COLD RECKONING

The Road to Interlaken

Rice left Berlin within the hour.

Charlotte had argued, of course. She'd called him reckless, suicidal, insane. She'd listed every reason why rushing to Switzerland with no plan and no backup was a death sentence. But Rice hadn't listened. His daughter was waiting. Every minute he spent arguing was a minute she spent alone in that chalet, surrounded by armed guards.

In the end, Charlotte had relented. She'd given him a car—a gray Audi with diplomatic plates that would pass through checkpoints without scrutiny—and a small duffel bag filled with supplies. A change of clothes. A first aid kit. Three spare magazines for the Glock. A burner phone with Danny's number pre-programmed.

"Take the A9 south," she'd said, her voice tight with worry. "Cross into Austria at Salzburg, then head west toward Innsbruck. From there, you can reach the Swiss border at Martina. The chalet is near Interlaken, about three hours from the border."

Rice had nodded, memorizing the route. "And if I get stopped?"

"You won't. The plates are registered to a diplomatic mission in Berlin. They won't risk an international incident by searching the vehicle."

"Charlotte." Rice had paused at the door, turning to look at her. "Thank you. For everything."

She'd smiled, but it was a sad smile, the smile of someone who'd seen too many men walk out the door and never come back. "Just bring her home."

Now Rice drove through the German night, the headlights cutting a tunnel through the darkness. The autobahn stretched ahead, empty and infinite. The speedometer hovered at 180 kilometers per hour, the Audi's engine purring like a contented cat.

His mind was racing, but his body was calm. The meeting with Sterling had changed something in him—hardened his resolve, sharpened his focus. He knew what he had to do. There was no room for doubt anymore.

The burner phone buzzed. Danny.

"I've got the schematics for the chalet," Danny said, his voice tinny through the speaker. "It's not good, Rice."

"Tell me."

"It's a private residence, but Meridian's converted it into a secure facility. Twelve-foot walls, motion sensors, cameras covering every approach. At least eight guards on rotation, maybe more. They've got a panic room in the basement, a helipad on the roof, and a direct line to Meridian's regional headquarters in Zurich."

Rice absorbed the information. "Where's my daughter being held?"

"Second floor, east wing. There's a room with reinforced doors and barred windows. The satellite imagery showed a child-sized figure moving around in there earlier today."

Rice's jaw tightened. "I need a way in."

"There isn't one. Not without a small army." Danny paused. "But there might be another way. The chalet has a service tunnel—it connects the main house to a boathouse on the lake. It was built decades ago, probably for smuggling or emergencies. If it's still accessible, you could use it to get inside without triggering the perimeter sensors."

"Show me."

Danny sent a series of images to the phone. Rice glanced at them while driving—satellite photos, topographical maps, a rough schematic of the tunnel's route. It ran from a rocky outcropping near the lake, under the grounds, and emerged inside the chalet's basement.

"The entrance is hidden," Danny said. "But it should be there. A metal door, rusted, probably overgrown with vegetation. It won't be easy to find in the dark."

"I'll manage." Rice paused. "What about the guards? Their patrol patterns, shift changes?"

"I'm working on it. Their communications are encrypted, but I've been able to intercept fragments. They rotate every six hours. The next shift change is at six in the morning. That might be your best window."

Rice checked the dashboard clock. Just past midnight. Six hours until the shift change. The drive to Interlaken would take eight hours, maybe nine. He'd be cutting it close.

"I'll be there," he said. "Keep working on those patrol patterns."

"Rice—" Danny's voice caught. "Be careful. If they catch you—"

"They won't."

Rice ended the call and pressed the accelerator harder. The Audi surged forward, the engine roaring. The German countryside blurred past—dark forests, sleeping villages, the occasional glow of a distant town.

He drove through the night, stopping only once to refuel at an automated station near the Austrian border. The attendant, a tired-looking man in a fluorescent vest, barely glanced at the diplomatic plates. Rice paid in cash and drove on.

The landscape changed as he climbed into the Alps. The road wound through mountain passes, the headlights illuminating sheer cliffs and plunging valleys. Snow dusted the higher peaks, and the air grew colder with every kilometer. Rice cranked the heater, but the chill seemed to seep through the windows, settling into his bones.

He thought about his daughter. The video call had been brief, but the image was burned into his memory—her face, her voice, the way she'd said "Daddy" with that mixture of hope and fear. She was waiting for him. She believed he was coming.

He wouldn't let her down.

The Swiss border appeared on the horizon just as dawn began to break. The checkpoint was small, manned by two guards who waved him through without inspection. The diplomatic plates worked exactly as Charlotte had promised.

Rice drove on, the mountains growing steeper, the valleys deeper. The road followed the shore of a lake—Lake Brienz, according to the signs—its surface still and gray in the early light. Interlaken was close now. The chalet was close.

He pulled off the road near a small village and parked the Audi behind an abandoned barn. The chalet was three kilometers away, hidden in the mountains above the lake. Rice checked his equipment—the Glock, the spare magazines, the burner phone, a small flashlight, a length of rope.

He was as ready as he'd ever be.

The walk through the forest was cold and silent. The snow was deeper here, crunching under his boots. Rice moved slowly, careful not to leave a trail that could be followed. The trees thinned as he climbed, revealing the chalet below—a sprawling structure of wood and stone, perched on a promontory overlooking the lake.

It was exactly as Danny had described. High walls, cameras, motion sensors. Guards patrolled the perimeter in pairs, their breath misting in the cold air.

Rice watched from the treeline, his eyes scanning the property. The shift change was still an hour away. He had time to find the tunnel entrance.

He circled the property, staying hidden among the trees, moving downhill toward the lake. The boathouse was visible now—a small wooden structure at the water's edge, its roof sagging under the weight of recent snow.

The tunnel entrance should be nearby.

Rice searched for twenty minutes before finding it—a rusted metal door set into the hillside, half-hidden behind a thicket of dead bushes. The lock was old and corroded, but it yielded to a well-placed kick.

The tunnel beyond was dark and damp, the air thick with the smell of earth and decay. Rice switched on the flashlight and stepped inside.

The tunnel sloped upward, carved through solid rock. Water dripped from the ceiling, pooling on the floor. Rice moved slowly, his footsteps echoing in the confined space. The walls were rough-hewn, marked with the scars of the tools that had carved them decades ago.

After a hundred meters, the tunnel widened, opening into a small chamber. A wooden staircase led upward, the steps rotten and sagging. Rice tested the first step carefully, then climbed, the stairs groaning under his weight.

At the top, another door. This one was newer, reinforced with steel. A keypad glowed faintly beside it.

Rice's heart sank. A keypad. He didn't have the code.

But before he could reach for the phone, the door swung open from the other side.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. Rice raised the Glock, his finger on the trigger.

"Don't shoot," the figure said.

It was a woman's voice. Calm. Familiar.

Eliana.

---

The tunnel had led him straight to her—the woman who'd betrayed him, saved him, and vanished. Was she here to help, or was this another layer of the trap?