Golan berated himself as he hobbled over a patch of ground on the Upper Rock. A rusting artillery unit was fixed to a concrete platform a hundred metres away, covered by a chicken-wire fence to make it hard for vandals. He was nearly there. He stopped to catch his breath. His temple pounded. He lifted a hand to his head. A sticky mixture, red and black, spread over his palm. Sirens screamed in the distance. Gibraltar Defence Police, turning the Rock upside down in the hunt for him. Going back to the Bristol Hotel was out of the question. They’d find the laptop, of course. Golan could do nothing about that. But he could stop them from discovering the cameras. The leg wound caused him the greater difficulty. He’d not had time to stop and properly examine it, but ever since that British shit plunged the steak knife into his knee, mobility in his leg had been severely constricted. Maybe you’ve ruptured your quadriceps tendon? he thought. He tried to flex it. The patella popped. You really ought to have killed him in the corridor.
