COLD RECKONING

The Fixer

The Café Hafa was a Tangier institution.

Rice had heard of it even during his Agency days—a sprawling terrace café perched on a cliff overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. It had been a haunt for writers and spies for decades, its mint tea legendary, its view of the Mediterranean unmatched. Paul Bowles had written there. William Burroughs had plotted there. And now Dominic Rice was meeting a smuggler there.

He arrived alone, as instructed. Joao was stashed in a cheap hotel near the port, nursing his broken ankle with a bottle of whiskey and a loaded pistol. Rice had told him to stay put and stay quiet. Whether Joao would listen was another matter.

The café was nearly empty at this hour. A few old men sat at scattered tables, sipping tea and playing dominoes. The waiters moved slowly, their faces tired. Rice chose a table near the edge of the terrace, where he could see anyone approaching from either direction. The Glock was tucked in his waistband, cold against his skin.

He ordered tea he didn't want and waited.

She arrived exactly one hour after the call. Rice spotted her before she saw him—a small woman with sharp features and dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a leather jacket despite the humidity and moved with the fluid confidence of someone who'd survived a hundred dangerous situations. Her eyes swept the terrace, cataloging faces, exits, threats. When they landed on Rice, she didn't smile.

She sat down across from him without invitation.

"You look worse than Danny described," she said. Her voice was low, clipped, with a faint British accent layered over something else. "And he described you as 'barely alive.'"

"Danny exaggerates."

"Does he?" She leaned back, crossing her arms. "You've got blood on your collar. Your left arm is hanging like a dead fish. And you smell like you've been sleeping in a sewer."

Rice didn't respond. He'd learned long ago that silence was sometimes the best defense.

Olivia Chen studied him for a long moment. Then she reached into her jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one with a silver lighter, exhaling smoke into the warm night air.

"Danny says you were CIA," she said. "Special Activities Center. Black ops. The kind of men who don't officially exist."

"That's right."

"And now you're a fugitive. Framed for a massacre you didn't commit. Hunted by your own people and every mercenary with a grudge."

"Also right."

She took another drag, her eyes never leaving his face. "So why should I help you? You're a liability. Anyone who touches you gets burned. I've seen it happen before—men like you, running from something bigger than they understand. They always end up dead. And they usually take everyone around them with them."

Rice leaned forward. "Because you've been burned before too. Danny told me about your brother. Hong Kong. Three years ago."

Olivia's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Something cold and dangerous.

"Careful," she said softly.

"The people who killed him—they're the same people who are hunting me. The same organization. Meridian Solutions."

Olivia's cigarette paused halfway to her lips. "How do you know that name?"

"Because I'm carrying a chip full of their financial records. Names. Accounts. Transactions. Everything you'd need to bring them down." Rice held her gaze. "Help me, and I'll give you everything. Every name. Every account. Every person responsible for what happened to your brother."

The silence stretched between them. In the distance, the lights of Spain glittered across the strait. A ferry horn sounded, low and mournful.

Olivia stubbed out her cigarette. "What do you need?"

"Documents. New identities for me and my friend. A vehicle that can't be traced. And a route out of Morocco."

"Where are you heading?"

"Europe. I have a contact in Germany who can decode the chip."

Olivia nodded slowly. "I can get you to Spain. From there, you're on your own. It'll cost you fifty thousand."

"I don't have fifty thousand."

"Then this conversation is over." She started to stand.

"Wait." Rice grabbed her wrist. Her other hand moved instantly, and Rice felt the press of a knife blade against his throat. The old men at the nearby tables didn't even look up.

"Let go," Olivia said calmly.

Rice released her wrist. The knife stayed at his throat for another heartbeat, then vanished back into her sleeve.

"You're fast," Rice said.

"Fast enough." Olivia sat down again. "No money, no deal. That's how this works."

"I have something better than money." Rice reached into his pocket and placed the chip on the table between them. "Information. The kind of information that can topple governments. You help me get to Europe, and I'll make sure you get a copy of everything on this chip. You can sell it, leak it, use it as leverage—whatever you want."

Olivia looked at the chip, then back at Rice. "How do I know it's real?"

"You don't. But Danny vouched for me. And you trust Danny."

"Do I?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "Fair point." She pocketed the chip. "There's a warehouse near the port. My people will meet you there at dawn. Bring your friend. Bring nothing else—no weapons, no phones, no personal effects. Everything you carry will be dumped."

Rice nodded. "Understood."

Olivia stood. "One more thing. If you try to cross me, I'll kill you myself. And I won't be quick about it."

