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15

THE PROTECTOR

M y usual five-mile jog turned into ten, and it didn’t burn off the shit clawing at my chest.

I’ve always known what I want, and exactly what and when I need it. From the moment I stepped into the FBI Academy, I understood this was where I was meant to be. But what I didn’t expect was how fast things would move. The first few months were a blur, the intense training at Quantico, the long nights filled with drills, simulations, and countless hours of preparation. I remember feeling like I was racing against time. The only time I had a break was when Ruslan took my place, so I didn’t feel the extreme pressure of the academy and that suited me, but not him at times.

“Those guys at the Academy are all jocks. My dad was an agent. His father was before him, so I must be. Please. Give me a break,” he would whine, whenever we had conversations about my future colleagues. Ruslan would mock the way they spoke and their attitude to life.

But it didn’t stop him stepping in my shoes and at times Ruslan would mess with their heads. I allowed him, because he loved it, and I liked seeing him happy. Also, I had to keep an eye on my brother at times, by being him, because he would think that he was the CIA, FBI and the fucking military all rolled into one and broke every rule under every ethical book.

By the end of my second year, I was already making waves. As a Special Agent in NY, I quickly got involved in high-stake investigations—violent crimes, organized syndicates, counterintelligence. Every case was an opportunity, and I took each one as if it could be my last. I knew how to read the people I worked with, how to analyze a situation, and how to make decisions others wouldn’t dare. But with Noah unknowingly helping me at times, thinking I was Ruslan, I managed to get promoted a lot quicker than my peers.

I worried their jealousy would result in learning the truth about my identity. One time, one of them thought Ruslan was I. So, Ruslan left the blinds open, letting them watch him fuck one of his hook ups in every position under the sun. He said it was the best night of his life.

He's my brother, but sometimes I fear he’s the dark side of me—the shadow I keep at bay. Where I hesitate, he dives in. Where I see danger, he finds excitement. He thrives in the chaos I try to avoid, drawn to the things I resist. And yet, I can’t turn away from him. I see myself in him, distorted, unfiltered, free in a way I will never allow myself to be.

Maybe I envy him, which is why I take his place at times so, I’m not always the stiff suit , he calls me at times.

Now, in my tenth year, I reached the top—Assistant Director (AD). I’ve risen faster than anyone ever expected, and I’m in charge of one of the largest, most important divisions in the FBI.

I rush in to have a cold shower after my jog, thinking about my time as an Agent and how the excitement of rising through the ranks made me want to do more. But now I’ve done it, there’s nothing left for me. I don’t have the same rush, and thrill as I used to do, before I had this hunger, I wanted more, nor nothing.

Fuck!

No matter how hard I try to think about how far I’ve come, what I’ve survived, and all the positive shit, I’ve been told by all those therapists in the past. My head always drags me back to that same fucked-up place. The one I ran from before the jog. The one waiting for me when I got back.

Ten miles later, I’m still carrying it.

Same weight. Same itch in my gut that says today’s gonna be a shitstorm.

Every time I feel like this, bad news follows. Like it’s wired into my bones.

I’ve only felt this twice in my life, and both times ended in blood.

The first time was when Mom died and the second was when my brother decided to make a copy of my ID and act like Rambo. I still haven’t forgiven him for that, especially when I was called in by Internal Affairs not just once but twice in relation to the case, it was so fucking high profile. The fucking mayor of New York died, a bullet in the middle of his fucking skull and some international diplomat.

Did Ruslan think he could waltz in there and just shoot people and there wouldn’t be any consequences?

I step out of the shower, admitting defeat; I can’t stay under the cold water too long, and I can’t hang around my apartment. I look around my room—it’s as sterile as my heart right now. Just a bed, a side table, and a closet. Nothing more.

My wardrobe consists of work clothes and running gear. I lead a simple lifestyle—not that anyone would know by looking at my bank account. I just don’t feel the need to spend money unless I really have to.

