Fire In The Snow

[Author's Note: Submitted for the February 2022 writing contest with the theme of "Valentine's Day." It begins and ends in mystery.]

CHAPTER I: WORDS OF FIRE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February 13th, 2019.

Corner of Irving Street and Mount Pleasant Avenue, NW

Washington, D.C.

7:05 p.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Martin's foot left the curb of Irving Street and swung down into the snow. It was falling heavily now, with gusts of wind flinging the specks into dizzying patterns.

A layer dusted the black asphalt. A few trails of footprints broke through the softness. There were not many; all of Washington, D.C. seemed to shut down when new snow came. Especially after dark. Especially when the wind could send little pieces of ice down your collar. Martin hunched his shoulders and shivered.

As he left the crosswalk and met the cracked concrete, Martin stopped in his tracks.

An untouched blanket of snow lay on the sidewalk.

In a city that breathed in and out a million commuters every day, that undisturbed patch of white on Mt. Pleasant Avenue felt like a miracle. No workers strode briskly past talking on cellphones. No tourists gawking and pulling along their children. Just a clean, pure canvas.

Martin stood for half a second and watched the flakes drifting down on this pristine wonder.

Then thoughts of all the work he still had to do shouted in his brain. A half-billion-dollar defense department procurement was on the line, and if it fell through it was on his shoulders. Charles Wilson at the agency would go into one of his dreaded swearing fits (double chin quivering) if this didn't get done

tonight

. Martin was not worried; he knew how to play this game, and he played to win.

Pulling his gray trench coat tighter across his wide, powerful chest, Martin continued trudging straight ahead.

Without warning, a roaring fire filled his mind.

The world burst into invisible colors. Every separate thing began to blend together - the snow, the sidewalk, his breath, the thoughts in his head. The edge of every snowflake began to shine. Something enormously bright began to fall from the sky: large cursive words like white-hot fire lancing down out of the dark into the lights of streetlamps. Smashing into the ground, they melted, hissing violently. Steam rushed up, glowing with an inner light. He breathed it in. Something cold inside snapped. His chest was warm. His groin was hot. Something molten was building in his stomach. He began to melt.

Martin stumbled, his knees weak. Panting, he shut his eyes. Wisps of vapor rose from his mouth.

Slowly the sensation passed. When he opened his eyes again, the street was as it was before. A black Lexus with gleaming blue headlights roared through a yellow light, splashing crushed snow onto the corner near his leather shoes. Little flakes floated down onto the quiet blanket of snow.

"Not again," Martin whispered. He gritted his teeth. He stared at the snow.

"I don't have

time

for this," he muttered viciously.

Hurriedly, he took a step back towards the intersection, then hesitated. His muscles could not seem to move forward.

Without thinking, he drifted slightly to his right onto the sidewalk. Some distant part of him noted that the streets rarely seemed to meet at square corners in D.C.

He heard his feet crunching into the virgin snow.

Not far down the block he stopped. In a daze, he bent down, stretching out a leather-gloved finger, and began to draw. Looping cursive letters in the snow appeared behind his hand.

He became lost in his work. No one walked by as he slowly made his way up the block. Finishing the last letter, he stepped back to look at the long line of words twisting through the snow. Only his single set of footprints broke through his frozen canvas. It was a poem -- the same one he had seen burning down from the heavens.

Dazed, he turned his face towards the sky, his eyes open wide. A kaleidoscope of flakes fell in flurries, flashing in and out of the lights from the streetlamp. A fat one hit his eye, making him blink wildly. Others melted on his nose and cheeks.

He shivered. He watched the mist of his breath mix with swirls.

"Come on ...

Come on

! Goddammit, just

happen

already."

Martin glowered and stamped his feet. He pulled out his cell phone and checked for any updates from Wilson. Occasionally, a car would hum by, making wet sounds as it rushed past. The snow resting on every surface deafened most smaller sounds.

Looking behind him, he saw some kind of eatery with bright windows. An inviting wood counter with tall stools faced out the window. Something cold began to melt down his collar.

"Whatever the hell it is, I can wait just as well in there," Martin grumbled. "It's goddamn cold out here."

Climbing up the short flight of stairs, Martin pushed through the double doors. He stopped short when he saw a sign with dozens of different flavors hanging in big block letters on the wall:

BlueBerry Cream

Salted Caramel

Cookies and Cream

Chocolate Wasabi ...

