Who knew she was here? Only Xavi, and he would call, not knock. She drew the gun, its weight and solidity comforting, and crept, silent, to the side of the door. There was the faintest of scrapes from outside, and the knock came again, low, urgent. She leaned across and pressed the barrel of the gun to the middle of the door then waved her hand across the small spyglass. If this was a hit, the assassin would fire. She’d been stupid coming back here, she realized. She checked for her phone, but it was on the table, out of reach. She waited, body strung tight like a steel cable, but there was nothing. Ear pressed against the wall, a TV muttered in the distance.