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BARSOOM WAS a planned colony. Part of the planning had included creating a court system. Although the Colonists deeply admired the Renaissance lifestyle, they hadn’t hesitated to alter customs where they considered changes necessary. Although it paid a small stipend, the job of Chief prosecutor and his subordinates was voluntary. After the volunteers had put in their names for consideration they were reviewed and selected by a judicial council every three years. This was how Carlos Santana had come to serve as a prosecutor. He had been selected over the other candidates because although he was now a solid family man, he had a history of being a tough opponent who didn’t scare easily. In his younger days he had been a famous duelist, an excellent shot with a pistol, and a master of bladed weapons. The Black Templars and the judicial committee were aware that he had also been a bounty hunter before he took up the law as a profession.
Carlos Santana was tall and slender with finely cut features and melting chocolate eyes behind absurdly long eyelashes. His dark hair had just enough grey in it to give his handsome looks a distinguished air.
Just now he was prosecuting a case against Christopher Moyet who was believed to be an enforcer for the Red Conclave, a local criminal organization, for extortion. It was a solid case and Carlos was confident of a guilty verdict. A series of alternate threats and bribes offered hadn’t stopped him from forging ahead. That morning before court had convened, he found his clerk, Denis Norward, a rotund little man with limp brown hair, attempting to dispose of an envelope without giving it to his boss.
“You needn’t be afraid to show it to me Denis,” Carlos held out his hand for the envelope. “What part of my anatomy am I going to lose this time?”
Denis turned stricken eyes to his boss. “It isn’t about you sir,” he said, watching Carlos open the envelope. Several vid-stills of his daughter at school slid out. Carlos’s face darkened as he stared at the pictures.
“I checked with the school, sir,” Denis said hastily. “Your daughter is fine. I also requested them to add additional security.”
Carlos wadded the vid stills of his daughter Francisca playing soccer and walking across campus, into a crumpled ball and threw them in the trash.
“Thank you, Denis,” he said. “We’d better head for court now, or we’ll be late.”
As Carlos had expected, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty in less than 15 minutes. He invited his clerk and office staff out to celebrate with him at lunch.
Across town the verdict was received much less happily.
“You are certain we can’t overturn it on appeal?” Jerome Redglove, one of the titular heads of the Red Conclave asked the man who brought the news. Redglove was a thin man with brown, sleekly groomed hair. No one looking at him would suspect him of being anything but the well-groomed, up-and-coming politician he was.
The woman he was sharing lunch with was striking. Adeline Prowd had long, silver hair, which she allowed to cascade down her back in a mermaid style coiffure. The tattoo of an eagle placed discreetly over her right eye was the only thing to mark her as the Conclave’s top enforcer.
“Santana is becoming a problem,” Redglove told her. “I thought you were going to take care of him.”
“Since you won’t let me get rid of him, I’ve been working under a handicap. I’ve been looking for a whip to tame him with, and I think I’ve found it. We’re going to introduce his daughter to a young, ambitious captain in the Conclave. Up till now, we’ve only used him for a few collection and intimidation jobs, but he’s anxious to move up and he’s pretty enough to appeal to a fourteen-year-old.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jean Coudet.”
Coudet had once thought becoming a member of the Red Conclave would be glamorous. After being outed about the date rape ring, he had been shunned by most of the good citizens of the colony. He received his assignment with mixed feelings. He wasn’t attracted to little girls, but he told Antoni Guissipe, the Enforcer who brought him the assignment, he would do it.
“How?” Guissipe asked curiously.
Coudet had been flipping through the pages in the information Guissipe had handed him. “There is a teen hangout called the Black Dog Café she frequents. It shouldn’t be hard. Girls her age are always looking for a bad boy underdog. I’ll get her to come to me.”
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