The Uninvited Guest

1

Child's-palm sized flakes of snow were collapsing on the windshield of a black Chevrolet Tahoe. Its wipers swished back and forth, sweeping the icy drops with a hissing "Swoosh!" over and over.

Skyscrapers, grey and dirty by day, molded in nightfall, flickering in reds, yellows and greens. Brakes screeched and honks blared below, the street grey-and-white from mud and snow. Coffee shops signs invitingly winked with crisp lettering at every corner, ready to welcome a passer-by for a cup of hot latte.

Just when Tahoe left tail light flicked orange, a red right blinked. The SUV braked at the crossing, giving way to pedestrians. Those had definitely underestimated today's weather—a trench coat wasn't of great use; one'd better wear a woolen hat and wrapped themselves in a scarf.

Washingtonians hadn't expected this year's winter to have learned some tricks from her Russian sister. Snow plows could hardly keep the road clean and spread salt on the sidewalks. The freak weather made all the sane folks chill at home, watch TV and, maybe, have a beer or two.

All, but Donald Ressler, the Special Agent with the FBI. Another day, another psycho on the streets. Thugs didn't give a damn about Christmas, so the task force closed a case. It had definitely boosted their boss's mood, so everyone got a Christmas day off.

Donald took the FBI's civillian SUV to drive home because his own car would stuck in the Gulliver-like snow mounds. Anxiously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Ressler glanced either on his watch or the traffic light.

Christmas Eve was around the corner, almost hitting him in the forehead.

The twenty-fourth of December. Seven o'clock.

If he could, he would rather spend Christmas with his mom and brother. But the skies snorted at him, producing a flow of non-stop wet and sleazy cotton candy. He'd be lucky not to get into a blizzard on his way home.

The phone buzzed in his jacket's pocket. Ressler slipped a curse. Red light had already turned green, so he hurried to push the gas pedal at the impatient "Beep!" from behind.

Someone must have really needed him, judging by the unsteady vibration tickling his chest every ten seconds.

Whoever this was, they could wait. He'd be of no use to anyone if he crashed right now.

Ressler cast a quick glance at the rear-view mirror. His heavily gelled hair was now messy and tousled like he'd just woke up. A few stray strawberry blond bangs fell onto his forehead. Pandas envied his eyes' dark bags—sleep deprivation was his best friend these days. Steering his way through, he unconsciously licked his full, chapped lips, dehydrated from the AC's hot air.

Someone hysterically honked behind again. To his left a reddish Mazda rushed to blinking green at the intersection.

Jerk.

In no time Donald braked at red light. The dick of a Schumacher had already halted there.

"Suck it," Ressler muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes on the traffic light, he resisted to show that dick the middle finger.

Donald rubbed his sore eyes, their green-tobacco hue gleaming in the tail lights of a car in front.

One could squeeze him like a lemon and he wouldn't feel a thing.

Shower. Dinner. Bed.

A workaholic Holy Trinity.

The light changed to green.

About time.

Already dreaming of his comfy quilt and pillow, Ressler accelerated. Chevy's engine gratefully purred when he smoothly shifted the gear, speeding up.