Prologue

The man known as Mr. Smith sat in his prison cell, thinking.

He had been sitting in this particular prison cell for the past 13 months. That translated into more than 56 weeks, which translated into more than 392 days, which translated into more than 9,408 hours, which translated into more than 564,480 minutes.

And it was all because of two stupid, bumbling Yanks.

Even now, it was hard for him to believe how terribly his last job had fallen apart, when it had promised to be the easiest hit he'd ever been contracted to do. Heck, the two targets were delivering themselves to him, with the $50,000 contract in hand. And it wasn't like it was going to be difficult to off them once they showed up in the desolate backlands of Australia; one was a fat black moron and the other was a hairdresser.

If Sal Maggio's goons hadn't showed up, Charlie Carbone and Louis Booker would be buried in unmarked graves in the middle of nowhere. And that tasty little sheila they were with, well…

But all that was going to change today. Today, the bronze were going to transfer him to Fort Denison, a maximum security prison in Sydney Harbor. He'd been in the Alice Spring Correctional Facility for the past 13 months, but after he'd used a broken-off fork to gouge a fellow prisoner's eye out during a cafeteria brawl, the powers that be had decided he was more of a menace than they'd realized. So they'd hastily made a plan to transfer him to Sydney, where there were more guards to keep an eye on him.

A guard banged on his cell bars, jarring him out of his reverie. "All right, Smith, time to go."

Smith stood up and waited for the door to slide open, stepping forward and ignoring the guard disdainfully. As he started following the guard down the corridor, another one materialized behind him. He smiled sardonically; apparently they weren't taking any chances.

He was loaded into the waiting gray prison van, handcuffed to the bench and seated across from an armed guard who looked about eighteen years old. The ankle biter didn't even look like he could shave yet.

"G'day, mate," Smith said with a teasing smile. "Guess you're my babysitter for this little day trip."

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," the young guard said tightly, doing his best to avoid eye contact while still scrupulously keeping his eye on his prisoner.

Smith chuckled, leaning back into his seat. This was going to be a piece of cake.

…

The trip from Alice Springs to Sydney was going to take 24 hours, and Smith knew they would be stopping in the evening to stay the night at a hotel. But he wasn't going to wait that long.

He waited patiently for five hours, until they were well away from civilization, to make his move.

"Excuse me, mate, but do you mind pulling off for a second?" he asked in his most conciliatory tone. "I've got to see a man about a 'roo."

The guard fidgeted with his pistol nervously. "We're not scheduled for a gas stop for another two hours."

"Well, cobber, I'm afraid I won't be able to wait that long," Smith replied. "So unless you want to be sitting in a puddle of urine for the next two hours, you'd be smart to ask your driver friend to hit the brakes."

The guard thought hard for a few seconds, clearly weighing the two scenarios to decide which one was less unpleasant. Finally, he banged on the driver's window. "Hey! The con needs a bathroom break."

Smith could hear the driver grumbling, but he still pulled off the road (if you can call a gravel trail a road) onto the rocky sand beyond.

The young guard prodded Smith out of the vehicle warily. "All right, hurry up and get on with it."

"Much obliged," Smith replied with a grin, striding a few paces away from the van to a nearby tree and unzipping his pants. He really did need to relieve himself, and he did so quickly. But as soon as he had readjusted, he let his leg crumble underneath him with a sharp cry of pain.

"Crikey!" he howled, clutching his leg. "I just got bit by a rattler!"

The young guard stood his ground unsurely. "Are you okay?"

"I don't think I can move, mate," Smith answered, letting a tone of panic color his voice. "You've got to help me, please! I don't want to lose me leg!"

The guard was really too tenderhearted to be a guard, and he started towards Smith hurriedly, reaching out a hand to help him stand up. "Let me see the bite so—"

That's when Smith pounced, grabbing the guard's arm with both hands and jerking him off his feet. The young officer yelped in surprise and grabbed for his gun, but Smith rolled over on top of him, catching him by the wrist to prevent him from aiming. The two men scrabbled frantically before Smith managed to jerk the gun out of the guard's hand, but he lost his grip as the guard struggled, and the gun skidded across the ground. He dove for it even as the guard scrambled to his feet with a shout of warning, starting to run for the van. But by now, Smith had scooped up the gun and aimed it with cool precision. He fired one round, which hit the guard on his side and sent him crumbling to the ground. He didn't move after that.

The driver was no more of a challenge. He was barely able to open his door before Smith was on top of him, yanking him out of the van carriage to spill out onto the ground. Smith didn't waste a bullet on him—he needed to preserve them. Instead, he knocked him out with a quick blow to the head.

His initial work done, he slipped into the police vehicle with a smile of smug satisfaction. Now the fun could really start.