Page 112 of I’m The Worst

I’d never.

I don’t⁠—

No.

Fuck no.

The phone rings again. I move before I even think, grabbing it off the nightstand with enough force the plastic case cracks.

“WHAT?!”

“You were followed.” Miranda’s voice cuts clean through.

Everything stops.

I bolt out of the room, the door slamming open as I hit the stairs, eyes scanning the monitors in the armory below—red lights flashing, armed figures moving in the dark outside.

Everything in me shifts back into place.

The mission. What we need. How we’re going to get the hell out of here.

I turn, rushing back toward the bedroom.

“Dylan!” Miranda shouts through the phone.

“AJ. Get dressed. Now.”

“Dylan, take the armored SUV in the garage. Use the emergency exit. And Dylan— Please be⁠—”

I end the call.

“Move. Now.”

Ninety seconds.

The duffel hits the bed, and I rip it open, hands moving before my head can catch up—guns, mags, clothes, whatever the fuck I can grab, it all gets shoved in without thinking.

Everything feels too slow.

My pulse is still wrong. Not from the threat—from AJ. From what she said. I shake the thought off hard enough that it almost makes me dizzy, then I’m back to stuffing the bag, forcing my hands to keep moving.

Sixty seconds.

AJ’s scrambling, dragging clothes onto her body, boots half-laced, fingers shaking so bad she can barely get them through.

“Wolff, what’s going on?”

I don’t have the space for this. Not now. Not with that fucking thought still clawing at the back of my skull.

Thirty seconds.

I throw the duffel over my shoulder and grab the edge of the bed, tipping it to reveal the trapdoor underneath. Grabbing her by the waist, I drop her through it.

“Wolff!”

I go down after her, slamming the door shut above us just as the front door upstairs explodes open, the wood splintering.

The tunnel is narrow and black, with old, rusted metal walls smelling of mildew and oil.