COLD RECKONING

The Crossing

The coastal road twisted like a snake along the cliffs.

Rice drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the Glock in his lap. The van's engine hummed steadily, but the vehicle was old—the suspension creaked with every curve, and the brakes felt soft beneath his foot. He'd driven worse. He'd driven through war zones, through ambushes, through cities that had been reduced to rubble. This road, at least, was paved.

Joao sat in the passenger seat, his broken ankle propped awkwardly against the dashboard. His face was pale, sheened with sweat. The whiskey had worn off, leaving behind the raw pain of his injuries. He'd stopped talking an hour ago, retreating into some private misery.

The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning haze. The Mediterranean sprawled to their left, impossibly blue, dotted with fishing boats and cargo ships. To their right, the Rif Mountains rose in layers of brown and green. It was beautiful country. Rice barely noticed.

His mind was on the chip.

The hidden partition Olivia had mentioned. The encrypted files buried beneath the financial records. Eliana had given him that chip for a reason. She'd known about the ambush, known about the dead agent, known that Rice would find it. Which meant she'd known about the partition too.

What was she trying to tell him?

The thought circled endlessly, a puzzle he couldn't solve. He didn't have the tools, didn't have the expertise. Danny might be able to crack it, but Danny was thousands of miles away, unreachable until Rice got to Europe.

"We're being followed," Joao said suddenly.

Rice's eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. A dark sedan was visible behind them, maybe three hundred meters back. It had been there for the last ten minutes, maintaining a steady distance.

"I see it," Rice said.

"What do we do?"

"Nothing. Not yet." Rice kept his speed steady, his expression neutral. "If they wanted to hit us, they'd have done it by now. They're tracking us. Waiting for something."

"Waiting for what?"

Rice didn't answer. He was watching the road ahead, looking for options. The cliff dropped sharply on the left, no guardrail, just a hundred-foot fall to the rocks below. On the right, the mountain rose steeply, covered in dense scrub. There was nowhere to turn off, nowhere to hide.

A trap.

The road curved sharply, and Rice saw it—a roadblock ahead. Two vehicles parked nose-to-nose, blocking both lanes. Men stood behind them, rifles raised.

Rice didn't hesitate.

He slammed the accelerator, the van surging forward. Joao yelled something, but Rice didn't hear. The roadblock was two hundred meters away now, the men behind it scattering as they realized the van wasn't stopping.

"Hold on," Rice said.

The van hit the roadblock at full speed. The impact was tremendous—metal screaming against metal, glass shattering, the world spinning. The van plowed through the gap between the two parked vehicles, shearing off its side mirrors and crumpling its front end. A man dove out of the way. Another wasn't fast enough. The van's bumper caught him in the chest, hurling him over the hood.

Then they were through.

Rice fought the wheel, keeping the van on the road as it fishtailed wildly. The engine was making a terrible noise, something grinding deep inside. Smoke poured from under the hood. But they were still moving.

Behind them, the dark sedan accelerated through the wreckage of the roadblock, its engine roaring.

Rice pushed the van harder. The coastal road straightened for a stretch, and he used the opportunity to gain speed. The sedan was faster, but the road was narrow and dangerous. If he could make it to the next curve before they caught up, he might have a chance.

"Rice—" Joao's voice was high with panic.

"Shut up and hold on."

The curve came fast. Rice braked hard, downshifting, throwing the van into a controlled drift. The tires screamed. The rear end swung wide, inches from the cliff's edge. Joao was screaming something, but the words blurred into the roar of the engine.

They made the curve. The sedan didn't.

Rice saw it in the rearview mirror—the sedan entering the turn too fast, its driver overcorrecting. The car spun out, its rear tires sliding over the cliff's edge. For a moment, it hung there, balanced on the brink. Then gravity took over, and the sedan plunged into the sea below.

Rice didn't stop to watch.

He drove for another ten minutes, pushing the van until the engine began to sputter. The smoke from the hood had thickened, turning black. The temperature gauge was in the red. The van was dying.

"There," Joao said, pointing.

A narrow dirt track led off the main road, winding down toward the coast. Rice took it, the van bouncing over rocks and ruts. The track ended at a small cove—a crescent of pebbled beach sheltered by high cliffs. A fishing boat was moored at a rickety wooden dock, its hull painted a faded blue.

Rice killed the engine. Steam hissed from under the hood. The van was done.

They got out, moving quickly. Rice grabbed the canvas bag with their documents and cash, slinging it over his shoulder. Joao limped beside him, his face twisted with pain. The beach was empty, the only sound the lapping of waves and the cry of gulls.

