COLD RECKONING

The Night Train

The train station was a cathedral of noise and shadow.

Rice moved through the crowds with practiced ease, his head down, his posture relaxed. The Glock was concealed beneath his jacket, the suppressor pressing cold against his ribs. The burner phone was in his pocket, silent. Charlotte's message had been clear: train leaves at 23:00. Come alone.

He'd left Joao at the apartment, sedated with painkillers and antibiotics from the clinic. The doctor had done what he could, but the man was still weak, still vulnerable. Rice had considered bringing him, but the risk was too great. If the train was a trap, Joao would be a liability. If it wasn't, Rice could send for him later.

Assuming there was a later.

The station's main concourse was a vast space of marble and glass, its ceiling arching overhead like the ribs of some enormous beast. Travelers hurried past with suitcases and backpacks, their faces blank with exhaustion. Security guards stood at intervals, their eyes scanning the crowds. Rice avoided them, keeping to the edges of the space.

He found the platform five minutes before departure. The train was already waiting—a sleek high-speed AVE, its silver cars gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Rice checked his ticket. Car 7, seat 42. Window seat, facing forward.

He boarded without incident, moving through the narrow aisle to his seat. The carriage was half-empty—a few businessmen, an elderly couple, a young woman with headphones. Nothing suspicious.

Rice sat and waited.

The train pulled out of the station at exactly 23:00, gliding through the dark streets of Madrid before picking up speed. The city lights gave way to suburbs, then to open countryside. Rice watched the darkness through the window, his reflection a ghost on the glass.

His phone buzzed. A text from Charlotte.

"Stay on the train until Barcelona. My contact will meet you at the station. Look for a man in a red cap."

Rice read the message twice, then pocketed the phone. Barcelona was six hours away. Six hours of waiting, watching, thinking. Six hours of not knowing if he was heading toward safety or death.

The train raced north through the Spanish night. Rice didn't sleep. He couldn't. His body was running on adrenaline and determination, the exhaustion pushed down to a place where it couldn't reach him. He thought about Joao, alone in that apartment. He thought about Danny, working furiously in his Alpine cabin. He thought about his daughter, somewhere out there, waiting for him.

The hours passed like years.

At Zaragoza, the train stopped briefly. Passengers got off, others boarded. Rice watched them all, his hand never far from the Glock. A man in a dark coat took a seat three rows behind him. He didn't look at Rice, but something about him felt wrong. The way he sat too still. The way his eyes never stopped moving.

Rice filed the information away and waited.

The train resumed its journey. The landscape outside had changed—flatter now, more industrial. Factories and warehouses passed in the darkness, their lights blurring into streaks of yellow. Rice watched the man in the dark coat through the reflection in the window. The man hadn't moved. Hadn't looked at his phone. Hadn't done anything except sit there, still as a statue.

A tail.

Rice's jaw tightened. He'd been careful—changing routes, watching for surveillance, taking back streets and side doors. But somehow they'd found him. Or maybe they'd never lost him. Maybe they'd been watching all along, waiting for him to make a move.

The train passed through the outskirts of Barcelona just as dawn began to break. The sky lightened from black to gray to pale pink. The city's skyline appeared on the horizon—the Sagrada Familia's spires, the Montjuïc communications tower, the dense cluster of buildings around the port.

Rice stood as the train began to slow. The man in the dark coat stood too. Rice moved toward the door, keeping his pace casual. The man followed.

The train pulled into Barcelona Sants station with a hiss of brakes. Rice stepped onto the platform and immediately turned right, heading toward the main concourse. The station was busy even at this hour—commuters, tourists, travelers with heavy bags. Rice moved through them quickly, using the crowd as cover.

The man in the dark coat was still behind him, matching his pace. Rice could see him in the reflection of a shop window—tall, broad-shouldered, his face partially hidden by a scarf. He was good, but not good enough.

Rice ducked into a narrow corridor leading to the restrooms. The man followed. At the end of the corridor, Rice turned and waited.

The man rounded the corner and stopped. For a moment, they just looked at each other.

"You're getting sloppy," Rice said.

The man didn't respond. His hand moved toward his coat.

Rice was faster. The Glock came up, the suppressor already attached. He fired once—a soft cough, barely audible over the station noise. The bullet hit the man in the chest, and he crumpled without a sound.

Rice stepped over the body and continued walking. He didn't run. Running attracted attention. He moved at a steady pace, the Glock tucked back beneath his jacket, his face calm. Behind him, the body lay in the corridor, blood pooling on the tile floor.

He found the main concourse and scanned the crowd for a man in a red cap. The text from Charlotte had specified Barcelona station, but the contact was supposed to be waiting. Rice spotted him near the ticket counters—a small man with a red baseball cap and a nervous expression. He was holding a sign that said nothing, just a blank piece of cardboard.

Rice approached him. "Charlotte sent me."

The man's eyes widened. "You're him? The American?"

"Where's the transport?"

"The parking garage. Level B. A black Seat. Keys are in the visor." The man handed him a slip of paper. "Directions to the safehouse. Don't stop for anything."

Rice took the paper and the keys. "What about you?"

The man shook his head. "I'm done. Charlotte paid me to deliver the car. That's it. I don't want any part of this."

He turned and disappeared into the crowd. Rice watched him go, then headed toward the parking garage.

The Seat was exactly where the man had promised—a nondescript sedan with Spanish plates and a full tank. Rice slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The directions led him through the waking streets of Barcelona, past the Gothic Quarter, past the beach, into the industrial districts to the north.

The safehouse was a warehouse near the port, its windows boarded, its exterior covered in graffiti. Rice parked the car inside and closed the roll-up door behind him. The interior was dim and dusty, but there was a cot in the corner and a small refrigerator humming against the wall.

Rice sat on the cot and pulled out the burner phone. He dialed Danny's number.

"I'm in Barcelona," he said. "Charlotte's contact came through."

"Good. I've been digging into her background, like you asked." Danny's voice was tense. "She's clean, as far as I can tell. Former BND, left under a cloud, no known ties to Meridian. But there's something else."

"What?"

"I found the data center. The one in Berlin. It's not what I thought. It's not just a private cloud facility—it's a front for something else. Something connected to Meridian's operations."

Rice frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the data center is owned by a shell company that traces back to William Sterling. The man whose name is on the chip. The man who's been funding this whole operation."

Rice's blood ran cold. The data center wasn't just a resource. It was Meridian's own infrastructure. And Danny wanted him to break into it.

"Danny, if the data center is Sterling's, then walking in there is suicide."

"Maybe. But it's also our best chance. The servers in that facility are the only machines powerful enough to crack the encryption on the chip. If we can get access, we can expose everything."

"Or walk straight into a trap."

A pause. "Rice, I know it's dangerous. But you asked me to find a way to bring these people down. This is the way."

Rice stared at the concrete wall of the warehouse. The weight of the decision pressed down on him. Every instinct told him the data center was a trap—a honey pot designed to draw him in. But Danny was right. They needed those servers. Without them, the chip was useless.

"Find me another way in," Rice said. "A back door. Something they won't expect."

"I'll try. But it won't be easy."

"Nothing about this is easy." Rice ended the call and lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling.

The hunt had taken him across two continents, through deserts and cities and blood-soaked corridors. Now it was leading him to Berlin, to the heart of the enemy's power.

He would go. He had no choice.

But he would go prepared.

---

The data center was the key to everything—and the most dangerous place he could possibly go. Should Rice walk into the lion's den, or find another way to crack the chip?