Page 106 of The Enemy Protector
He sits down. I know Kirill almost better than I know myself. Something is wrong.
“What’s that?” I nod at the picture he still isn’t showing me.
He sighs, leans forward and drops it on my desk face up.
I stare down at the photo of my wife.
She’s in line at a coffee shop on campus. Yesterday. I recognize the outfit she has on. I almost smile at the ugly combat boots.
I scan the photo and spot Nelson about twenty feet away. He’s got earbuds in, a backpack slung over his shoulder and sunglasses on. He looks like any other young person on campus.
Does the person taking the photo believe she’s alone? Is that an advantage or disadvantage? The picture is focused on her, but I know two other men are there. I doubt they blend nearly as well. The photographer would have seen them.
“Turn it over,” Kirill says.
I do.
She takes her coffee with chocolate creamer. She only studies with her hair up. She sits in the last row so she can see every exit. You thought watching her made her yours. It just made her a target I already have sights on. Step away.
No signature. No need for one.
I set the photograph down.
I look at it staring back at me. She holds the strap of her bag in a tight fist. The bag with her weapons. But there’s something different.
She’s not quite as stiff. Her guard is down. She’s got the usual earbuds in, but I wonder if she’s actually listening to music. Her other hand would normally be sitting at her waist, ready to grab the knife in her pocket.
It’s not.
She’s looking at her fucking phone. She knows better.
This is my fault.
I’ve assured she is safe, and this has allowed her to relax.
My protection is a liability. I’ve dulled her sharp edges in a week’s time.
I sit back in my chair, forcing myself to look at it the way I would look at any other target.
Posture. Awareness. Environment.
She used to scan everything. I watched her do it a hundred times before she ever knew I existed. She moved like someone who understood exactly how fragile life was. Someone who expected it to be taken from her at any moment.
Now she’s looking at her phone.
My jaw tightens.
Comfort is a luxury people like us don’t get to have. Not for long. Not without consequence.
I did that.
I gave her a fortress. Not like her father’s home. There are no enemies within my gates. Guards she doesn’t see. A bed she can sleep in without a weapon under her pillow. I gave her quiet.
And in a matter of days, she started to believe it.
My eyes drop back to the photo. Her expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it in public. There’s no tension in her shoulders. No calculation in her stance.
She looks…normal.
