Page 50 of I’m The Worst

I don’t belong anywhere near that level.

So when the summons comes from the upper corridors—from Commander Weston’s office—I know something’s wrong.

I push the heavy door open and step inside.

Weston sits behind his desk, shoulders slumped, staring at a photograph in his hands. When he looks up, grief flashes raw across his face before he hides it.

Fuck.

I’m already turning for the door. “I’m not taking whatever this is.”

“Lieutenant Maddox.” He stands so fast the chair crashes behind him. “I need you to bring my daughter home.”

I keep walking.

“I don’t do extractions. Find someone else.”

“Graves says you’re the only one who can.”

That stops me.

Weston rounds the desk. “He’s never spoken highly of anyone. Ever. But he said you’re the only man who knows that part of the world well enough to survive it. Your mercenary years before the Sovereign. The jobs you ran through Eastern Europe. The contacts you still have.”

I turn just enough to look at him.

“No one else can get her out,” he continues, voice pained. “A Sovereign team won’t even clear the border. They’ll be marked and slaughtered before they reach Moscow. Hunted by every bastard who doesn’t want us there. Akim Kasrain took her…”

I know the name.

Everyone does.

Owner of the Nightshades. The largest trafficking organization in that part of the world. Moving bodies and weapons through Russia, Ukraine, and everything Eastern Europe touches. No one controls that territory.

Weston is right.

A team goes in, they die. One man, though? One man might make it through. Someone with contacts on the inside. I could do it.

Still.

“I don’t save people.”

“I’ll give you rank,” he says firmly, no hesitation. “If you bring my daughter home, I will promote you to General.”

My entire body tenses.

That’s not a small offer. That’s not even a normal one.

A General?

That’s power and choice. Means I stop getting thrown into every shithole they need cleaned. Means I choose the job. The location. Who I work with. That kind of promotion doesn’t go to men like me.

The Sovereign calls us Scabs.

Assassins without Sovereign bloodlines or military medals. No elite academy or decorated service record. Just men who proved what we were the only way the Sovereign respects: by killing better than the next bastard.

And I kill better than most. That’s the only thing I’ve ever been worth anything for.

The calculations start, whether I want it or not. Old contacts. Routes across borders that don’t officially exist. Safehouses I haven’t used in years. How long it would take to track her. How fast she’d be moved once they realized someone was hunting her.