He couldn’t help himself. The skinny kid reminded him of somebody he used to know. A scared kid who was bashed, raped and made to murder. A kid no one helped.

Jax started sizing them up as soon as he took his first step. He played out the worst-case scenario in his head, in which the biggest of the gang went straight for Jax’s throat and the remaining three then piled in, jumping Jax and beating him to a pulp. In the best-case scenario, the gang backed down on the mere threat of Jax’s involvement. Not likely, he knew.

By the time he neared the group, Jax had run through a dozen scenarios in between the worst and the best. He knew which one he wanted to trigger.

His plan went out the window when the smallest of the group made a move before Jax had even reached them, kicking the still-seated kid straight in the face. Jax took two explosive steps and launched himself off his left foot. With his right knee thrust towards the heavens and dragging him into the sky, he was three feet above the ground when he started cocking his kick.

He struck the smallest Samoan on the side of his leg, just above his knee, Jax’s weight and speed combining with gravity to deliver a perfectly timed sidekick with the force of a car crash. The sound of the bone breaking was horrifying, as was the screaming that followed when the floored giant saw the razor-sharp point of his broken fibula sticking through his skin.

Jax was appalled, not by the damage he’d done, but by the way he felt: satisfied. The feeling he’d experienced when his right foot had landed exactly where he’d intended, and struck with even more force than he’d thought he could generate, had been something akin to elation. He wondered what he had become.

The part of him that didn’t like the steroid-induced strength and black-ops-level hand-to-hand combat skills struggled with the part of him that did. Doing the hurting was of course better than being hurt. Being the bully was better than being bullied. Strong was better than weak. And right now wasn’t the time for a crisis of conscience – he had another three Samoans to fight.

Jax pulled his fists to his face as he swivelled to confront the remaining men. He was relieved to find they were all standing exactly as they had been, huddled in a group around the kid. They obviously hadn’t served in the military. Had never heard of flanking or attacking in an offensive horseshoe. Nevertheless, by the looks of them – big, powerful and showing no sign of fear, they had never lost a fight.

Jax was about to change that.