"An ice cream shop," he said flatly. "A

hipster

ice cream shop. In a snowstorm."

A bored-looking young woman in a green apron looked up, evincing a mild look of surprise. Once she saw Martin, she gave his muscled frame an appreciative head-to-toe.

"Anything I can help you with?" she said with a warm smile, looking up at him through her eyelashes. She unconsciously threw back her shoulders.

Martin glowered and half-turned towards the door. This was not exactly the best weather for a cold scoop of ice cream.

Still, the place was warm, and the view out the window was clear. Based on how the twenty-something woman behind the counter was looking at him (she was pretty, with freckles, and a pierced nose) she probably would have let him sit down for free, but he liked to pay his own way.

"Sure, just give me a minute," he replied, giving her a friendly, but professional nod. "Lots of great options."

He absently checked his phone. Date: February 13th. Time: 19:35. He still had plenty of bandwidth tonight to work on the contract.

Martin pulled off his leather gloves as he started to scan through the dizzying array of flavors. "Cookies and Cream" sounded straight-forward. "Thai Chili" was pretty clear, too--strange, but clear. But what was "Kulfi?" For the life of him he could not figure it out.

The jingle of a bell rang out behind him. A woman in a long, knee-length black jacket and fitted white jeans walked into the shop. She stamped snow off leather boots laced up to mid-calf. Shaking flakes off the edges of her hood--which was lined with soft faux fur--she pulled it down off her head.

The first things Martin noticed were her eyes. They were like deep pools. Almost black, but warm and liquid, with endless depth. Her smooth skin was almost the same shade as her eyes-- like dark chocolate. The cheeks were high and defined. Eyebrows arched away from naturally long eyelashes. Full lips shone with some kind of gloss, and--

"Are you okay?" She looked up at him with those expressive eyes, her eyebrows slightly raised in curiosity. Her voice was warm, with a slight lilt to it that he could not place.

Martin realized that he had been staring. "Beautiful - uh ... all good, I mean. Apologies; I just didn't expect anyone else to be here. It's a bit cold. You know, for ice cream."

The woman slightly cocked an eyebrow. Martin continued in a rush in his rich baritone voice. "Not that the

ice cream

is too cold. I've never had ice cream here-- I assume it's cold. The weather. It's too cold, not just the cream. The iced kind of cream. Cold ice cream."

Martin clamped his teeth on the tip of his tongue to shut himself up. What had gotten into him? He was babbling. He knew how to dominate a room filled with three-star generals and a Cabinet-level Secretary, but here he was rambling about ice cream. He made a show of examining the flavor choices, trying to piece together what little pride he had left.

"Yes, the ice cream is cold; the weather is, as well." There was a hint of restrained laughter in her voice. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw her looking down to wipe snow off her jacket. Her breasts were full enough that a hint of their curves was visible even through the thick padding.

She stroked flakes off her thin, intricate braids. The wave of braids mostly fell along one side of her face, their ends touching the curve of her neck. Her lips subtly tilted up, almost a smile, but her face was distant: like most of her thoughts were somewhere far away. He wondered what it would look like if she really smiled, not just--

"Do you know what you're going to order?" Her eyebrows arched even higher. Martin realized he had been gazing for a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable. He wrenched his eyes back up to the menu.

"I'm afraid I can't decide." He gestured in front of him gallantly, stepping to the side. "Please, go ahead, if you're ready."

"Thank you," she murmured.

She looked at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable, then turned her attention back up to the menu.

Martin took her in from behind. Something about her was magnetic. Perhaps it was the way she held her chin. Dignified, yet calm. There was a brightness about her, not-so-deeply hidden.

"Any intel on the Kulfi?" Martin asked in a firm but friendly voice. "I've got the gist of the rest, but that one's got me stumped."

"Well, actually," the bubbly voice of the pink pierced twenty-year-old broke in as she gave Martin a warm smile, "the Kulfi is a great combo of flavors from--" she cut off sharply as the other woman quickly held up a single rich brown index finger.

The finger firmly ticked back and forth.

"Just a moment," she said smoothly, not taking her eyes off Martin. The girl in the apron shut her mouth with a click.

"Intel, hmmm?" Her glossy lips twitched upwards a little more. She tapped a silver-painted fingernail against her mouth. "I might know something. But that information could be dangerous in the wrong hands."

Martin gave a wry half smile. "Need-to-know basis, right?"

