All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Oliver I press the last strip of medical tape over the gauze on Kir’s bicep. My hands shake as I push the edges down hard, but Kir doesn’t so much as blink. He just sits on the sofa, shirtless and delicious, watching me.I throw the wrappers into the trash and zip the medical kit shut. Then I walk to the kitchen counter and wipe it down with a damp paper towel. I throw the towel away and walk to the window to check the blinds.I’m twitchy as hell.My brain feels like a radio stuck between stations, blasting white noise and fragmented voices. I keep seeing the blood on Kir’s jacket. I keep hearing my mother’s clipped, aristocratic tone in the hallway. I keep thinking about a Russian kill house and a kid named Adrik and a dozen dead mercenaries across Paris.It’s too much. It’s all too much, and the adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright for the last three days is curdling into something sharp and manic.I need the noise to stop.I turn around and look at Kir. He hasn’t moved

OliverI wake up in pieces.The first thing my brain registers is that my ass is on fire. Not the sharp, singing heat from last night, but the deeper, meaner ache of muscle that has been methodically taken apart and left to stew in its own juices.The second is that I can't remember moving since Kir put me to bed.The third is that he's watching me.I crack one eye open. The light in the flat is the weak, grey-blue of Parisian morning, filtered through cheap venetian blinds that don't quite close. Kir is lying on his side facing me, his head propped on one palm, his other hand resting flat on the pillow between us. He's been awake a while. Possibly all night. I've known this man long enough to spot the difference between just-woken and never-slept."How long have you been staring at me like a serial killer?" My voice comes out in a rasp."Since sunrise," he says, calm as you like."That is so deeply unsettling.""I like watching you sleep. You talk.""I do not.""You told a man n

OliverThe kitchen smells like bleach.Kir cleaned the table this morning before he'd even made coffee. Vinegar first, then bleach, then a final rinse with saline. He laid down a fresh cotton sheet, tucked the corners and smoothed it with his palms. Over that, a wide sterile field cut from a paper pack he bought at the pharmacy.The tools are laid out in a row.It looks like a war crime in a kitchen magazine photoshoot."This is not helping," I tell the ceiling."What is not?""Seeing it all laid out like this.""I can blindfold you.""Don't you dare."He’s moving around behind me, pulling things from the duffel, checking the seal on a gauze pack. His bandage is fresh. Shirt off. The planes of him are distracting in a way that is probably inappropriate given the circumstances, and I’m leaning into it hard because the alternative is thinking.I consider offering to blow him again, but he’ll just say now’s not the time. "Pants," he says."Buy me dinner first.""Oliver.""Fine. Fin

OliverIt’s six-thirty in the morning and I can’t keep still. The anxiety’s eating me alive.What if everyone didn’t make it?Kir and I are tucked into a doorway off a cobbled alley.He’s shielding me with his body, reading the street while pretending to check his phone. My eyes cut past his shoulder to the wall opposite where he pointed out a marking.Third brick up from the foot of the drainpipe. Fourth brick in from the corner. A tiny blue chalk mark, no bigger than a thumbnail.Someone got here before us. Someone left a sign to let us know they’re alive."Watch for shadows," Kir murmurs.He crosses the alley in three easy strides. I follow him across, stand watch while he crouches and runs his gloved fingertips along the mortar below the marked brick. Something slides out of a crack. A crushed cigarette filter which he pulls apart with steady fingers.There’s a rolled strip of paper inside, a tiny square with words on it that I can’t make out from up here.Kir reads it witho

KirOliver radios Evelyn at four in the afternoon.He keys the mike from the sofa, legs folded under him, a chipped plate balanced on his knee with the last of the bread and cheese from the safe house. He’s been quiet since we got back from Saint’s apartment. The team is back. The plan is set. Tomorrow we leave for Prague.Evelyn needs to be told."Mother hen," Oliver says into the handset.Static. Then a deep sigh before she responds, "Baby bird.""We’re moving tomorrow."A long pause. The kind that means she has questions she’s not going to ask."I would like to come over before you go," she says. "I won’t stay long. I have something for you."Oliver's mouth tightens. "When?""Within the hour.""Fine."He clicks off and sets the handset on the coffee table without looking at me."You do not have to see her," I tell him. "Yes, I do. If she has something useful, I want to know what it is. And if she has something useless, I want her gone before we leave."He stands up, picks up th