All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Kir He stays exactly where I left him. On his hands and knees, his head bowed, the duvet bunched around his shins.An hour ago, he was standing in the main living area, coldly orchestrating the logistics of a mass assassination. He was spinning variables, anticipating security countermeasures, and calculating how to trap twenty men inside a reinforced steel room so we could slaughter them. He was the architect of tomorrow’s violence. Untouchable. The smartest man on the continent, running purely on adrenaline and arrogant certainty.Now, he’s crying quietly into the mattress. Just because I told him to stay still.The whiplash of it actually catches me under the ribs. A heavy, brutal kind of possessiveness hooks into my chest and pulls tight. It makes me run hot. I stand at the edge of the bed and just look at him, taking the time to process the sheer gravity of what he gives me.The varnished wood of the humbler locks him in a perfect, agonizing stasis. He’s anchored by the

Oliver It’s been forty-eight hours since Naples, and the team has dropped out of the sharp, bright edge of action into the heavy drag of after. We’re currently holed up in a sprawling, concrete-and-glass rental property in the hills above Marseille. It looked great on the booking site. Infinity pool, panoramic views of the ocean, secure wrought-iron gate. But in practice, it’s a logistical nightmare. You try putting nine deeply paranoid, highly trained killers, and two bitchy hackers, into a living space designed for a wealthy French family of four and see what happens. The fridge is empty except for three bottles of top-shelf vodka, a block of expensive, stinky cheese, and a jar of pickled onions that absolutely nobody claims to have bought.Max is asleep on the rug in the center of the living room. He’s using a rolled-up tactical vest as a pillow and his mouth is hanging open. Butcher is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, eating Cheerios out of a Pyrex measuring jug.

KirThree days into a total digital blackout and Oliver is so keyed up he can barely stand still. The flat is small. It sits on the third floor of a nameless, grey building in the 11th arrondissement. There’s a tiny kitchenette, a sagging velvet sofa, and a bedroom that barely fits a double bed. Not the kind of lodging Oliver is fond of at all. But the owner doesn’t care about identification or why we’re in the city, as long as we pay cash in advance.And being surrounded on all sides by people is an extra layer of security and anonymity.I consider three days of unbroken quiet a massive operational success. Oliver considers it torture.He’s walking a tight loop between the window and the kitchenette, burning off adrenaline he has nowhere to put. The skin under his eyes is stained a deep, bruised purple."Stop pacing," I tell him.Oliver ignores me. He hits the edge of the rug and pivots again. "I’m going out of my mind, Kir. I need a laptop and access to the internet. I just nee

Kir The lock clicks into place.I stand by the door of the flat for a long time, listening to the sharp, even strike of Evelyn Blaese’s heels on the hallway stairs. The sound fades into the ambient noise of the building, swallowed up by a neighbor’s television and the distant grind of Parisian traffic.She’s gone, but the air in the room is still warped.I look at Oliver. He’s standing by the kitchenette, staring down at the remains of the coffee mug I dropped.I only picked up the larger pieces, I need to get rid of the splinters so he doesn’t cut himself.I’m worried about the way he’s staring at the ground.He isn't ranting. He isn't throwing his hands in the air or pacing a hole in the linoleum.He’s quiet, and Oliver is never quiet. He uses words like suppressive fire. He throws out snark, attitude, and relentless noise to keep people off balance and keep his own perimeter secure. He will talk until he runs out of breath just to avoid sitting in silence. His silence is the

OliverIt’s barely seven in the morning. I’m wearing sweatpants and drinking coffee to try and wake myself up.My mother has already been by. She knocked and waited to be invited in this time, then handed over a thick manila folder and a top of the line laptop as a parting gift. She wasn’t keen to stay and chat for some reason. Kir is standing on the other side of the kitchen counter. Showered and dressed in unremarkable street clothes. Not that he could ever really be unremarkable. He’s far too delectable.He looks completely awake and dangerously focused. He also refuses to look directly at the spot on the floor where he nearly choked out my mother several hours ago.I open the folder. "Say what you want about her," I say, pulling out a stack of grainy surveillance photos and printed dossiers. "But the woman does not bluff. She brought the receipts.""I am aware of her competence," Kir says. "I am also aware she is probably petty.""Oh, she’s definitely going to make your life