The priest nodded and stepped nervously forward and into the light. ‘My people,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Be calm, my people, God is with us.’ The crying and wailing slowly died down but the church was not silent. Some sobbed. Some whimpered. A lone baby somewhere up the back was crying.

‘Pray to the Lord our saviour now.’ The priest looked to the gunman and nodded. ‘And do what this man says. Pray for this man that the Lord comes to him. The Lord will protect us, he is watching over us now, as ever.’ Bisset made the sign of the cross and many of the parishioners followed him, crossing themselves silently and mouthing soundless prayers.

The gunman walked behind Father Bisset and pulled him into a headlock with the arm holding the Beretta. The blade glinted as he held it to the holy man’s throat, drawing a small amount of blood as he pushed it into the priest’s plump skin.

‘Arrêtez-vous!’ boomed a voice from the mass, as a lone male parishioner in his forties pushed through a pew of people and started down the centre aisle. ‘Stop right now!’ he bellowed in heavily accented English.

The gunman regarded him, surprised, and a small smile played on his lips – just before he shouted, ‘Allahu Akbar!’, and slit the priest’s throat.

Blood gushed onto the altar.

The assassin didn’t bother pointing his gun at the snarling hero who was still charging towards him, his fists raised and ready to strike. Though he was only a couple of steps away, the gunman was sure he would never reach him. And it didn’t matter if he did: they would both die anyway.

He dropped his gun and smiled at the hero as he closed in.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ the man at the back echoed, as he detonated the bomb.

CHAPTER 2

Long Bay Correctional Complex, Sydney, NSW, Australia

JAX looked up as the bus came to a shuddering halt. He’d spent the entire trip with his head down, eyes boring into the floor or staring at the scuffed boots he’d worn to court. He’d been wearing the same boots when he’d killed the man in his room. If he’d killed him. His memory had not returned.

Jax hadn’t dared make eye contact with anyone since he’d been hustled onto the bus. He was one of fourteen cuffed and chained men who’d boarded at Sydney’s Downing Centre in the middle of the city forty-five minutes earlier. Each had been escorted by a guard to a single seat within a padlocked cage-like frame, the heavily customised functioning as a high-security prison on wheels.

He was under no illusions about who his companions on this journey were. Shaved heads, neck tattoos, bulging biceps, scars, noses that had been broken too many times – these were hardened men who had committed crimes serious enough to warrant a stay in Long Bay.