PROLOGUE

Holsworthy Army Base, Sydney, NSW, Australia

RILEY Jax woke up with a gun in his hand and a body on his floor.

Bee-beep. Bee-beep. Bee-beep.

He turned off the alarm on his wristwatch.

6 am. A Monday.

There was a sharp, unfamiliar metallic taste in his mouth, his head was fuzzy and he was coated in a fine sheen of cold sweat. He eased himself up out of his military cot bed and forced himself to study the body on the floor.

It was a clean kill: the dead man had taken one bullet to the brain and another to the heart, at close range. He was dressed like a civilian, but could have been ex-military from his build, his buzzcut, his neatly pressed clothing and his shiny boots. Jax had never laid eyes on him before – he knew that for sure because he never forgot a face. Never.

Jax tried to recall the events of the previous night, but the thread was broken – he had lost almost ten hours. He couldn’t remember anything after 8.14 pm.

Nothing. Not a thing. Everything black.

He remembered leaving the mess hall after dinner at 7.04 pm. It had been a balmy evening, the temperature still high after the heat of the day. A couple of the guys had been sitting around outside. He’d stopped and chatted with them for a few minutes, not because he wanted to but because it was expected.

After that he’d walked into his army-issue apartment – little more than an oversized bedroom with a small adjoining bathroom containing just a toilet and basin – grabbed a towel, his toiletry bag and his thongs before walking back out. The floodlights had been on but not yet needed.

The base, a haphazard assortment of buildings bedded on concrete and bordered by barbed wire and bush, had been quiet. It always was on a Sunday night, the last night of freedom before the week’s first crack-of-dawn roll call; most of the soldiers would have been at the pub. They wouldn’t start stumbling in until 10 pm. Some wouldn’t be back then. They would have just enough time to change out of their perfume-soaked civvies and make muster.

Jax had only walked past two men on his way to the shower block. He’d nodded at them before entering and showering on his own. Towel tied around his waist, thongs squeaking as they were worked by wet feet, he saw nobody after his shit, shower and shave.

His memory became clouded after that, though he did remember returning to his room. He recalled pulling on boxer shorts and a singlet, checking his phone to find out if Nikki had called and, seeing she hadn’t, grabbing a book – A Theory of Human Motivation by Abraham Maslow – and collapsing into his cot for an early night. And that’s where his memory stopped, at 8.14 pm.

Since then: nothing. Not a thing. Everything black.

Instead of the Maslow, he was now gripping a Glock. His Glock. Two rounds short of being fully loaded. He had no memory of firing his gun. He had no memory of loading it. He had no memory of even signing it out. The book he had gone to bed with was back on the shelf. He noted that it was sitting next to another title by the same author.

The fuzziness he’d felt on waking had been replaced by a hangover-like headache. The metallic taste in his mouth remained: more bile than blood, he noted, as he turned his attention back to the body. To the dead man on his floor.

Clean-shaven with a square jaw chiselled as if from rock, the deceased male was partially propped up against the wall opposite where Jax slept. The hole in the plasterboard above the body was the size and shape of his head. Eyes open and pupils enlarged, the dead man sat in a pool of blood. His fingers were splayed and stiff. Rigor mortis. Dead for at least four hours.

Jax scanned his room. One entry and exit point. He then looked at the body. He considered the victim’s path. He considered the killer’s path. He stood and shuffled left, stopping when he reached the adjacent wall. He hugged the plasterboard as he tiptoed along the carpet. Keeping to the base of the wall to avoid contaminating the scene, he was soon close enough to touch the body. He extended his arm and placed the back of his index finger on the victim’s neck.

The man was cold – but still warmer than the room. Dead for at least four hours but no more than eight. He looked at the man’s eyes. He did not have a flashlight but knew the oversized pupils would not react if he did. It was, however, bright enough for him to note the whites were lightly bloodshot and slightly yellow in the corner. The Kevorkian sign. He had only read about it once, but that was enough for him to remember it. He would need a thermometer and access to the man’s anus to establish the exact time of death, but the rigor mortis, his touch test and the opacity of the eyes told him that the man had expired sometime between 10 pm and 4 am. He retraced his steps and returned to the bed.

Jax turned his attention to the blood spatter. Gun still in his hand, standing beside his bed, he studied his walls and then his ceiling. He did the maths, taking into account the man’s size, what he knew about speed and impact – which was more than most – and the specs of the only weapon in the room.

It all added up.

