COLD RECKONING

The Train

Algeciras was a city of transients.

Rice moved through the train station with Joao limping beside him, the morning sun casting long shadows across the platform. The station was crowded—commuters, tourists, migrants, all pressed together in a chaotic flow of bodies and luggage. It was perfect cover. In a crowd this dense, two wounded men could disappear.

They'd abandoned the hotel before dawn, leaving nothing behind but a few bloodstained towels and a stack of euros for the cleaning staff. Rice had considered dumping Joao at a hospital, leaving him to fend for himself. It would have been the smart move. The tactical move. But Joao had saved his life once, and that debt still hung between them like a chain.

The train to Madrid was scheduled to depart in twenty minutes. From Madrid, they'd catch a connection to Barcelona, then cross into France. It was a long route, deliberately indirect. Rice had learned long ago that the shortest path was usually the most dangerous.

"Two tickets," Rice said at the counter, sliding cash through the window.

The clerk barely looked at him. "Passports?"

Rice handed over the forged documents. The clerk scanned them, stamped them, and pushed two tickets across the counter. The whole transaction took less than a minute. Olivia's documents were good. Almost too good.

They found their compartment near the rear of the train, a cramped cabin with two bench seats facing each other. Joao collapsed onto the seat, his face pale and sweating. The bandage on his forehead was soaked through with blood. Rice made a mental note to change it once they were moving.

The train lurched forward, pulling out of the station. The port faded behind them, replaced by the industrial outskirts of Algeciras. Rice watched the platform through the window, scanning faces, looking for anything out of place.

Nothing. Not yet.

"We should split up," Joao said suddenly.

Rice turned from the window. "What?"

"At Madrid. We should go separate ways. You'll move faster without me." Joao's voice was strained, his eyes hollow. "I'm slowing you down. I know it. You know it."

Rice didn't respond immediately. He'd been thinking the same thing since they'd left Morocco. Joao was a liability—wounded, compromised, and connected to the very people who were hunting them. Every hour they spent together increased the risk.

But cutting him loose felt wrong. The man had saved his life in Afghanistan. He'd taken a bullet meant for Rice. That kind of debt couldn't be paid with a handful of euros and a goodbye.

"I'm not leaving you," Rice said.

"You should."

"Probably. But I'm not."

Joao stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he laughed—a short, bitter sound. "You always were a stubborn bastard."

"One of my better qualities."

"Depends who you ask."

The train picked up speed, the Andalusian countryside rolling past in a blur of olive groves and whitewashed villages. Rice leaned back in his seat, keeping one hand on the Glock beneath his jacket. The rhythm of the rails was soothing, almost hypnotic. But he didn't sleep. He couldn't afford to.

An hour passed. Then another. The train stopped briefly in Ronda, then continued north. Rice watched the passengers boarding and disembarking, his eyes moving constantly, cataloging faces, postures, threats.

That's when he saw him.

A man in a gray suit, standing on the platform at the last stop. He'd been there when the train pulled in, pretending to read a newspaper. Now he was in the next car, visible through the connecting door. He hadn't looked at Rice once, but something about his posture was wrong. Too rigid. Too alert.

Rice leaned toward Joao. "We have company."

Joao's eyes widened. "Where?"

"Next car. Gray suit. Don't look."

Joao swallowed hard. "What do we do?"

"Wait. If he wanted to kill us, he'd have done it already. He's following. Waiting for backup."

"Backup?"

"There will be more of them. Maybe already on the train." Rice stood, stretching casually. "Stay here. I'll be back."

He stepped into the corridor, moving toward the restroom at the end of the car. The train swayed gently, the wheels clicking against the tracks. Rice passed the restroom and continued to the connecting door. He didn't look back, but he could feel the man's eyes on him.

At the door, Rice paused. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the burner phone, and pretended to check a message. In the reflection of the glass, he saw the man in the gray suit shift in his seat. Nervous. Amateur.

Rice turned and walked back toward his compartment. As he passed the man, he stumbled—deliberately—and knocked the newspaper from the man's hands.

"Perdón," Rice muttered, bending to pick it up.

The man waved him off, his eyes darting away. But not before Rice saw the earpiece. The coiled wire disappearing into his collar.

Professional surveillance. Government or private, it didn't matter. The result was the same.

Rice returned to his compartment and closed the door. "There's at least one more," he said quietly. "Maybe more. They're coordinated."

