Clarke ran his eyes across all of the screens quickly. He was amazed that they were all so still. No bobbing up and down, no nervous looking around. He turned to another monitor, where a series of biometric indicators flashing across the screen confirmed what he was thinking: that these men were freaks. Not one of the eight men had a heart rate above sixty; they might as well have been asleep. He shook his head in amazement.

Recruited by ASIO from the Australian Special Forces (Special Operations Command, or SOC), they’d been told only that their country needed them for a highly classified six-month assignment. Their units thought they’d been sent to undergo a new kind of survival training in the New Guinea Highlands. But, in fact, they’d never left New South Wales.

Clarke called his special-forces hit squad ‘the Ronin’, the Japanese word for former Samurai turned hitmen for hire. All clad in black and wearing balaclavas, they were indistinguishable – simply anonymous parts of a well-oiled machine, which Clarke controlled.

He put down the radio that he used to talk to the Ronin and picked up the one that connected him to command. ‘All in place,’ he said. ‘I repeat: Ronin in place. Do we have permission to proceed?’

A sharp squelch of static followed by a voice: ‘Ronin are good to go.’

Clarke picked up the other radio and issued the order: ‘Ronin are green.’

JAX was on his feet and in a defensive stance he’d learned in his combat training within seconds of his cell door bursting open. The snap of the lock had jolted him awake and he’d reacted without pause. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out a shape in the small amount of moonlight coming through the open cell door. He’d been waiting for something like this for three nights. Since he’d delivered the last of the phones.

‘Fuck,’ he exclaimed, as he was suddenly blinded by a blast of light. He knew immediately that whoever was behind the intrusion was both military trained and equipped. While a standard LED torch produced about 100 lumens, some military flashlights could put out 4000 lumens – enough to set fire to paper. Still unable to open his eyes, he knew he had been hit with the fire-starting type. He also knew the light would be attached to an assault rifle, strapped to its barrel, which would now be aimed at the middle of his forehead.

‘What the—’

His question was cut off by the intruder, a hard hand suddenly smothering his mouth. The man wore a tactical glove – Jax could feel the toughened plastic on the fingertips.

Army. Infantry.

He resisted his animalistic urge to fight. The man was only using enough force to subdue him and wasn’t trying to hurt him.