COLD RECKONING

The Safehouse

Casablanca was a city of contradictions.

Rice drove through its streets as the sun climbed higher, the old Toyota wheezing like a dying man. Modern high-rises stood beside crumbling colonial buildings. Luxury cars shared the road with donkey carts. The Atlantic Ocean glittered to the west, a promise of escape that felt impossibly far away.

His body was failing. The adrenaline from the warehouse fight had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made his limbs feel like lead. The wound on his neck throbbed with every heartbeat. His ribs ached where the fifth man had landed punches. He needed rest. Real rest. But rest was a luxury he couldn't afford.

Joao's address was in the old medina, a labyrinth of narrow streets and crowded alleyways where the police rarely ventured. Rice parked the truck in a public lot and walked, keeping his head down. The Glock was tucked into his waistband. The chip was in his pocket, pressed against his thigh like a talisman.

He found the building after twenty minutes of walking—a narrow, three-story structure with peeling blue paint and iron bars on the windows. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked twice, then once, then twice again.

The door opened a crack. A dark eye peered out.

"Rice?" The voice was low, disbelieving.

"Let me in, Joao."

The door swung open. Joao Silva was older than Rice remembered—grayer, thinner, with deep lines carved into his weathered face. He wore a loose cotton shirt and held a cigarette between his fingers. The apartment behind him was dim and cluttered, smelling of tobacco and old coffee.

"Madre de Deus," Joao muttered. "You look like hell."

"Feel worse."

Joao stepped aside, and Rice entered. The apartment was small—a single room with a kitchenette, a bed in the corner, and a table covered in papers and maps. A laptop sat open, its screen glowing faintly. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the daylight.

Rice moved to the center of the room and stood there, swaying slightly. His vision was blurring at the edges. Joao guided him to a chair and pressed a glass of water into his hands.

"Drink," Joao said. "Then tell me what happened."

Rice drank. The water was lukewarm but clean. It settled his stomach, cleared his head a little. He told Joao about the prison, the ambush, Eliana, the clinic, the warehouse. He left out the part about his daughter. That was too raw, too personal, too fragile to share.

Joao listened without interrupting, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. When Rice finished, he stubbed it out in an ashtray and leaned back in his chair.

"So the CIA tried to kill you," Joao said. "And your old girlfriend saved you. And now half of North Africa is hunting you." He shook his head. "You always did know how to make friends."

"I need a place to rest," Rice said. "A day, maybe two. Then I move."

Joao nodded slowly. "You can stay here. I owe you that much." He stood and moved to the kitchenette, pulling a first aid kit from a cabinet. "Take off your shirt. Let me look at that wound."

Rice hesitated. Trust was a currency he couldn't afford to spend freely. But Joao had saved his life once, years ago, in a dusty village in Afghanistan. He'd taken a bullet meant for Rice. That kind of debt wasn't paid easily.

He removed his shirt. Joao examined the wound on his neck, his expression grim.

"Infected," he said. "But not badly. You're lucky."

"I don't feel lucky."

Joao cleaned the wound with antiseptic, applied fresh bandages, and handed Rice a bottle of antibiotics. "Take these. All of them. And eat something."

He prepared a simple meal—bread, cheese, olives, cold chicken. Rice ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. His mind was elsewhere, turning over the events of the past days. Amelia's words echoed in his skull: Your daughter is alive.

Could it be true? Or was it just another layer of the trap?

"Joao," Rice said. "I need to check something. Do you have internet?"

Joao gestured toward the laptop. "Satellite connection. Slow, but secure."

Rice moved to the laptop and inserted the data chip into a USB adapter he found among Joao's equipment. The screen flickered, then displayed a list of encrypted files. Rice clicked on the first one. A password prompt appeared.

He didn't know the password.

"Danny can crack this," Rice muttered. "I need to get it to him."

Joao appeared at his shoulder, peering at the screen. "What's on it?"

"I don't know yet. Names, accounts, transactions. Something big." Rice leaned back in the chair. "I need to contact Danny. My phone's dead."

Joao handed him a cell phone. "Use this. It's clean."

Rice dialed Danny's number from memory. The line connected after three rings.

"It's me."

