Chapter 3: The Salute
Richard stepped back instinctively, his polished leather shoes crunching on the gravel. He reached out to grab the door handle of his car, his hands suddenly trembling. “This… this has to be a mistake. We filed the local injunctions—!”
None of them looked at him. They didn't even acknowledge his existence.
A tall, silver-haired man with the bearing of a four-star general stepped out of the lead vehicle. He wore a crisp dress uniform adorned with rows of ribbons and badges that commanded absolute authority. His eyes scanned the scene, locking immediately onto the white Stetson lying in the dust.
A muscle ticked in the general’s jaw. He walked past Richard with such cold, absolute disregard that the young lawyer stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the foreclosure papers at his feet.
The general stopped two paces away from Thomas Vance. He pulled off his cap, stood at rigid attention, and snapped a crisp, flawless military salute.
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“Marshal Vance,” General Marcus Reynolds said, his voice ringing like a bell across the silent desert. “Sorry we’re late. Traffic on the interstate was backed up.”
Thomas slowly reached down, picked up his Stetson, dusted it off against his thigh, and placed it back on his head with practiced ease. “You’re right on time, General. Just in time to meet our guest.”