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.

He thought it was pointless. The SIM would be destroyed if he succeeded in his mission. And he would not fail. But he’d been told to do it. So he did. He never questioned the Mahdi. No one questioned him.

He unzipped his backpack, reached in and pulled out a two-litre container that he had filled with liquid. He twisted the lid off, picked up the shattered phone and dropped it in. He screwed the lid back on and put the container – with the useless iPhone now at the bottom – back into his bag.

‘What about the pills?’ his companion asked. ‘He said we had to take the pills. It will make it easier.’

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a white plastic pill bottle.

CONTROLLED DRUG – POSSESSION WITHOUT AUTHORITY ILLEGAL

DEXTROAMPHETAMINE SULFATE 5mg

TAKE ONE A DAY

They both swallowed five before removing their black hoods.

DESPITE the sixteenth-century Church of Saint Étienne being the oldest Catholic institution in the small suburban town of Saint-Étienne-du-Rouvray in northern Normandy (home to 30,000 people), waning attendance at mass had been a problem for years and the church was generally only well attended for the occasional funeral or wedding. But Father Bisset had managed to draw a full house for mass on this bright May day, largely due to the changes he’d been making to the service over recent months. With permission from the local diocese, Bisset had scrapped the traditional Latin Mass and replaced it with a French-spoken, more family-friendly service. A number of the older parishioners had resisted the changes, but Bisset had been adamant that the church had to adapt to stay relevant and survive, and the parishioners came around when they started to see the pews filling.

Bisset looked out at the congregation – children, young mothers and fathers, the future, in other words – then left the sacristy and made his way to the altar. He noticed a couple of men he didn’t recognise sitting close to the aisle in the very last row of pews. He may not have even spotted them had it not been for the morning sun streaming through the oversized stained-glass windows and lighting up the pair’s closely shaved scalps like light bulbs.

White robes flowing, modernised missal in hand, Father Bisset climbed the three steps to the altar, the congregation quietening down as he did so. He paused for a moment of silent prayer when he reached the predella, and then turned to face his people.

Father Bisset’s brow furrowed when he saw that the bald men, the newcomers, were no longer sitting in their pew, but had moved to the doors of the main entrance, where one of them was wrestling with what appeared to be a length of chain. Usually wide open and welcoming, the oversized oak entrance doors that were as old as the church itself had been shut. Bemused at first, the priest studied the men, a few of the congregation also turning in their seats to see what the commotion was.

‘Excuse me,’ Bisset called loudly. ‘What are you doing?’ Though murmurs rose from the congregation, the men said nothing and carried on as though they hadn’t heard the priest at all.

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ the priest shouted more loudly. ‘Who are you and what are you doing back there?’

The men looked up this time, but still didn’t respond. Instead, one took up a position in front of the closed doors as if guarding them, while the other stepped forward into the aisle, reaching into a backpack as he did so.

The priest’s stomach turned when he saw the gun. ‘No!’ Father Bisset boomed, dropping his missal, the holy book forgotten as the word ‘gun’ swept through the congregation and terrified cries began to erupt from the pews.

‘Silence!’ the man yelled in French as he waved his gun. He was holding a hunting knife in his other hand.

As the priest strode down the aisle, one arm outstretched in an attempt to pacify him, the intruder raised his gun and aimed. ‘Shut up! Or I will shoot,’ he screamed, pointing the scratched and scuffed weapon at the priest’s chest.

Time slowed right down and silence returned while the congregation took in the scene. As he closed the distance between them, Bisset could see that the gunman had shaved more than his head. He had no eyebrows, no eyelashes. No hair at all.

THE GUNMAN was soaked in sweat. His heart was pounding, his pulse racing: the dextroamphetamine – a pharmaceutical-grade amphetamine, usually prescribed to narcolepsy sufferers – had kicked in. He felt euphoric. Gun in one hand, knife in the other, he was doing Allah’s work.

‘Get back, get back!’ he roared, stalking towards the priest, his adrenaline pumping, almost feeling like a god himself.

The priest backed up, stumbling on the steps as he reached the altar, before retreating as far as he could.

‘Don’t move,’ the gunman said, gesturing to his gun as he made it to the altar and then swivelled to face the people.

The cries started up again, some parishioners cowering in their seats, others frantically scanning the nave for a means of escape or defence.

‘Shut up!’ the attacker shouted, this time in English, as he fired a round into the ceiling. ‘Sit down and shut up, or die!’ He turned back to the priest. ‘Tell them!’ he demanded in English. ‘You understand what I am saying?’

