Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

Whitman's people raised their guns, but they were already half-surrounded, and by people who had many more guns than them. All stood near or partially behind covers, and in a way that didn't block the line of fire.

Damien learned from his mistakes quickly after they were pointed at.

Martinez also stepped away from the line of fire and toward a nearby crate, although he didn't hide.

Tristan stood next to him casually, with hands in his pockets.

"What a surprise, Whitman! It looks like your worldview will bite you in the ass much sooner than you expected. Lay down whatever weapons you have and order your men to do the same. It's ten-to-one—you stand no chance."

Whitman was pale and wide-eyed.

"Hayes? What are you doing?!" He pointed at Martinez. "Why are you on the side of this traitor? The one who hated you more than had loyalty to his own organization!"

Tristan frowned.

"Don't try this bullshit on me, Whitman. I know he didn't do it, and your continuous lies prove it was your fault. Give. Up."

Tristan's voice was rumbling with authority, strengthened by the force of fifty guns behind him.

Nobody in their right mind could argue with so much authority (and guns).

Whitman hesitated for a moment, but after a look at the twitchy, trigger-happy fingers of James and the bloodthirsty grin of Damien, his shoulders fell. His goons lowered their guns.

"Alright… I—"

A quiet thrill of a call chimed from Tristan's pocket.

Forcefully keeping his face calm, Tristan swiftly pulled it out. The caller's name was that of the man from the point A watching point—the primary route toward the warehouse.

A call meant something really, really urgent.

Tristan picked it and raised a hand in a gesture to keep quiet.

"Boss, there are cops—no, SWAT! Two vans! Coming right in! And I think there's a helicopter, too!"

'What?!'

Tristan had to bite his tongue to not say it aloud.

A SWAT police team? With a helicopter? And possibly snipers?

This was too much heat, coming too soon.

Tristan put the phone away and pulled out a gun instead, which he pointed in Whitman's direction.

"No time for civilities. Sam, Cutout—bag Whitman. The rest—shoot anyone else who twitches wrong, and bag them too. Quickly!" Chapter Find:

Tristan's people obediently moved forward, but the sudden change of pace made others uneasy.

"What's the sudden change of plans?" Damien asked quietly, but got no answer.

Whitman looked around with a nervous frown.

"You can't expect me to just go with this all, Mr. Hayes."

His people moved closer to him, expecting a command, and also creating a protective circle around their boss.

"The boss can, and he does. Put your gun on the floor!" Sam ordered the man who blocked his approach to Whitman.

The goon glanced askance at Whitman, who slowly nodded.

But it was too late already. It was too late when Tristan got the warning and knew it—just refused to accept it.

Now his ear caught the sound of engines approaching from the outside.

"No time. Get ready, hostiles are coming!" Tristan shouted to all the gunners he brought with him. "And prepare for the tear gas, or even for a flashbang!"

"What?!" James screeched. "Those are pig-things! Cop-things! Shit, cops!"

"I remind you that the only entrance is ahead of us, Jimmy," Damien said mockingly. "Blocked by 'the snake'. At least it doesn't look like it all was his fault this time."

Whitman was even paler than before—but there was also a flash in his eyes that Tristan didn't like at all.

"Team one, forget it—get the hell away from them! Martinez, we must move, too."

Before they could, the entrance door cracked open, and a trio of grenades was chucked one by one through the narrow crack, rolling all the way forward to Whitman's position.

The world slowed down in front of Tristan's eyes.

'Tear gas, flashbang, tear gas,' Tristan counted. 'Shit. From my angle, even if I shoot, I will just shoot them to the side, not back toward the entrance. They will still be inside and close enough to affect most people here. At least they had a warning.'

With his left hand, he reached for his second gun. With his right hand, Tristan aimed at one of Whitman's goons. With his legs, Tristan prepared to spring for cover.

When the time dilation ended, he started moving like a freed spring.

Whitman's people raised their guns again and aimed at Tristan's. Tristan shot first, hitting a man aiming at Sam in the eye.

Whitman himself covered his eyes with his hand.

"Run! This is our—"

There was an ear-splitting bang that echoed inside the warehouse like a bang of a church bell.

Tristan had closed his eyes and looked away a split second before that, but the sound still made his ears ring.

For a moment, he heard nothing but white noise, but then it began rapidly dissipating, and other noises entered the place. There was still some ringing and pain in Tristan's ears, but it was all tolerable.

The second time, a flashbang did much less damage than the last.

'Those 600 toughness really do their job!' Tristan thought from behind his flimsy crate cover.

Then he felt a stinging smell of tear gas and held his breath. Squinting, he leaned from behind the crate and looked toward the scene.

Those were the first notes of a gunfight cacophony.

Half a dozen men in heavy military equipment and with automatic rifles rushed through the door, immediately diving toward the cover. A few more peeked from the other side of the door.

"LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND DON'T RESIST ARREST!"

Whitman and his people were thoroughly disoriented by the flashbang, but already rising and pointing their guns in seemingly random directions.

"KILL THEM ALL FIRST, BOYS!" James shouted, pointing his gun at the SWAT operatives. His eyes were full of tears and blinking rapidly.

Other people were just recovering from a flashbang, only for the tear gas to reach them—but still pointing their guns somewhere.

And an instant later, it became impossible to tell from and to where the bullets were flying.