Lacking any other choice, she crawled toward the platform. The Walther PP_R lay on the floor scratched and dented but intact; she shoved it into a pocket then continued to the ladder. There, she rolled to her side and reached up with her right hand, then her left, over and over until her legs shivered with exhaustion. Near the top, she stopped and inched her head over. Twenty feet in front, two men dressed in black were moving, rifles drawn, to the crane that sheltered Xavi. Her Walther couldn’t hurt them at this range, but there was something else it could do.