Grave Mercy by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

PAUL MARTIN FELT in his pockets, hoping to find at least one more cigarette, but all he came up with was a crumpled, plastic-wrapped, empty package. He was tempted to throw the thing down in disgust, but the floor of the overwalk was already a horrendous mess. Janitors weren’t too meticulous in most parts of the Adult Holding Center, mainly because the guard staff was far too undermanned. Anything that was left behind after a push-broom was run down the walkway was left there. The waist-high railing of the walkway was rusted, as well, and Martin didn’t want to slip or stumble. Having to rely on the flimsy rail to keep him from striking the cafeteria thirty feet below was just too much of a gamble.

Instead, Martin jammed the empty packet back into his pocket, then rested his hand on the receiver of his Vietnam-era M-16. Since the weapon was more than forty years old, and had never been cleaned, Martin was afraid of what would happen if he’d ever have to use the rifle. Sure, the gun had stopping power—that is, if the gunpowder in the cartridges hadn’t degraded over time—but would it be reliable? All he’d have would be the 6-shot Smith & Wesson revolver that was even more ancient, but at least it worked. While its finish was pitted and scratched, it operated smoothly.

Below, one of the prisoners buckled and collapsed to the floor of the cafeteria. Martin keyed his radio, sending out a signal about another inmate falling over. This was the thirtieth in four days. Nerves were on edge as the prison population was trading stories about a curse striking from the shadows. Nearly three dozen men were in the infirmary, each nearly comatose from unexplained causes. With the feel of impending riot hanging in the air like ozone after a lightning strike, Martin had one small slice of consolation. None of the guards had gotten sick.

Yet.

“No curse gets me,” Martin muttered as he looked at the mass of inmates backing away from their fallen comrade. “But that’s not what I’m ’fraid of.”

Technically, the faculty was designed to hold 1026 prisoners. However, the Jamaican justice system had too much to handle with gang crimes overwhelming an underequipped, poorly funded Constabulary Force. Martin didn’t have a count of how many inmates there were, just orders to let fly with a wall of lead if things got out of hand. Below, prisoners had to barter and beg for more than just a basic meal a day, trading for essentials like soap and toothpaste.

Medical care was likewise negligible. The infirmary set up for the sick prisoners was nothing more than a gymnasium with cots set out. Having passed among the unconscious, Martin felt a tingle of terror tugging at his spine. At least half of them had their eyes open, but they stared glassily at the ceiling of the gym, unblinking even as flies landed between their lashes. No one breathed more than ten times a minute, and

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