The woman nodded her head gravely. "I'm afraid so."

Martin muffled his humor and put on a serious, concerned look. "Listen, ma'am, I respect your concerns. But the lives of good men are on the line, and by God I don't have time to play games. I need that intel, and I need it

now.

"

She shook her head slowly. "Typical. Brute force will get you nowhere, I'm afraid. I'm going to need something more from you, big man."

Martin was six foot three and barrel-chested-- he knew the effect his physical presence had in a room. He leaned a little closer. "Alright, if you want to dance, let's dance. I know you have the intel. You know what I want. So, tell me, lady-in-the-know, what do

you

want?"

"Who said I wanted anything at all?"

"You did, lady. From your own lips."

"Hmmm," she tapped a fingernail again. "I said I needed something from

you

. I didn't say I wanted anything for

me

."

Martin turned on his full Washington, D.C. "let's make a deal" attitude and leaned in closer. "We can split words all day, lady, or we can get straight to the heart. You've got the goods. I need to know. You know you can trust me, and I'll do whatever it takes to prove it. So, what's it going to take?"

As he stepped closer, something shivered through her composure. She nodded silently. Her eyes became like deep pools again.

She leaned in, her voice becoming soft, her eyes still latched to his. "Can you handle the truth?"

"Of course." He felt blood rushing towards his face.

She leaned in closer, whispering, "Are you ready to hear it?"

"I'm listening."

She held his gaze steadily without shifting away. He felt naked in front of her, like she could see right through him. Martin started to see all the patterns in her eyes-- dark brown on strands of night-black. Like some kind of nebula bursting out from empty space.

She leaned into his ear. "The truth is you should trust me."

Martin could feel her breath on his cheek.

"Whatever it takes," Martin rumbled. Her scent was something sharp. Savory.

Suddenly, the woman turned away from Martin and towards the pouting girl in the apron.

"We'll have two medium Kulfi cups," she said briskly. She gestured vaguely back at Martin. "He'll be paying."

Martin laughed as if it had been pulled out him, a rusty guffaw, but straight from the belly. It had been too long since he'd laughed--not as a show for a client, but

really

laughed.

She raised another eyebrow at him.

Martin put back on his "politician-friendly" smile. "I said I'd do what it takes, and I'm a man of my word. Your company is worth any price." He stuck out his hand.

She hesitated. Her eyes flickered up and down his body. An expression flashed across her face; something intense, but hard to describe. Martin wondered if he had even seen it; after all, it had come and gone so quickly. The woman absently brushed a braid away from her face.

He stood waiting. He felt his heart thump--hard. Once. Twice. A third time.

"Okay," she said slowly. Martin exhaled. The pause could not have been more than a few seconds, but for Martin it felt like an hour.

She continued, picking up speed. "But, this is

only

as payment for my expert advice. If you don't like the Kulfi, it's a money-back guarantee."

"It's a deal." He stuck back out his hand. Her lips twitching again, she took his hand and gave it a firm professional shake. Her light palm was soft under his touch. Martin could feel the blood drop out of his head, warmth spreading south through his body.

"I'm Martin, by the way," he added, "and you are...?"

"You can call me Risha."

Releasing the handshake, he was about to make some witty Franklin Roosevelt joke about their "new deal," when something like fire began to roar through him.

No, not again

," he thought.

Not here, not

--

The world contracted. Light faded around the edges of his vision like a vignette photo. Only she remained. He could sense the fullness of her volume, as if she were a clear glass of water. Her eyes were open floodgates pouring out a raging river of white fire.

It poured out of her eyes and smashed into his chest. His body cracked open like a door, spreading wide to take in the roiling flames. It did not burn, but a torrent of warmth pressed against his heart. It was frozen, numb. Slowly it began to melt. Feeling returned, a cold so intense it was pure pain. Something cracked, then shattered. The cold vanished.

Heat flowed from his heart down between his legs, and back up to his head. His whole body vibrated like the string of a guitar. It was sensuous. Erotic.

Music began to form out of his own vibration. It was as clear and as loud as a brass trumpet. The tune began to burn itself into him. The resonance of the vibrations fed back on themselves, humming harder and harder. He shook with such intensity that he thought he would explode in pure ecstasy.

Like a rubber band pulled too tight, all of existence snapped.