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.

And he was one of them.

He fixed his gaze out the window and tried not to think about Nikki, and the look on her face when his sentence had been handed down. Ten years on the bottom, twelve on top. She’d been so shocked that all she’d done was let out a small cry before collapsing back into her chair in the gallery, her head in her hands. Nikki hadn’t believed it would come to this, but he had known it would. A man with no memory cannot mount a defence. And like everyone else, Jax saw the evidence. All the evidence . . .

Jax heard the doors of the bus open and the driver shuffling out of his seat. He kept his eyes trained on the window, observing the man’s movements in the reflection. His instincts told him to always be aware of his surroundings. To study every detail. Assess every risk. But he had to be careful here. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself – he knew where that would lead.

As his fellow passengers started shifting in their chains, a few of them making incoherent grunts, Jax took the opportunity to glance around very quickly and take a mental snapshot of his new home. It was grim. What was left of the day had been swallowed by a towering sandstone wall, medieval and menacing, almost ten metres high and topped with loops of razor-wire. The sandstone looked as though it could withstand a nuclear blast. The fact that it had been built to keep people in – and not out – was a stark reminder of everything that Jax had lost.

‘Hey, shitbags,’ shouted the bus driver. ‘Welcome to Long Bay. She’s a fuckin’ palace, ain’t she?’

The driver stepped off the bus and passed an untidy bundle of papers through a slot in a glass window to a guard in a small brick station by the gate.

‘Clear,’ the gatekeeper hollered a few minutes later, after examining the paperwork.

As he climbed back aboard, the driver studied his cargo and his face broke into a smile. ‘Marsh, huh,’ he said, looking directly at a big man seated in front of Jax. ‘It’s welcome home for you, isn’t it, mate?’ He chuckled as he got back behind the wheel and shook his head as the engine burst into life.

The iron gate, its pitted metal covered by a fresh coat of olive-green paint, began to open. The noise was horrendous: two five-inch-thick slabs of metal being dragged across concrete, all grind and groan, a heavy-metal version of fingernails on a blackboard. The driver grabbed a gear and gave it some gas, the diesel explosion rocking the bus floor and bouncing the chains they all wore on their ankles.

No longer able to stop himself, Jax peered around and quickly took in his surroundings, almost subconsciously cataloguing and committing the details to memory. Three guards talking in a group not far beyond the checkpoint we just stopped at. He ducked his head a little lower and observed the scene beyond the bus’s wide front windscreen. Approximately 50 metres of road leading to another set of gates flanked by another small brick gatehouse.

The bus threatened to stall as it slowly rumbled down the road. Another guard, four in total, stationed along the road. He squinted into the setting sun crossing his vision. Just inside the first gate, he saw a low, squat brick building, no more than two floors, with four east-facing windows per floor. The reception block.

‘The birdcage,’ said the big man the driver had addressed as Marsh, who had turned round and was now looking Jax straight in the eye, one pointed finger jabbing the air. ‘That’s what they call it. Just a stretch of road between two gates. They shut one gate before the other opens, so none of the animals get out.’

Jax said nothing and looked down. There was a moment of silence. When Jax looked back up, the man’s face was contorted with rage. He was menacing: clad in muscle and with a face punctured by scars. Probably about forty years old from what Jax could tell.

‘Don’t you fucken ignore me, ya young cunt. When I talk to ya, ya fucken listen, okay,’ he snarled.

Time suddenly slowed as Jax considered his response. Usually, Jax could process in seconds what others would take minutes to fathom. But right now he couldn’t make a decision. He didn’t have enough information. He went to say something but stopped himself.

Fear was clouding his mind.

Killers wore a warning in their eyes. Jax had seen it in the army and he was seeing it now. The cuffs, the chains and the fact that the man called Marsh was on his way to a maximum-security prison obviously marked him out as dangerous, but it was his eyes that offered the starkest warning. They were cold and cruel. Vacant. Dead.

Jax didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded before returning his gaze to the floor. He tried to shake off the dread. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about. It was just tough-guy talk. He had hardly been antagonistic – the only thing he had done was look down. Surely this Marsh would not seek retribution for such a non-event? Merely looking away couldn’t make him a target. Could it?

Jax shuddered internally. He no longer had all the answers. Not in here. Not in a place where the rules of the real world no longer applied. Not here in Hell.

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