COLD RECKONING

The Apartment

The apartment on Calle de la Fe was exactly what Rice expected—small, sparse, and strategically located.

It occupied the third floor of a narrow building wedged between a shuttered bakery and a tobacco shop. The windows faced the street but were covered with heavy curtains that had probably been there for years. The furniture was minimal: a sagging couch, a rickety table, two wooden chairs, and a bed in the corner with a mattress that smelled of mildew. The kitchen was barely functional, but the water ran clean and the gas stove worked.

Rice had moved Joao from the old apartment under cover of darkness, half-carrying the wounded man through the empty streets. Joao's condition had worsened—the infection was spreading, and his fever had climbed dangerously. He muttered in Portuguese, fragments of sentences that made no sense, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"We need to find a doctor," Rice said, more to himself than to Joao.

The room didn't answer. Joao had drifted into a restless sleep, his chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. Rice checked the wound on his head. The skin around it was hot and discolored, streaks of red spreading toward his eye. Sepsis. If they didn't get him medical attention soon, he would die.

But hospitals asked questions. Clinics required identification. Any medical facility would flag a man with a gunshot wound and a companion with no verifiable history. They'd be arrested before Joao could even be examined.

Rice needed another option.

He pulled out the burner phone and dialed a number. It rang four times before a voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Olivia. It's Rice."

A pause. "You're supposed to be in Morocco."

"Plans changed. I'm in Madrid."

"Madrid." Another pause, longer this time. "That's a problem. You're supposed to be laying low, not running through Europe with a target on your back."

"I need a doctor. Someone who won't ask questions. My friend is dying."

Silence. Rice could hear the faint sound of traffic in the background, the distant hum of a city. Olivia was somewhere urban. Tangier, maybe. Or she'd moved on.

"There's a man in Madrid," Olivia said finally. "He works out of a basement clinic in the Tetuán district. He treats people who can't go to hospitals. Gang members, undocumented migrants, the occasional spy." She paused. "He's expensive. And he doesn't like surprises."

"I can pay."

"I'll send you the address. But be careful. If Meridian's people are watching the hospitals, they might be watching him too."

The line went dead. A moment later, a text message appeared on the phone's screen. An address. No name. No other details.

Rice stared at the message for a long moment, then pocketed the phone. He checked the Glock, made sure the suppressor was seated properly, and stood.

"Stay here," he told Joao, though the man couldn't hear him. "I'll be back before dawn."

He slipped out of the apartment and into the night.

---

Tetuán was a working-class district in the north of Madrid, its streets crowded with immigrant families and small businesses. Rice moved through the shadows, keeping his head down, avoiding the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. The address Olivia had sent was a narrow door between a halal butcher and a mobile phone shop. A single buzzer hung beside the door, unmarked.

Rice pressed it twice, waited, then pressed again.

The door opened a crack. A pair of dark eyes peered out at him.

"Olivia sent me," Rice said in Spanish.

The eyes studied him for a long moment. Then the door swung wider, and a man stepped back to let him enter. He was middle-aged, heavyset, with thinning hair and a face that had seen too many late nights. He wore a stained white coat over a t-shirt and jeans.

"Inside," the man said. "Quickly."

Rice followed him down a narrow hallway and into a basement room that smelled of antiseptic and old blood. The walls were lined with metal shelves stocked with medical supplies—bandages, syringes, bottles of generic antibiotics. A single examination table stood in the center of the room, its surface worn and stained.

"Your friend," the doctor said. "Where is he?"

"Close by. I'll bring him."

"Fifty thousand. Cash. Up front."

Rice didn't flinch. "I'll have it for you tonight."

The doctor nodded slowly. "I'll be here. But don't take too long. I have other clients."

Rice left the clinic and moved through the streets, his mind working. Fifty thousand euros. He didn't have that kind of cash. But he knew where to get it.

The men who'd attacked them at the safehouse had been carrying money. Rice had taken their wallets before fleeing—a few hundred euros, some credit cards, nothing substantial. Not nearly enough.

He needed another source.

The answer came to him as he walked past a row of parked cars. The van they'd taken from the dead men was still in the garage near the old apartment. If he could sell it—fast, no questions asked—he might be able to raise the cash. It was risky, but everything was risky now.

He found a chop shop in the Vallecas district, a grim industrial area on the southeastern edge of the city. The owner was a wiry man with a shaved head and a cigarette permanently glued to his lip. He looked at the van, walked around it twice, and named a price.

"Forty thousand," he said. "Take it or leave it."

Rice took it.

He returned to the apartment, pocketed the cash, and helped Joao to his feet. The man was barely conscious, his body burning with fever. Rice draped an arm over his shoulder and guided him down the stairs, through the empty streets, to the clinic in Tetuán.

The doctor was waiting. He took one look at Joao and shook his head.

"Bad," he said. "Very bad. The infection has spread."

"Can you save him?"

"Maybe. But it will cost more."

Rice pulled out the cash and dropped it on the examination table. "Just do it."

The doctor worked quickly, his hands steady despite the hour. He administered IV antibiotics, drained the wound, and applied fresh dressings. Joao moaned but didn't wake. Rice stood in the corner, watching, his hand never far from the Glock.

When it was done, the doctor stepped back and wiped his hands on a towel.

"He needs rest. At least a week. Maybe more. If the fever doesn't break in the next twenty-four hours..." He trailed off, shrugging. "I've done what I can."

Rice nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just pay the rest when you can."

Rice helped Joao back to the apartment and laid him on the bed. The man's breathing was steadier now, his fever starting to ease. Rice sat in the chair by the door and watched the sun rise over the rooftops of Madrid.

Forty thousand euros. Gone. And he still needed to get to Berlin.

The burner phone buzzed in his pocket. Rice checked the screen. A text from an unknown number.

"Madrid is hot. They know you're in the city. Get out tonight. I'll have transport waiting at the station. Train leaves at 23:00. Come alone."

Charlotte.

Rice stared at the message, his mind turning. If she knew the city was hot, then she had sources inside the network hunting him. That made her valuable. It also made her dangerous.

But he didn't have many options left.

He dialed Danny's number. The line connected after two rings.

"Rice? What's happening?"

"I need you to do something for me. Check on Charlotte Vance. Find out everything you can about her. Her history, her connections, her current activities."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Just do it." Rice paused. "And Danny—if anything happens to me, I need you to keep looking for my daughter. Promise me."

A long silence. Then: "I promise."

Rice ended the call and sat in the growing light, watching the city wake up outside the window. Tonight, he would leave Madrid. He would go to Berlin. He would find the truth.

Or he would die trying.

---

Charlotte's warning meant the enemy was closing in. But every ally came with a price. Could Rice trust her escape route, or was he walking into an ambush?