Page 9 of I’m The Worst

The stomping of boots behind me snaps my head up. Distance: twenty feet.

Fuck.

Shifting the girl higher against my chest, I keep moving. She’s bleeding through my shirt. If the trail keeps dripping like this, they’ll track us the whole fucking way.

Behind me, someone shouts.

A gun clicks.

I don’t turn around.

Because if I stop running to shoot them, she dies. And this mission only pays if she’s still breathing. I adjust my grip and keep sprinting, turning a sharp corner, where a warehouse looms ahead. The red-painted brick looks almost black in the shadows. Fifty yards.

Savva’s place.

If he didn’t sell me out.

I adjust my grip on the girl again. A metal collar digs into my forearm. Her pulse beats sluggishly under my fingertips. Withdrawals are going to be a bitch.

The heavy metal door groans open as I step into the dark.

“K9,” a voice calls out with a thick Russian accent.

I don’t answer immediately.

I confirm his position first—three paces left, behind the stack of sealed crates. Weight shifted to his right leg.

“Savva.”

His eyes drop to the girl in my arms. “This her?”

I nod and shove past him, deeper into the warehouse shadows. The door slams behind me, cutting off the nearest exit.

I glance once over my shoulder.

Loading bay to the right. Office door half-cracked in the back. Stairwell to the catwalk above. Secondary exit twenty feet left.

“You’re early,” he says as I set her down on a large wooden crate.

“We need to move. Now.”

Savva jerks his chin. His men move. Supplies rattle into the van—metal on metal, echoing too loudly in the empty space.

“She okay?” He steps in, reaching for her face.

“Don’t touch her.”

With a lazy grin, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Relax, K9. Just checking.” He studies me for half a second too long. “You’re jumpy tonight.”

I bite down on the urge to break his fucking hand. Bastard’s lucky I need him. I need his contacts. His van. His skill. Because breaking his wrist would take less effort than this conversation.

I hold his gaze until he looks away.

“We leave in ten. Maybe less. I’ll grab something to get that collar off,” he mutters and walks off.

I stay still. Eyes up. One of his men has a pistol jammed into his waistband, the grip angled wrong. Another’s got a jacket too heavy for the weather. He’s sweating, shifting on his feet. The third watches me for a moment too long before looking away.

My fingers twitch, and I grind my teeth until my jaw aches.