The size of the hole in the wall, the blood spatter, the position of the body and the time of death all indicated the man had been killed right here, in this room. The numbers did not lie. While blood could be flicked and bodies could be repositioned, figures could not be fudged.

The dead man had been standing in the centre of Jax’s room when the first round had been fired into his skull. The blood spatter on the ceiling and the entry wounds on the corpse indicated the round had struck with force, the impact of the kill-shot snapping the man’s head back and to the left. He’d been falling when the second round had hit him in the heart. Thumping into the left side of his chest, the force of that shot changed the body’s path – sending it slightly to the right. The wall broke his fall and left him propped up. Sitting. The blood spatter on the wall above the victim’s head had come from the exit wound caused by that second bullet. Detectives would find one bullet lodged in the wall behind the body and the other in the back of the corpse’s brain.

Jax looked back at his gun. His Glock.

At the murder weapon.

He suddenly felt cold. Numb. His mind went quiet. He began to sway as he looked at the ground. His boots snapped him out of the trance. They were shined to perfection and tied tight, but he could not remember putting them on. Book in hand, he had flicked off his thongs and swung his bare feet onto the bed.

Jax slapped himself in the face. It didn’t help. He still couldn’t remember putting his boots on. Nor could he remember killing a man. And that was impossible. For Riley Jax remembered everything. He had never forgotten a thing in his life.

Until now.

CHAPTER 1

Saint-Étienne-du-Rouvray, Normandy, France

‘ALHAMDULILLAH,’ he said before ending the call.

The bald man scanned the green grass and the cobblestone path that divided it before turning his attention back to his phone. Holding the phone with his left hand, he used his right hand to stick a paperclip-like tool into its side. A small black tray popped out. He lifted the SIM card from its cradle before dropping the phone onto the stone path. With a violent thrust of his hip, he jammed his foot onto the phone, then stomped on it over and over and over until the screen was smashed to shards.

Satisfied the phone was destroyed, he put the SIM card between his teeth and bit down. He had to wriggle and twist it to rip the toughened plastic. Once he’d finally torn it in two, he examined the metallic markings – the electronic chip that held all the information – to make sure they were severed, before putting the pieces back in his mouth. Then he swallowed.