Lydia’s hand stopped over the glass.
Because that was not what he had said at all.
She had studied Russian for years. Not classroom Russian. Real Russian. Regional shifts. criminal slang. historical variants. She knew the sentence as clearly as if it had been spoken into her own ear.
Tell the American dog the sniper is already on the roof. When I stand, his skull opens.
For one strange second, Lydia thought she must have misheard it. Then she looked at Peterson and saw his right thumb tapping a rhythm against his thigh. One-two. One-two. A signal. Not nervousness. Communication.
The tray grew heavier in her hands.
Her mind split in two directions at once. One part stayed clinical, collecting details. Peterson was lying. He was part of the setup. The Russian standing would trigger the shot. The roof was already compromised. Crossfire would follow. Casualties would be inevitable.
The other part was more primitive.
Run.
But there was nowhere to run in a locked room full of armed men. And if shooting started, she would not be spared just because she carried glassware instead of a gun.
Damon lifted his drink. “Twenty percent?” he repeated, almost bored. “Tell him I don’t bargain.”
The Russian’s smile widened. He set both hands on his chair as if preparing to rise.
If he stood, Damon died.
“Wait,” Lydia said.
The word cracked through the room.
Every head turned.
Arthur materialized from nowhere, face bloodless. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cross. She’s new. Hart, go back to the kitchen now.”
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