An instant later, the mystery was solved as a 4000-lumen blast of light smashed Jax in the face. Army. Infantry. Blinded, he didn’t see the soldier who grabbed him and spun him round before putting him in an excruciating, vice-like arm lock. Nor did he see the soldier who zip-tied his hands or the one who gagged him before hooding his head.

Jax did not resist, because he figured they weren’t here for him.

Then one of them knocked him out with a thundering blow to the back of the head.

‘SHUFFLE,’ Wallace barked into his radio as the Presidential motorcade hurtled down the highway. The veteran Secret Service agent watched his screen as the convoy performed a shell-game shuffle at ninety kilometres an hour. Like a street performer moving cups to hide a pea, the President’s limousine and its two replicas dodged, darted and swapped positions. And then they did it all again.

‘Package is in place,’ the call came over the radio when the Beast settled on the predetermined place in the queue.

‘Copy,’ Wallace said. ‘ETA to delivery is sixteen minutes.’ THE HOOD came off first, then the gag.

‘Ahhh,’ Jax cried as the gaffer tape that was stuck to his face removed both hair and skin. His instinct was to berate the solider standing in front of him but he resisted the urge. He’d had time to calm down a little after coming to as he was being carried out of the wing like a hog-tied prize pig. He’d also had time to access the situation.

Then a soldier ripped off the other man’s hood.

‘You!’ Clarke screamed as Father Martin’s face was revealed. ‘You are fucking kidding me, right?’

Jax had known it was Martin the moment he smelled the cologne. The Brut 33. And he would have known earlier if Clarke had given him access to all the intelligence, instead of keeping him in the dark.

Clarke turned to Jax and stared daggers. As if it was his fault.