In an instant it began and in an instant it was over. Risha did not seem to notice. She had already turned towards the bored girl with the piercings to add something to the order; it sounded like Risha wanted crushed pistachio toppings.

No

. Martin thought silently, passionately.

I still won't listen to you. Not now, not ever again.

He shook his head.

This is insane. I need to think rationally.

Risha looked over her shoulder at him, her eye half-hidden by a thin braid. She brushed it back with one hand. Her lips curved up into that hint of a smile.

In the pit of his stomach, Martin felt an absolute certainty. He remembered every word from his experience as if he had sung the lyrics for years. It was all connected - the feeling on the sidewalk, the message in the snow.

It was her.

She

was what he had been waiting for.

"What am I going to do now?" Martin whispered to himself.

CHAPTER II: ONE RED ROCK

~~~~~~~~~~

Feb. 13th, 2010

Road between Al-Hilla and Al-Diwaniyah

Al-Qadisiyah Governorate, Iraq

3:35 p.m.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jamal gave a cheeky grin to Martin from under his desert-camo tactical helmet. Martin clutched his M-16 rifle as the Humvee bounced down the line of dirt that passed for a road.

"What, 120 degrees isn't fucking cold enough for ya'?" Jamal yelled over the rumble of the road. "I drive this convo extra fast just to give you a fucking spring breeze, and you give me shit about it like a fucking white snowflake

pussy

?!"

Martin grinned back. Sweat dripped down into his collar. Flecks of sand cut through the open window. A blast of air like an open oven hit his face.

"I'm just saying," Martin argued loudly, "I want that sweet Red Dot AC they're putting in some Humvees. If they can do AC for the radios, they can do it for the grunts. A man can dream, can't he?"

"Yeah, man, that's us, living the

fucking

dream." Jamal laughed again, a crooked smile splitting his nut-brown face.

Martin grinned back. "I dream about your mamma's pussy. It's not as hot as the desert, but it's a wet heat. So nice and damp and humid it makes me sweat bullets! Mmm. Mmm. Mmm."

Jamal burst out into donkey brays, slapping the steering wheel with one hand.

"Ahhhhh

shit

—white boy's been working on his mamma' jokes! Well, country boy, if you think that's damp, let me tell you 'bout—"

A blast smashed a dozen pieces of shrapnel into the side of Jamal's face. Hot dust licked with smoke and flames roared in through the window. Martin's world flipped sideways. The shriek of tearing metal concussed into his ears.

"We've been hit!" Martin tried to yell. Smoke started to fill his lungs. Yellowish dirt filled the view from his window. Blue sky stared down from the other. Jamal hung limply from his seat harness above Martin.

"Jamal! We gotta' move!" Martin shook Jamal hard. He swayed in the harness.

"Jamal; NOW! Don't you--" The other side of Jamal's head swung into view. His teeth were exposed in a bloody skeletal grin. Red welled up out of holes in his cheek and eye.

The image burned itself into Martin's head, burrowing like a worm into the back of his skull. It curled up into his soul and prepared a nest where it could live for years to come.

There was no time to think. Martin struggled with the clasps of the seat harness. Somehow he managed to hoist Jamal onto his shoulder and scramble out of the window. As he fell down the side of the tilted wreck of metal that was once a Humvee, something like a loud insect hummed by his head. Pops like firecrackers came from off in the distance.

"We're under fire!" Martin yelled. Men in uniform poured out of vehicles up and down the road. Another vehicle was smoking. A machine gun on top of another Humvee unleashed a clatter of rounds.

"I need a medic! Goddamn it, I need a medic over here!" Martin absently used his uniform to wipe Jamal's blood off his hands. He lay back against the roof of the tilted Humvee and readied his M-16. The heat flowed off the sand in translucent waves. The acrid smell of burnt tires filled his nose.

Martin looked at the dome of the clear blue sky, placed his finger on the trigger and turned to--

The sky glimmered like glass. Martin ran his finger along the smooth-sharp expanse. It was sweet on his lips. The sky cracked and shattered as a trumpet called. Something roared. A winged figure slipped its way through the break in the sky. It glowed with liquid white fire. Music roared from the hole in the heavens. The music cut Martin's skin. He screamed, but no sound came out. The shining wings of light hummed. They quivered. They pulsed with wordless beats. They soared down from the sky towards a hill of rock and sand in front of Martin. The wings, the light, the music, all crashed into the ground and exploded in a fountain of blood. Only one rock on the hill was painted red.