"Jesus, Rice. I've been trying to reach you for hours." Danny's voice was tight with anxiety. "The clinic in Zouerat is all over the local news. Five bodies. They're calling it a cartel hit."

"Good. That means they don't know who did it yet."

"Don't be so sure. I've been monitoring chatter on some private channels. There's a contract out on you. Half a million dollars, dead or alive."

Rice wasn't surprised. "Who's the client?"

"I don't know yet. But there's something else. I did some digging on that name you gave me. Eliana Marlowe. She's not MI6 anymore. At least, not officially. She's been operating off the books for at least two years, working for a private intelligence firm based in London. The same firm that just got a massive contract from the CIA."

Rice's jaw tightened. "What's the firm called?"

"Meridian Solutions."

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Meridian. The same name Eliana had mentioned. The same organization that had been pulling strings behind the scenes.

"Danny, listen to me. I need you to crack this chip. It has financial records. I think it's connected to Meridian."

"I'll do what I can. But I need to see it."

"I'll send you a copy." Rice ended the call and turned to Joao. "I need to scan this chip."

Joao nodded and began setting up the scanner. Rice watched him work, his mind racing. Meridian Solutions. A private intelligence firm with CIA contracts. That explained a lot—the resources, the reach, the ability to make a decorated CIA operative disappear without a trace.

But why? What was their endgame? And where did Eliana fit in?

Rice was still turning these questions over when he noticed something. A small, almost invisible glint in the corner of the ceiling. He looked closer. His blood ran cold.

A camera. Hidden in the smoke detector.

He didn't react visibly. Years of training kept his face neutral, his body relaxed. But his mind was already working. Joao had been compromised. Or Joao was a traitor. Either way, the safehouse wasn't safe.

Rice stood and stretched, moving casually toward the window. He glanced at Joao, who was still fiddling with the scanner. The man's movements seemed natural, unhurried. But there was a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes.

He knew.

Rice moved fast. He crossed the room in three steps and grabbed Joao by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The scanner clattered to the floor. Joao's eyes went wide with shock and fear.

"Rice, what—"

"The camera," Rice said. "How long?"

Joao's face crumpled. "I didn't have a choice. They threatened my sister. Her children. They said if I didn't cooperate, they'd kill them all."

Rice's grip tightened. "How long?"

"Three days. Since you called. I'm sorry, Rice. I'm so sorry."

For a long moment, Rice stood there, holding his old friend against the wall. The rage was there, hot and pulsing, begging for release. He could snap Joao's neck right now. It would be quick. Easy. And the world would have one less traitor.

But that wouldn't help. Not yet.

He released Joao, letting him slump to the floor. "Who did you call?"

"A man named Sterling. He said he'd pay me. Said no one would get hurt."

Rice's heart hammered. Sterling. William Sterling. The name from the chip.

"Get up," Rice said.

Joao looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry—"

"Get up. You're going to help me fix this."

Joao rose slowly, his legs shaking. Rice grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to call Sterling back. You're going to tell him I'm here, resting. You're going to give him this location. And then you're going to tell him I'm leaving tomorrow morning, heading for the port."

Joao's eyes widened. "But that's—"

"A lie. I won't be here. And neither will you." Rice released him. "When Sterling's men arrive, they'll find an empty apartment. But by then, we'll be gone."

"Where will we go?"

"I don't know yet. But first, I need to finish scanning this chip." Rice picked up the scanner from the floor. "And then I need you to tell me everything you know about Sterling and Meridian Solutions."

Joao nodded weakly. "I'll tell you everything. I swear."

Rice looked at the hidden camera in the ceiling. They were already watching. Already listening. He didn't have much time.

But he had enough.

He sat down at the laptop and began transferring the chip's contents to a secure cloud drive Danny had set up months ago. The upload was slow, but it was working. Outside, the city hummed with life. Inside, the traitor wept.

Rice didn't look at him. He just watched the progress bar and thought about his daughter.

If she was alive, he would find her. No matter what it took. No matter who he had to kill.

The upload finished. Rice pocketed the chip and stood.

"Let's go," he said.

Joao grabbed a bag and followed him out the door. They moved through the crowded streets, disappearing into the maze of the medina. Behind them, the hidden camera continued to record an empty room.

By nightfall, they were gone.