Let’s meet in Cafe Rouge on third street in 15.

My boss wants me to meet him away from the office, away from prying eyes. My heart starts to pound as if it’s ready to explode in my chest like a fucking volcano. This isn’t good news.

Sure!

I reply as I stuff my phone in my pocket. I better make sure I have all my shit together, because this could be one of the worst days of my life.

I head out of my apartment and take a look around. This place is no different from the hideouts Ruslan stays in. The white walls and black sofa in the living room it faces the TV which is turned on maybe once a week, to fill the apartment with noise, so at times it doesn’t feel so lonely.

There’s a bottle of whiskey and vodka in the kitchen—just in case, I get the urge to drink at home. I don’t drink at home much. There’s something about sitting alone in the quiet with a glass in my hand that makes the loneliness feel heavier, more permanent. So I usually head to the bar a few blocks from here.

It’s nothing special—dim lights, cracked leather booths, the same three songs on repeat—but at least the bartender talks. Usually it’s bullshit about the latest game or some headline I stopped caring about years ago.

Still, it’s noise.

The noise is better than silence, even if I’m only half-listening. I tend to numb myself on cheap liquor and bad lighting, then drag my sorry ass through Manhattan like another lost soul with a badge and blood on his hands. By the time I nod to the doorman, I’m already half-dead. Most of the time, I don’t even bother undressing, I tend to collapse onto the mattress in my suit, tie loosened, and put my gun on the nightstand. Sleep never comes easy. Not anymore.

The kitchen has no plates, because I don’t eat here at all. Not even a coffee machine for the same reason. This is a place called home. It has been for the last ten years, but it has been anything but that. I know because when I’ve been invited to my boss’s house, my ex-partner and even a colleague, I walk around in amazement and shame. I was thinking that if they ever came to my place, they would know the truth.

That my insides are as sterile and cold like my home. I sigh, because I’m forty-one and thinking I need a change of environment. A change of life. Maybe this is my calling and not a bad thing for me to be stop being an agent. I chuckle at the idea of it, as I close the door. I can’t imagine just giving up everything to start a new life.

A normal one.

Then again, what am I really giving up? The criminals will still crawl out of the cracks, and the politics tied to this job won’t vanish just because I walk away. The night Ruslan killed the mayor and the billionaire—it changed everything.

If he had shot some nobodies on the street, Internal Affairs wouldn’t have blinked. But the second blood hits money, the rules change.

That’s when the politics show up. Not when a body drops—only when the body is someone important. or rather someone with money.

As I walk down the hallway. I nod at the couple who live opposite, and as usual they’re fooling around. I swear the pair of them must be on Onlyfans or something, because I don’t understand how the pair of them never work. They’re always at home. Even when I’m chilling in my apartment, I can hear them fucking like rabbits.

I mentioned it once to my boss, he said that maybe they’re living on their inheritance, or they work online and that I needn’t be so suspicious all the time. Sometimes I need to let it go, that not everyone is a criminal. Yet, it’s hard when you’re an agent.

You’re suspicious of anyone and everyone.

“He’s so weird,” I heard her say as they managed to get into their apartment, which was hard, because I saw him with his hands down her pants as soon as I opened the door.

Well, I did what any concerned neighbor would do. I pulled up their profile to discover like the boss said, they did work online and as I suspected, it was on Only fans.

I shake my head at the idea of anyone wanting to watch them have sex. It’s nuts. There are plenty of porn sites that you can watch for free or they are a lot cheaper.

My attention turns from my neighbors to getting down the stairs and into the garage and car. The only luxury I have in life. I spend enough time in the damn thing, so I made sure it was worth sitting in—plush leather seats, all the bells and bullshit. It’s a hybrid, because stopping to charge isn’t always an option in this line of work. And yeah, it’s black. Always black. Like everything else I own.

As I step into my Audi R8. I smile. I always do when I sit in it. My brother did the same.