The boat was small—maybe twenty feet, with an enclosed cabin and a single outboard motor. A man emerged from the cabin as they approached. He was old, weathered, with skin like leather and eyes that had seen too much.

"Olivia sent us," Rice said in Spanish.

The man nodded slowly. "I know who sent you. Get on board. Quickly."

Rice helped Joao into the boat, then climbed in himself. The old man cast off the lines and started the motor. It coughed once, then rumbled to life. The boat pulled away from the dock, heading out to sea.

Rice sat in the stern, watching the coastline recede. The cove grew smaller, then vanished entirely. Behind them, on the cliff road, he saw a flash of movement—vehicles arriving at the scene. More hunters. More guns.

They'd made it just in time.

---

The crossing took four hours.

The Mediterranean was calm, the boat cutting through the water with a steady rhythm. Rice sat in the bow, the salt spray cool on his face. Joao had retreated to the cabin, where the old man was tending to his ankle with a first aid kit.

Rice checked the canvas bag. The passports were there, along with the cash and a small burner phone. He powered on the phone. One bar of signal. He dialed Danny's number from memory.

The line connected after two rings.

"It's me," Rice said.

"Jesus, I've been worried. What happened? You were supposed to check in hours ago."

"Complications." Rice kept his voice low, watching the old man at the helm. "Someone hit us on the coastal road. We lost the van, but we made it to the boat."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing new. Listen, I need you to do something. The chip—Olivia's people found a hidden partition. Encrypted files buried under the financial records. Can you access them?"

A pause. "Maybe. If I had the chip. But I don't. You have it."

"Olivia has it. She said she'd be in touch."

"Rice, I don't trust her."

"Neither do I. But she's the only contact we have right now." Rice stared out at the horizon. Spain was visible now, a thin line of brown on the edge of the sea. "I need you to find out everything you can about Meridian Solutions. Their officers, their clients, their funding sources. And I need you to find out if my daughter is still alive."

Another pause, longer this time. "Rice, I thought your daughter—"

"So did I. But Amelia Stone told me she's alive. She said they've had her for six months."

"That could be a lie."

"I know. But I have to find out. I have to know." Rice's voice cracked, just slightly. "She's all I have left, Danny. If there's even a chance—"

"I understand. I'll do what I can. But Rice, you need to be careful. If Stone told you about your daughter, it's because she wants you to do something reckless. Something that leads them right to you."

"I know."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're about to walk into a trap."

Rice didn't answer. He knew Danny was right. Every instinct told him this was a trap—a carefully baited hook designed to pull him out of hiding. But the bait was his daughter. His little girl. And there was no version of this where he didn't take the risk.

"I'll call you when I'm in Spain," Rice said. "Keep digging."

He ended the call and pocketed the phone. The Spanish coast was growing closer, the port of Algeciras visible in the distance. The old man steered the boat toward a private marina, away from the main harbor.

Rice checked the Glock. One magazine, fifteen rounds. Not enough for a war, but enough for what was coming.

The boat bumped against the dock, and the old man cut the engine. "End of the line," he said. "Good luck."

Rice helped Joao onto the dock, then turned to face the old man. "Tell Olivia we're even."

The old man just nodded and pushed off from the dock, steering the boat back out to sea.

Rice watched him go, then turned to Joao. "Can you walk?"

"I'll manage."

They moved through the marina, keeping to the shadows. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The city was waking up for the evening, its streets filling with traffic and pedestrians.

Rice found a cheap hotel near the train station and paid in cash. The clerk didn't ask questions—just handed over a key and pointed toward the stairs.

The room was small and dingy, with peeling wallpaper and a single window overlooking an alley. Joao collapsed onto the bed, his face gray with exhaustion. Rice locked the door and wedged a chair under the handle.

"We stay here tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we move."

"Where?" Joao's voice was barely a whisper.

"Germany. Danny has a place in the Alps. We'll be safe there."

Joao nodded weakly. "And then?"

Rice walked to the window and looked out at the darkening street. "Then we figure out what's on that chip. And we find out who's behind this."

He didn't mention his daughter. That was a wound too raw to share, a hope too fragile to speak aloud.

Joao's breathing slowed, and soon he was asleep—or unconscious. Rice wasn't sure which. He sat in a chair by the door, the Glock in his lap, and waited for dawn.

The hunt had crossed continents. Now it was beginning in earnest.

---

He was in a foreign country with a wounded ally, a target on his back, and no one he could trust. Should he keep Joao close, or cut him loose before his injury became a death sentence for them both?