Page 35 of I’m The Worst

They know the route. They know the stops. They know where we re-fuel, where we’re meant to switch vehicles. Too much information in too many wrong hands.

My grip tightens on the seat bench.

Savva speaks again. “The next turn is⁠—”

“You’re turning a quarter mile early.”

His eyebrows lift. “That’s not⁠—”

“Do it.”

He goes silent, forearms tensing as he adjusts the wheel.

I’ve already changed every stop he thinks we’re making. Every gas station. Every safehouse. Every switch point. I planned alternate routes before we even left the cabin. Three versions. Six variations. All of them ending nowhere that his men could predict.

Trust gets people killed. Patterns get people hunted. And I’m not letting some idiot merc hand us over because someone outbid the Sovereign overnight.

Six more days, and AJ Weston is no longer my problem.

“This is fucked, K9.” Savva yanks a crate of supplies from the truck and slams it onto the ice. “Why hire me if you’re just gonna go rogue, da?”

I ignore him and keep pulling gear from the back. His opinion means nothing. His men mean even less.

“I’m taking the back room. If anyone enters the hallway, I’ll put a bullet through their throat.”

Savva spits into the snow, curses in Russian, and storms toward the house.

“AJ,” I call into the truck. “Wake up.”

She stirs, sluggish and groggy, eyes barely open. “Where… Where are we?”

The farmhouse sits miles off the main road, half-rotted but defensible. No heat. No running water. But high ground, one entry point, and enough open field to see trouble coming before it hits the porch.

She climbs out and hugs her coat tighter around herself, eyes tracking the broken windows and warped siding.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“Temporary.”

Savva’s already ripping apart a half-frozen woodpile, muttering under his breath. “Sergei, perimeter sweep,” he barks at one of his men.

Sergei grabs a rifle and disappears into the dark.

AJ edges closer. “I… I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Outside.”

“Outside? Seriously?”

“No water.”

She hesitates, then turns toward the trees.

“Don’t go far.”

I step off toward a half-dead tree and piss, and steam rises off the snow. When I look up, she’s farther than she should be.

“Hey!” My voice cuts across the field. “What the hell did I just say?”