THE BIKIE could feel the cold steel pressing against his skin as he paced around the yard, stalking his prey. He would wait until he saw him before he pulled out the weapon: an eight-inch length of concrete reinforcement bar, one end sharpened to a point, the other covered with a makeshift handle fashioned from torn bedsheets and tape.

And then he would then thrust it into flesh, and keep on stabbing until Goulburn’s newest prisoner was dead.

He moved as soon as he saw his target: young, white and fresh from Long Bay. He looked around before kneeling down to pull out the shiv, making sure the only guard patrolling the yard was still on the far side of the quadrangle. Yep, and his mate was doing as he’d been told, chatting away to the guard to distract him with whatever bullshit was spilling from his mouth.

He carefully slid the weapon up his sleeve, handle first – fortunately, no one had asked why he was wearing a jumper on such a warm day. He closed his palm around the stabbing end, the two inches of steel poking out the bottom of his sleeve.

The yard was teeming, prisoners everywhere. All out soaking up the sun. He cut straight through a makeshift handball court, ruining the point, the ball hitting his leg and bouncing away from the game.

‘Replay,’ yelled one of the players.

His target was the fourth of the newbies who’d come through the gate. Appearing completely lost, he had worked his way into a pocket of unoccupied space about twenty metres from the entrance. The fish out of water was looking right and left, standing up on his tiptoes every so often, searching for a familiar face. Someone he knew. Being alone was dangerous.

The bikie approached from behind, unseen by the target or the guard. He opened his palm; as the shiv dropped from his sleeve, he caught it with a snap of his wrist then drew his hand back. Locked and loaded.

Whack! The shiv went straight through the target’s side, punching through the flesh like a knife in jelly.

Whack! Whack! Two more, so fast the attack had not yet registered with the victim.

Whack! Whack! Whack! The victim turned and took a swing, his wild, desperate punch hitting nothing but air.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! The blows kept on coming: to the stomach, liver, kidneys and back. Blood spurted from the victim’s belly, painting the attacker red. He licked his lips and growled. He wasn’t done yet.

Whack! Whack! Whack! The next three thrusts punched holes in the young man’s neck. The second struck an artery and a geyser of blood erupted, dark crimson, from his throat.

The killer stopped and nodded. Satisfied. ‘Death to dogs,’ he said before he turned away.

The shiv clunked on the concrete after he’d dropped it, bouncing before landing beside a fast-spreading pool of blood.