COLD RECKONING

The Road North

Barcelona faded in the rearview mirror.

Rice drove the black Seat through the industrial outskirts of the city, past shipping containers and cranes and the skeletal remains of abandoned factories. The Mediterranean glinted to his right, a distant shimmer of blue. The highway stretched ahead, empty and gray under the morning sky.

He'd left the warehouse before dawn, following Charlotte's instructions to the letter. A new route, a new identity, a new destination. The papers in the glove compartment identified him as a Portuguese businessman named Carlos Mendes. The car was registered to a shell company in Andorra. Everything checked out.

Everything except the feeling in his gut.

The burner phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Rice glanced at it. A text from Charlotte.

"Border crossing at La Jonquera. Use the AP-7. My contact will meet you at the toll plaza. Red van. Spanish plates. Follow him."

Rice memorized the details and deleted the message. The AP-7 was the main highway to France, a route he'd traveled before in another life. It was heavily monitored, thick with police and customs officials. But Charlotte's contact would presumably know the checkpoints, the gaps in coverage, the moments when the cameras turned away.

He drove north, keeping his speed steady. The countryside changed—olive groves gave way to pine forests, the air growing cooler as the altitude climbed. The Pyrenees appeared on the horizon, their peaks still dusted with snow despite the season.

The toll plaza at La Jonquera came into view after two hours. Rice slowed, scanning the vehicles ahead. A red van was parked in the rest area just before the border, its engine idling. Rice pulled alongside, and the driver—a young man with a shaved head and a gold earring—nodded once, then pulled onto the highway.

Rice followed.

They crossed the border without incident, the Spanish checkpoint giving way to the French. The red van led him through a series of back roads, winding through villages and farmlands, avoiding the main arteries. Rice kept his distance, matching the van's pace exactly.

An hour into France, the van pulled off the road and stopped. Rice parked behind it and got out. The young man with the earring met him in the space between the vehicles.

"Charlotte says you're headed to Berlin," the man said in accented English. "I can take you as far as Lyon. After that, you're on your own."

"That works," Rice said.

The man looked him up and down. "You're the one everyone's hunting. The American."

"Does that change things?"

The man shrugged. "Just curious. I've never driven a ghost before."

"You still haven't."

The man laughed—a short, humorless sound—and gestured toward the van. "Leave the car. We'll continue in mine."

Rice grabbed his bag from the Seat—the Glock, the cash, the burner phone—and climbed into the van's passenger seat. The interior smelled of sweat and stale fast food. Empty cans rolled around in the back. A rosary hung from the rearview mirror.

"Name's Xavi," the man said, pulling onto the road. "But you probably figured that out."

"Charlotte mentioned you."

"She mentioned you too. Said you're either the bravest man she's ever met or the stupidest." Xavi glanced at him. "Haven't decided which yet."

Rice didn't respond. He watched the French countryside pass, his hand resting on the Glock beneath his jacket. The fields were green and peaceful, a stark contrast to the violence that had followed him across two continents.

"Your friend," Xavi said after a while. "The one in Madrid. What happened to him?"

"He's safe. For now."

"Safe? You left him in an apartment with a bullet wound and no backup. That's not safe. That's abandonment."

Rice turned to look at him. "You don't know anything about it."

"I know what Charlotte told me. She said you were ruthless. Said you'd do whatever it takes to survive." Xavi shrugged. "Maybe she was right."

The words stung, but Rice didn't show it. He'd made hard choices before—choices that had cost lives, choices that had kept him alive when others died. Leaving Joao behind was just the latest in a long line of difficult decisions. But that didn't make it easier.

"Just drive," Rice said.

Xavi drove.

---

They reached Lyon after nightfall.

The city was a sprawl of lights and bridges, the Rhône and Saône rivers cutting through its center like silver threads. Xavi dropped Rice at a train station on the outskirts, handing him a ticket and a small envelope.

"Charlotte arranged this," he said. "Train to Strasbourg, then another to Frankfurt. From there, you can catch a connection to Berlin."

Rice took the ticket. "And you?"

"I'm done. Going back to Barcelona. This isn't my war." Xavi paused, his hand on the gearshift. "Good luck, American. You're going to need it."

The van pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the traffic. Rice stood alone on the sidewalk, the train ticket in his hand, the Glock heavy beneath his jacket.

He found a cheap hotel near the station and checked in under the Portuguese identity. The room was small and clean, with a single bed and a window overlooking the street. Rice locked the door, wedged a chair under the handle, and collapsed onto the bed.

He didn't sleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to quiet. He kept thinking about Joao, alone in that Madrid apartment. About Danny, working in his Alpine cabin. About Eliana, somewhere out there, playing a game he didn't fully understand.

And about his daughter.

She was alive. He was certain of it now. The falsified death certificate, the murdered coroner—it all pointed to a cover-up. Meridian had taken her, faked her death, and used her as leverage. But leverage for what? What did they want from him?

The answer was still out there, waiting.

The burner phone buzzed. A text from Danny.

"Marcus is dead."

Rice stared at the screen. Marcus Thorne. His old handler. The man who'd recruited him into the Agency, who'd taught him how to survive, who'd believed in him when no one else did. The man who'd risked everything to plant that chip on the dead agent.

Another text came through.

"They found him in his apartment. Made it look like a suicide. But it wasn't."

Rice's jaw tightened. Marcus had been trying to help him. He'd been the one who'd left the chip, who'd arranged the escape, who'd put his career and his life on the line for a man everyone else had abandoned. And now he was dead.

Because of Rice.

He typed a response with shaking fingers.

"Who did it?"

The reply came a moment later.

"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."

Rice set the phone down and lay back on the bed. The ceiling was cracked and water-stained, the paint peeling in long strips. He stared at it without seeing.

Marcus was dead. Eliana was missing. Joao was wounded. Danny was next.

The list of people he'd failed was growing longer by the hour.

But he couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he was so close.

He closed his eyes and thought about his daughter's face. The crooked smile. The blonde hair. The sound of her laugh.

I'm coming, he whispered silently. I'm coming for you.

The night pressed down, heavy and dark. And somewhere in the distance, a train whistle sounded—a thin, mournful cry that echoed across the city.

The hunt continued.

---

The enemy had killed his mentor and was picking off his allies one by one. Was his daughter still alive, or was her existence just another weapon to break him?