"Same," Rice said.

Olivia's smile widened slightly. "I think I'm going to like working with you, Mr. Rice. Try not to die before dawn."

She walked away, disappearing into the labyrinth of streets beyond the café. Rice watched her go, then finished his tea in a single gulp. It was cold and bitter, but it cleared his head.

He checked his watch. Four hours until dawn.

He needed to get back to Joao.

---

The hotel was a crumbling building near the port, its rooms rented by the hour to sailors and dock workers. Rice climbed the stairs to the third floor, his legs aching with every step. The adrenaline from the café meeting had faded, leaving behind a deep, bone-crushing exhaustion.

He found Joao exactly where he'd left him—sprawled on the bed, the whiskey bottle empty on the floor, the pistol clutched in his hand. The man was asleep, snoring softly.

Rice closed the door and locked it. He checked the window, then the bathroom, then the small closet. Clear. He sat in a chair by the door, the Glock resting on his knee.

He didn't sleep. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his daughter's face. The crooked smile. The blonde hair. The way she'd laughed when he'd pushed her on the swing in their backyard in Virginia.

Amelia Stone's voice echoed in his skull: Your daughter is alive.

If it was true, then everything changed. The revenge, the conspiracy, the chip—it was all secondary now. Finding his daughter was the only mission that mattered.

But he couldn't do it alone. He needed allies. He needed resources. He needed the truth.

Dawn came slowly, the sky lightening from black to gray to pale gold. Rice woke Joao with a rough shake.

"Time to move."

Joao groaned, clutching his head. "My leg—"

"You'll live. Get up."

They left the hotel as the first call to prayer echoed across the city. The streets were empty, the air cool and damp. Rice led Joao through the winding alleys toward the port, keeping to the shadows.

The warehouse was exactly where Olivia had said it would be—a rusting metal structure at the end of a deserted dock. A single light burned inside, visible through the grimy windows. Rice approached cautiously, his hand on the Glock.

A figure emerged from the shadows. Olivia, dressed now in cargo pants and a tactical vest. She wasn't alone. Two men flanked her—big, silent, armed with shotguns.

"You made it," she said. "I'm almost impressed."

"Almost?"

"Don't push your luck." She gestured toward the warehouse. "Inside. We have a truck waiting."

Rice helped Joao through the door. The warehouse was cavernous, filled with shipping containers and crates. In the center of the floor sat a beat-up Mercedes panel van, its rear doors open. A young man in greasy overalls was checking the engine.

"Your ride," Olivia said. "Stolen plates, clean VIN, full tank. It'll get you to the coast."

"And from there?"

"There's a fishing boat leaving from a cove about fifty kilometers south of here. The captain owes me a favor. He'll take you across the strait to Algeciras. After that, you're on your own."

Rice nodded. "I owe you."

"You do. And I collect." Olivia tossed him a small canvas bag. "New passports, driver's licenses, a few thousand euros. The identities are clean—real people, real documents, just not yours."

Rice opened the bag and checked the contents. Two passports. Two ID cards. A stack of euros bound with a rubber band. Everything looked authentic.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank me. Just don't get caught." Olivia turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The chip you gave me—I had my people run a preliminary scan."

"And?"

"It's encrypted with military-grade protection. We couldn't crack it. But we did find something unusual." She pulled out her phone and showed him the screen. "There's a hidden partition on the chip. A second set of files, buried under the first. Whoever made this wanted to hide something."

Rice frowned. "What kind of files?"

"We don't know yet. But we're working on it." Olivia pocketed the phone. "I'll be in touch."

She disappeared through a side door, her two bodyguards following close behind. The young mechanic finished his inspection and gave Rice a thumbs-up.

Rice helped Joao into the passenger seat of the van, then climbed behind the wheel. The engine started on the first try—a low, steady rumble that seemed almost too good to be true.

He pulled out of the warehouse and onto the coastal road, heading south. The sun was fully up now, the Mediterranean glittering to their left. Tangier faded in the rearview mirror.

Joao lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "What now?"

"Now we get out of Africa."

"And then?"

Rice didn't answer. He was thinking about the hidden partition on the chip. The files Olivia's people had found. Eliana had given him that chip for a reason. Maybe it contained more than just financial records. Maybe it contained the truth about everything—the conspiracy, the frame-up, his daughter.

Or maybe it was just another trap.

He pressed the accelerator, and the van surged forward. The road stretched ahead, winding along the coast toward the unknown.

The hunt continued.