All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

KirThe distance across the concrete floor is exactly forty-two feet.I know, because I’ve calculated the precise time it would take me to cross it, rip the monitors off the desk, and smash them into pieces.My hands are curled into fists so tight the knuckles are stark white against my skin. The muscles in my arms and chest are locked, straining against a violent, feral urge to intervene. It takes every ounce of discipline I possess to stay on the opposite side of the warehouse while the man I have come to care about more deeply than I want to admit, is tearing himself to shreds.I watch as Jozef and Ray translate some of the codes for him and he realizes the depth of the lake of depravity he’s being forced to swim in.His breathing hitches, a jagged, broken sound that spears right down into the deepest part of me.The urge to protect him slams through me, sharp and immediate. I want to drag him away from the computer, bury his face in my neck, and shield him from the staggering e

KirThe master ledger projects across the primary warehouse monitor in stark, unforgiving white text.More than forty-seven thousand transactions. Years of stolen lives. Chana ran the final decryption script twenty minutes ago, stripping away the dark web aliases and the offshore corporate proxies, and the screen no longer displays cargo tags or delivery sectors.It displays names. Victims and Perpetrators.I stand by the weapon lockers with my arms crossed over my chest as I read the list. More high-level politicians than you can shake a stick at. Members of two European royal families. The CEO of the largest defense contractor in North America. A Saudi prince. The majority shareholder of a global telecommunications empire. Billionaires of virtually every industry. And on. And on. And on.It isn't just a criminal syndicate. It’s the entire architecture of the modern world.Oliver survived the night in my arms, anchoring himself to the physical reality of my body to drown out the ni

OliverThe warehouse feels like a morgue.The server racks are dead. Powered down. Ripped from the network. It’s too quiet. I fucking hate the quiet.The air is thick with the smell of bourbon, gun oil, and stagnant defeat. Nobody’s talking. The silence isn't peaceful. It’s a suffocating, heavy blanket thrown over a room full of apex predators who have just realized they’re trapped in a cage. They don't know how to sit still. They don't know how to lose.Dom is sprawled across a table. A half-empty bottle of amber liquid dangles loosely from her fingers.She stares at the blank monitor where the names used to be, her dark eyes flat and dead. She looks like a loaded gun with the safety stuck.Ray sits at a metal workbench, methodically breaking down a sniper rifle. The metallic snick-clack of the components echoes off the concrete. It sounds like a countdown to nothing.Jozef leans against the concrete pillar in the shadows. He looks like a statue carved from ice, completely detach

OliverThe word baby coming out of a six-foot-four lethal weapon should sound ridiculous. It doesn't. It sounds like a threat. Or a promise. I’m not sure I can tell the difference when it comes to Kir.My brain tries to hold onto the righteous anger from two seconds ago. But Kir's chest is flush against mine, a solid wall of dense muscle and suppressed violence, and every coherent thought vaporizes into static.Lifting my chin and exposing the line of my throat was supposed to be a challenge. Now it just feels like offering a vital artery to a predator."Show me," slips out. A reckless, stupid dare.Kir's feral grin widens. It strips away whatever civilized veneer he uses for the rest of the world.He doesn't gently coax me into his space. He invades the narrow gap between us. One massive hand clamps down on the back of my neck. Rough calluses scrape over the sensitive skin right at my hairline. He grips hard enough to send a violent tremor snapping down my vertebrae. The other ha

KirMonaco is a sun-bleached monument to terrible people with excellent credit.I stand on the stone terrace of the rented villa, looking down at the harbor. It’s a glittering, obscene display of yachts the size of office buildings and water so violently blue it hurts the eyes. The whole micro-state is designed for men who traffic in human misery to drink thousand-dollar champagne and pretend the rules don't apply to them.I’m self-aware enough to know that in any given conversation, I don’t have the moral high-ground, but I still feel like I’m better than them.At least I’m honest about being a criminal. I take a contract and kill that person. These bastards grind thousands to dust under the heels of their Gucci loafers and pat themselves on the back for it.I may also be short-tempered for a few other reasons.My jaw aches. It has nothing to do with the glare of the sun and everything to do with the agitation of keeping my hands to myself for the last forty-eight hours.I turn my