FROM PRISON TRASH TO GOD OF WAR

Chapter 8: The General Arrives

The screech of tires on pavement cut through the night like a blade. Then another. And another. The sound multiplied until it seemed like an army was descending on the Grand Marquis Hotel.

Robert's face lit up with desperate hope. "They're here! Finally!"

Through the ballroom's tall windows, headlights blazed—military vehicles forming a perimeter around the building. Helicopter searchlights swept across the grounds, bathing everything in harsh white light.

The main doors burst open.

Soldiers poured through in perfect formation—crisp uniforms, polished boots, weapons at the ready. Thirty, forty, fifty of them, spreading throughout the ballroom with military precision. The guests pressed against the walls, some raising their hands instinctively.

And at the head of this force strode a man who commanded attention like gravity itself.

General Bradley Hawthorne was sixty but looked forty-five—iron-gray hair cut military short, a jaw that could have been carved from granite, and eyes like chips of blue ice. Four stars gleamed on his shoulders. Medals covered his chest. His very presence seemed to compress the air, making it harder to breathe.

He swept into the ballroom with the confidence of a man who'd commanded armies, who'd sent thousands into battle with a word, who answered only to the President himself.

The crowd's reaction was immediate and visceral.

"General Hawthorne," someone whispered in awe.

"Oh my God, it's really him..."

"I've only seen him on television..."

Margaret Ashford clutched her pearls so hard they should have shattered. "He came personally. The General came personally!"

Even the injured thugs tried to sit up straighter, some managing awkward salutes from their positions on the blood-slicked floor.

The General's gaze swept the ballroom—taking in the broken bodies, the destroyed furniture, the coffin still lying open in the center of the room, the unconscious Jason Thompson bent at unnatural angles.

His expression remained impassive, unreadable as carved stone.

Robert stumbled forward, Victoria right behind him, both moving as fast as their injuries allowed. They looked like shipwreck survivors spotting a rescue boat.

"General Hawthorne!" Robert's voice cracked with relief. "Thank God you're here! Thank God!"

"General, it's been a nightmare!" Victoria pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. "An absolute nightmare!"

The General's cold gaze fixed on them. "Explain."

The single word carried the weight of absolute authority.

Robert pointed a shaking finger at Alexander. "That man! That criminal! He broke into our celebration with a corpse! He's murdered people! He's assaulted my son! He's destroyed everything!"

"He's a lunatic!" Victoria added shrilly. "A violent psychopath who escaped from prison! He's trying to—"

"He deliberately sabotaged the War God's banquet!" Robert's voice rose to a desperate pitch. "Your banquet, General! The celebration you personally arranged! This monster has disrespected not just our family, but the military itself!"

The General's jaw tightened. "Is that so?"

"Yes!" Robert nearly sobbed with relief at being believed. "He showed up with that coffin, started attacking people, making wild accusations! He's killed men tonight! Broken bones! All while the War God himself was supposed to be arriving!"

"The disrespect is unforgivable," Victoria insisted. "To the military, to you, General, to the War God—"

"He must be executed!" Robert's voice shook. "Court-martialed! Made an example of! You can't let someone disrupt a military function and walk away!"

The guests murmured agreement, their confidence returning with the General's presence.

"That's right!"

"Military justice is swift and severe!"

"He'll be lucky if they just shoot him!"

General Hawthorne's expression darkened, his face becoming thunderous. The temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.

"You're telling me," his voice was quiet, dangerous, "that someone deliberately disrupted an event meant to honor the War God?"

"Yes!" Robert practically shouted. "Exactly! He's shown complete contempt for—"

"WHERE?" The General's roar made windows rattle. "Where is this bastard who dares to disrespect the man who saved our nation?"

Robert's face flooded with vicious triumph. He spun, pointing directly at Alexander with a trembling hand.

"There! Right there! That's him! That's the criminal! Alexander Kane!"

"Arrest him!" Victoria shrieked. "Make him pay!"

"He deserves death!" Jason's mother wailed. "Look what he did to my boy!"

The soldiers tensed, ready to move on command. Weapons shifted slightly, not quite aimed but ready.

General Hawthorne turned slowly, following Robert's pointing finger. His cold blue eyes tracked across the room toward the man sitting calmly in a chair, surrounded by broken bodies and blood.

His gaze locked onto Alexander's face.

The General went absolutely still.

All color drained from his face. His mouth opened slightly. His eyes widened in an expression Robert had never seen on the man—pure, undiluted shock.

For a long moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Then General Bradley Hawthorne's entire body began to tremble. Not with rage. With something else entirely.

"General?" Robert's voice faltered. "General, what are you—"

"Shut your mouth." The General's words came out strangled, barely audible.

Robert blinked. "I... what?"

The General took one step forward. Then another. His movements jerky, uncertain, like a man walking toward an apparition that might vanish.

"General Hawthorne?" Victoria's voice climbed with confusion. "Sir, the criminal is right there, why aren't you—"

"I said SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" The General's bellow made her stumble backward.

Alexander remained seated, his expression carved from ice. His cold eyes tracked the General's approach with the patience of a predator watching prey.

When the General was ten feet away, he stopped. His hands trembled at his sides. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's chill.

"Sir," he whispered. "Sir, I didn't know—"

Alexander's voice cut through the air like a blade. "You're here to kill me?"

The simple question hung in the air like an executioner's axe.

The General's face went from white to gray. "No! Sir, no, I would never—"