Johnson had told Jax that Marsh’s Saturday-morning meetings – 8.15 am sharp, straight after muster – were compulsory, so all of Marsh’s goons would be there: Bluey, Grub, Chunk, Waz, Smack and Deano. The penalty for being late was a beating; the penalty for not showing up was . . . well, apparently no one knew that yet, because it had never happened.

Jax approached Marsh’s cell at 8.14 am. He’d learned from Johnson that the morning meetings were when Marsh would delegate the week’s work: the collections, beatings, stabbings and sometimes worse. Little black book in hand, Marsh went through the list of who had paid and who had not. He then went through the payments he’d made, most to the Dodge as usual. He would then reveal the week’s takings – sixty percent of which would go straight to the bikie club. The other forty percent would be divided between the group, in proportions relating to their rank. The higher the patch, the higher the pay.

Jax walked towards the cell knowing he wasn’t there for any of that, though. He didn’t know exactly why he had been summoned, and knew it wouldn’t be for anything good. But he didn’t care. Not as long as Nikki was safe. That was all that mattered. Safe. She had to be.

Jax said nothing as he walked into Marsh’s cell. Seven on one. Impossible odds, even if he’d had a weapon. The cell was big enough to house up to four men – it was almost four times as large as Jax’s own – but it was Marsh’s and Marsh’s alone. Jax looked around the room, sizing it up. In addition to the standard toilet, desk, chair, shelf unit and small shelf, he saw a sofa, a fridge, a microwave, a fifty-centimetre TV with a PlayStation II and a queen-size bed. He was also scanning for anything he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing he could kill seven men with. And nothing that would stop them killing him.

There was an envelope on the desk. Jax assured himself that the envelope had nothing to do with Nikki. Marsh wouldn’t mention her until he ran out of money.

‘$500 bucks a week,’ Jax said. ‘Is that why I’m here? You want more money. Right?’

Jax knew that Marsh didn’t want his money. He’d suspected as much as soon as Johnson had told him the going rate was $100 a week. And he was certain as soon as he saw the heroin, which he had roughly weighed after sifting it from his shit: about 100 grams. Give or take. It had a street value of $100,000 – and a prison value of $300,000. Marsh couldn’t care less about his measly $400 a week. Marsh wanted him to make him money. Big money.

Marsh had an intricate and well-thought-out plan. No doubt about it. But he wasn’t the only one with a plan. Not anymore.