaga. She swung the shears in a tight, hard arc. An uppercut he didn't see in the darkness.

The curved blade buried itself in his neck, catching the cartilage just below his voice box. He gasped and made a choking sound.

Her thumb found the lever, unlocked the mechanism, and the spring-loaded blades flew apart, widening the wound.

A wet, gurgling sound bubbled from inside his throat. He staggered back a step, then wobbled to one side. She yanked out the shears. A hot breath of air whistled from the wound. Misting blood showered her face. She stabbed again, deeper into the soft tissue of his neck. She must have hit an artery. A gusher of blood poured over her.