"What do we do?"

"We get off at the next stop. Separately."

"I thought you weren't leaving me."

"I'm not. We'll regroup outside the station. But we need to shake them first." Rice handed Joao a wad of cash. "When the train stops, I'll create a distraction. You head for the exit. Find a taxi. Wait for me at the Plaza Mayor."

"Rice—"

"Do it."

The train began to slow. Through the window, Rice saw the signs for Antequera station. The platform was modest, half-empty. A few passengers waited with luggage. Nothing suspicious.

The train stopped with a hiss of brakes. Rice stood and moved to the door, positioning himself behind a group of tourists. Joao limped toward the rear exit, moving slowly, keeping his head down.

Rice waited until the doors opened. Then he moved.

He stepped off the train and immediately turned left, walking quickly along the platform. The man in the gray suit followed, his reflection visible in the station windows. Rice picked up his pace, weaving through the crowd.

Then he broke into a run.

The station erupted into chaos. People shouted, scattered. The man in the gray suit pushed through the crowd, his hand reaching inside his jacket. Rice didn't look back. He sprinted through the station, past the ticket counters, through the main concourse, and out the front doors.

The street was busy—cars, buses, pedestrians. Rice crossed against the light, dodging traffic. A horn blared. Someone yelled. Rice kept moving.

He ducked into an alley, pressed himself against the wall, and waited.

The man in the gray suit appeared at the mouth of the alley, breathing hard. He had a pistol in his hand now, held low against his leg. Rice let him take three steps into the alley. Then he moved.

The Glock came up fast. Rice fired once, the shot hitting the man in the knee. The man screamed and collapsed, his pistol clattering to the ground. Rice kicked it away, then crouched beside him.

"Who sent you?" Rice asked.

The man's face was twisted with pain, but his eyes were defiant. "Go to hell."

Rice pressed the Glock against the man's other knee. "Wrong answer. Who sent you?"

"A private contractor. I don't know the client. I just get paid to follow."

"Follow, or kill?"

"Follow. That's all. I swear."

Rice believed him. The man was a hired tail, nothing more. But his presence confirmed what Rice already knew—they were being watched. Tracked. Every move they made was being reported back to someone.

"Tell your client something for me," Rice said. "Tell them I'm done running. If they want me, they can come find me. And when they do, I'll be waiting."

He stood and walked away, leaving the man bleeding in the alley. The sun was high now, the heat pressing down like a weight. Rice found the Plaza Mayor ten minutes later. Joao was there, waiting in a taxi, his face pale with worry.

"Go," Rice told the driver. "North."

The taxi pulled away from the plaza, merging into traffic. Rice sat in the back seat, his body humming with adrenaline. The encounter had confirmed his worst fears. They were being tracked by professionals—surveillance experts who knew how to follow without being detected.

But who was the client? Amelia Stone? Meridian Solutions? Someone else entirely?

Rice didn't know. But he was determined to find out.

He pulled out the burner phone and dialed Danny's number. The line connected after two rings.

"They found us," Rice said. "Surveillance team on the train. I dealt with one, but there will be more."

"Jesus. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But we need to move faster. Can you get us transport in Madrid?"

"I'll try. But Rice, there's something you need to know." Danny's voice was tense. "I've been digging into Meridian Solutions. Their corporate structure, their funding sources, their clients. And I found something."

"What?"

"Meridian isn't just a private intelligence firm. They're a front. The real organization behind them is called The Meridian Protocol. And they're not just selling information—they're engineering it."

Rice frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means they don't just gather intelligence. They create it. False flags, manufactured crises, fake intelligence that gets fed to governments and militaries. They've been manipulating geopolitics for years. And the evidence is on that chip."

The taxi sped north, the Spanish countryside blurring past. Rice stared out the window, his mind racing. If Danny was right, then Meridian wasn't just a criminal organization. They were a shadow government, pulling strings behind the scenes.

And Eliana had given him the key to exposing them.

"Keep digging," Rice said. "I'll call you when we reach Madrid."

He ended the call and pocketed the phone. The game had just gotten bigger. More dangerous. More deadly.

But Rice had never been one to back down from a fight.

---

The enemy was bigger than he imagined—a shadow organization manipulating global events. But every move he made brought them closer. Was he the hunter, or still the hunted?