Cracking His Code

OliverThe code is singing.It’s a rare thing, that perfect, rhythmic hum where the world outside the monitors ceases to exist.There’s no New York City, no Chelsea penthouse, no traffic noise drifting up from twenty floors below. There’s only the stream of data, the cascade of encryption keys shattering under my fingers, and the adrenaline spiking in my blood like a chemical cocktail.I lean back in my Herman Miller chair, the leather creaking softly, and adjust my glasses. The blue light from the three-monitor array washes over me, reflecting in the lenses. I can feel the heat of the processors working overtime, a small, contained fire that I control."Come on, you corrupt, sanctimonious prick," I whisper, my fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard. The click-clack of the keys is the only sound in the room, a frantic staccato that matches the hammering of my pulse.I’m deep inside the private server of Senator Augustus Scott. The man is a pillar of the community, a champion o

OliverThe city is a cage, and I’m the rat currently banging its head against the bars.My breath mists in the cold air, a fleeting ghost that vanishes as quickly as my chances of survival. I’m huddled in the doorway of a boarded-up electronics store in Queens, watching the street from under the brim of my Mets cap.I need a weapon. Not a gun or a knife, though the folding blade in my pocket is a small comfort, I need my actual weapon. I need code. I need a keyboard.My mind is running a frantic diagnostic on my options, and they’re all coming up red. I can’t go to a friend, I’ll just paint a target on their back. I can’t go to a hotel with Wi-Fi, they’ll ask for a credit card.I need the dark.There’s a name rattling around in the back of my skull. It’s a fragment of a memory from a late-night dive into the encrypted forums where the monsters of the underworld compare notes.Kirill Nikolaev.The name wasn’t in Senator Scott’s files, which means I won’t be a conflict of interest.A us

KirillI hold Dom’s gaze for three seconds. I’m the only one in this team who issues orders, but she’s my second-in-command for a reason. She sees the angles I miss when my temper flares, and right now, my temper is a lit fuse.I open my hand and the kid drops like a stone. He lands hard on the concrete, his worn boots scuffing against the oil stains, a sharp gasp punching out of his lungs as his bruised ribs take the impact.He catches himself on the edge of the tool chest, coughing and glaring at me with absolute venom."Stay there," I tell him, pointing a finger at his face. "If you take one step toward that door, I will let Max practice his golf swing on your kneecaps."Oliver’s jaw tightens, but he stays put, leaning heavily against the red metal drawers.I turn my back on him. "Dom, Max, Butcher, Saint. Office. Now."I don't wait to see if they follow. I walk to the heavy steel door that separates the grimy facade of the front from the high-tech sanctuary of the back, punching m

OliverBoredom sits on my chest like a lead apron at the dentist, pressing the air out of my lungs until I want to scream just to hear something other than the hum of the industrial refrigerator.It’s been twenty-six hours since Kirill Nikolaev confiscated my phone and initiated Protocol Zero.Twenty-six hours without a screen. Without a data stream. Without the dopamine hit of a new notification or the rhythmic cascade of code executing in a terminal. I’m going cold turkey from the entire twenty-first century, and the withdrawal symptoms are manifesting as a desperate need to annoy the six-foot-four Russian currently ignoring me from across the room.When one pays a million-dollar retaining fee, one generally expects Egyptian cotton sheets and perhaps a view that isn't a blackout blind. What I have is a concrete box that smells of lemon Pledge and testosterone.Kirill is sitting at the steel table, dismantling a handgun. He moves with a terrifying economy of motion. His large hands,

KirillFour days have passed since the British hacker inserted himself into my world, and the peace of the warehouse has been thoroughly eradicated.Reviewing the encrypted dossiers on the cartel movement out of Miami requires absolute focus. My air-gapped laptop sits on the table, the screen filled with lines of data, financial transfers, and surveillance photos. Translating the raw intelligence into a viable strike plan is meticulous work. It demands a quiet, ordered environment. For the past six months, my team and I operated in the sweltering, blood-soaked jungles of Colombia and Peru. Dismantling drug running operations there to cement the monopoly of the Mexican cartel who hired us.Coming back to New York was supposed to be a period of decompression. Taking on this bodyguard contract was a collective decision to allow the team to rest in a secure location while still generating revenue. It was supposed to be simple. Keep the target inside. Monitor the perimeter. Collect th