Chapter 27: She Left the Fortress

Dragon Ironside

Three days away from home and from her brings me a certain unease, which wraps me in a very unwelcome chill.

"Understood," is all I say.

When I leave the office, I already have the phone in my hand. I write the message to Nadja, each word weighing like lead.

Dragon: I'll be away for three days. Orders from the boss. The house is secure and all doors have been set to open only from the inside with a code. The soldiers cannot enter the house and do not open the door under any circumstances.

I add the numerical sequence, a code that is the date of the first day I saw her, a lifetime ago. My fingers hesitate over the screen. The professional man has already spoken. But the man who drank her sigh like it was water in the desert needs to say more. I grit my teeth and add, quickly, before reason stops me:

Dragon: I will miss you.

I send the message. I know it's like throwing a bottle into the stormy sea that is her heart, but I throw it anyway.

I meet Leo and Tomas outside, the cold late afternoon air cutting like a blade. Looking at them is always to see expressions of absolute readiness.

"I'll be away for three days," I announce, my voice carrying the weight of authority. "Tomas, you stay at the house. Full protection. 24-hour surveillance. No one approaches. No one enters."

He nods, serious.

"And if… Mrs. Ironside tries to leave?" he asks, understanding the real complexity of the order.

I hesitate before giving an answer. The image of her, fragile and determined, crosses my mind. The desire to keep her safe, locked under seven keys, fights with the agonizing recognition that this is another form of imprisonment.

"If she tries to leave… you stop her. Gently, Tomas. No violence, no intimidation. But she… she does not leave. Her safety is non-negotiable. Understood?"

"Perfectly, boss."

That said, I follow my leader's orders.

The three days that follow are a purgatory of snow, tactical planning, and contained violence. The mission is executed with Swiss-clock precision: the shipment is intercepted, the two men are captured. And then our message is sent. The icy silence that follows from the Canadian side is confirmation they understood.

But my mind is not here. It's at home. With every waking hour, a part of me wonders: What is she doing? Is she eating? Is she sleeping? Is she thinking of me with hatred… or with something more?

At night, lying on the hard bed of a cheap motel, the phone becomes an object of torture. I pick it up, look at the dark screen. No messages or calls. The temptation to hear her voice is a monster gnawing at my insides. But what would I say?

"I'm here, far away, after ordering you to be kept locked up, but it's fine, I miss you"?

The irony would be comical if it didn't hurt so much.

Marcus notices my distraction. In a rare moment of downtime, while we await extraction, he offers me a cigarette, which I refuse.

"The woman consumes you," he observes, not as a judgment, but as a fact.

"She's not a woman, Marcus. She is my woman. There is a difference," I reply, and the possessiveness in my voice scares me a little.

"It's dangerous," he says simply, drawing on the smoke. "Giving someone that power."

"It's already too late," I murmur, looking at the snow-covered horizon.

It became too late after what happened in the bathroom, perhaps from the moment I first saw her, a tragic and defiant figure in Belgrade.

On the third day, we return to Montana. The tension of the mission gives way to a different, sharper anxiety. We are an hour from home when the phone vibrates. It's Tomas. I find it odd that it's a call and not a message.

I answer.

"Speak."

"Boss," his voice is restrained, which is equivalent to a panicked shout from a man like Tomas. "There's a problem."

My entire body goes on maximum alert, every muscle tense.

"Continue."

"Mrs. Ironside… she left."

Five words that make my world collapse in slow motion. I feel the blood drain from my face, a buzzing taking over my ears. The car seems to float for a second.

"How?" The question comes out as a hiss, low and dangerous.

"It was around lunchtime. There was… a small distraction at the front gatehouse. She said she was just going to look at the roses in the garden, near the gate. When we realized she was missing… she was already outside, getting into a car that was waiting for her."

"A car?" I ask, my mind already calculating and eliminating possibilities, arriving at the only plausible and desperate conclusion. "What car?"

"A black sedan. Common model, license plates covered in mud. We couldn't identify them in time."

"And the driver?"

"We couldn't see clearly because of the glare on the glass, but… it seemed to be a woman."

Ella.

The name explodes in my mind like a bomb. Ella Mayer. The only person Nadja trusts in a world that has betrayed her. A person with the knowledge, resources, and dangerous loyalty necessary to cross an ocean and pluck her from where she is. And to her, I am the enemy. The buyer. The monster.

A wave of anger so pure and absolute washes over me that everything around me turns red for an instant. It's a multi-layered fury: rage at Ella, for her arrogant interference; rage at Tomas and the men, for letting their guard down; rage at myself, for leaving; and, beneath it all, a frantic, terrified rage for Nadja, for putting herself in danger, for not trusting me enough to wait.

"Did you follow her?" My voice is now like ice cracking.

"Yes, boss. Two cars at a distance. They are on Highway 93, heading south. They seem to be heading for the Silver Pines Resort. That luxury spa."

A spa. A resort. The image that forms is unbearably banal. Two friends having a beauty day, massages and treatments. As if they were normal people. As if the world weren't full of predators like me, like the angry Canadians we left behind. As if the shadow of the Ironside name didn't mark her forever.

Ella is smart, but she doesn't live in my world. She doesn't understand that security is not a luxury, it's an invisible wall that must be maintained at all costs. By taking Nadja out of that house, she tore that wall in half.

"Maintain surveillance. Discreetly. Do not approach or interfere. I am an hour away." My orders are short, sharp. "And, Tomas?"

"Yes, boss?"

"If anything, anything at all, looks threatening, you intervene without hesitation. The priority is her. Always."

I hang up. I look out the window. The landscape, once monotonous, now seems loaded with threats. Every car on the road is a potential ambush, every stop a risk.

"Trouble at home, boss?" Leo asks cautiously from the rearview mirror.

"The biggest of all," I murmur, more to myself. And then, to him: "Step on it, Leo. And be ready. We might not be going home yet. I think we might have to pay a visit to a spa."

The rest of the journey is a nightmare of powerlessness. Every passing minute is an eternity. Only one thing echoes in my mind, a mantra mixed with terror and fierce possession:

She is mine. My responsibility. My wife. And I will bring her back. Whatever the cost.