Ruslan.

My twin that no one knows exists apart from Noah and Frank. If Ruslan didn’t exist, then I would be me, all the time. I’ve been doing it for the last five years, and I must admit that it is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

I start the engine, put on my belt, then my car glides out of the garage. I’ll be at the cafe within fifteen minutes precisely. My boss didn’t give me much time to prepare, so something must be really wrong.

It doesn’t take me long to get there, having a badge allows me to park in some unrestricted areas.

By the time I park and arrive at the cafe, the boss is already sitting and waiting for me. He motions for me to join him, and this is when I notice that there are two take out cups in front of him and not one.

“Cappuccino right with two shots,” he confirms as I face him. He’s in his sixties, but the sweats make him look like he’s been worn down by time and bad decisions, all at once. The faded gray hoodie hangs off his shoulders like it’s seen better days—and those sleeves, bunched at the wrists, just scream “I gave up on looking good a long time ago.” His sweatpants are too big, clinging to the ankles over his sneakers.

His salt-and-pepper hair is a mess, wild like he just rolled out of bed, the kind that can’t be fixed with a comb. He rubs a hand over his face, blinking like he’s still half in a fog, still waiting for his brain to catch up with the day. There’s something almost pathetic about it—less the polished, cutthroat authority figure I’m used to seeing in the office, more like a tired man who’s barely holding it together.

He shifts on his feet, with his eyes glued to his phone, frowning like whatever’s on it, is already pissing him off. I head over to where he’s sitting, and then try and find a way to relax the tension which is clearly in the air.

“Jogging?” I crack a smile. Seeing as he’s not in the mood for formalities.

“Sit.” He commands and his tone and presence sets me on edge again, so I do as he says as I sit opposite him in a nearly crowded cafe Downtown.

I hardly slept last night and ate next to nothing. Sometimes when I’m stressed this happens, I remember Mom warning me that one day I would get an ulcer if I carried on like this, and I’ve had them nearly all of my adult life. Unlike Ruslan, who doesn’t seem to get stressed, well if he does then he has a fucking good way of hiding it.

“You have a meeting in around three hours. It’s a setup. They want someone to fall. And that someone is me.”

“You?”

He nods his head, all the while he’s talking his eyes are scanning the room, his eyes never lock with mine even as he sips on his coffee.

I’ve lost my appetite for coffee even if it is part of my daily ritual.

“Now, you can leave and act like this meeting never happened,” he barks.

I have so many questions but then I know better than to question the man who looked out for me and helped me get promoted time and time again.

“Will I see you again?”

“Are you still here?” He asks, and it is then that his eyes meet mine. They’re bloodshot and it’s as if he has aged ten years since I last saw him on Friday.

It’s as if my world is falling apart in front of my eyes. And I have no choice but to take my cup of cappuccino and leave the coffee shop. I do it with sullen regret. It’s only then that I get outside, ignoring the tourists, workers and everyone else who is trying to get in to have their daily fix. I stop by the window, looking back at where my boss once sat, and he’s no longer there.

He’s gone like a ghost.

The idea of him not explaining what’s going on, sends a wave of anger. I bust back in, strut to the bathroom, and as I swing the door open, there he is lying on the floor with crimson liquid pouring out of him.

Blood.

Shit, did he come here to commit suicide?

I ignore the screams of the guys who enter the bathroom, and their questions, whilst pretending that I’m not kneeling and stepping in blood.

There in his hand is a blade.

Boss didn’t come here to kill himself, what the fuck was I thinking? I wasn’t as my heart pounds trying to make sense of it all. He could have done this in the comfort of his own home. A loving husband, father of three and looking forward to retirement.

Someone has chosen the wrong agent to mess with.

It’s then that I hear the sirens, as I try to mend my boss back together, he has no heartbeat. Nothing, it’s clear that this isn’t a suicide and that pisses me off even more.