Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

Tristan's men knew Spanish well enough to understand the problem. He also knew that even if they didn't understand, they'd start fighting as soon as he gave the smallest command.

He looked over at the smugglers and their boat again.

With their automatic rifles, just two smugglers could gun down Tristan and his four people in seconds. He'd need about two seconds to kill them both with only one gun.

The smugglers' boat was beached far enough to take longer than that to be pushed into the sea.

All four smugglers were watching Tristan's team closely, although only riflemen were aimed.

Tristan let out a breath. Now he was playing a role—a role of someone proud, but smart enough to know he was cornered.

<Alright. How about twice what I promised?>

<I thought you understood Spanish, hm? We told you to give ALL OF IT!>

Tristan winced.

<Yes… Sam!> He turned to the man, hiding his left hand from the smugglers for a moment. "Sam, give these people ALL the money—actually, just give them your entire backpack. Do it."

Sam's eyes widened in confusion for a moment. His jaw clenched, but he nodded.

From the excited way smugglers have perked up, they must've known English at least a little. Tristan was glad he didn't say anything important in that language.

He stuck his hands in the pockets and watched as Sam walked over to the smugglers and threw the backpack in front of the leader.

The leader's attention went to the backpack—he was opening his mouth to say something, probably to ask about the rest of the money. His aide was watching Sam. One of the riflemen got curious about the backpack enough to look there. The other still watched Tristan.

Tristan glared at him with all of his force.

It was a glare chilling enough to momentarily freeze air in people's lungs. In Tristan's eyes, the smuggler saw the inevitability of his death.

'Maybe you won't die today. Maybe you won't die tomorrow. But you will die eventually, and what will wait for you there? Heaven? Hell? Nothing at all? Every day you chase those thoughts away from yourself, but nothing can chase away death. Not forever.'

The smuggler went pale, perspiring with cold sweat. His finger was limp on the trigger of his gun.

Moving faster than a lunging snake, Tristan pulled out the pistol from his pocket and shot him between the eyes. The man fell dead, and the bang of the shot drowned out the alarmed cries of the other smugglers.

The second rifleman raised his rifle at Tristan, but was stunned by Tristan's glare. Before he could recover, Tristan shot him, too.

It all was done so quickly that the other two smugglers barely had time to realize they were being killed.

The leader had only raised his eyes at Tristan when he, too, was frozen in his movements by a glare.

The leader's aide was faster. He was about to shoot Sam—the person closest to him—but Sam wasn't standing still, either, instead lunging forward.

Two shots rang almost in unison when Tristan and the leader's aide shot their respective targets.

The smuggler leader fell to the sand like the others, turning it red with the blood leaking out of his skull.

The aide's shot went harmlessly into the sky, because Sam was wrangling his right arm away from himself or anyone else. A second later, Tristan put a bullet between the aide's eyes, too.

It'd be a dangerous shot for anyone else—with Sam wrestling the smuggler, it was easy to hit the wrong man by accident—but Tristan's skills were top-notch.

Not only was he sure about hitting a target of this size at this distance, with his observation skill, he could predict the next movements of both men from the direction of their gaze and the tension of their muscles.

Sam grabbed the smuggler's gun and let go of the corpse a moment later—but there was no one else to shoot at. Tristan's other men had also pulled out their knives and were ready to fight—but the shore was peaceful.

[Task complete: teach the smugglers how to do business. Reward: your PP increased by 2000.]

A grin grew on Tristan's lips as he gazed upon the four fresh corpses. He approached that of the leader and kicked its side.

"We will need to pick another contact after this. Someone less opportunistic, if we can find them…" Tristan shook his head and looked at Sam. "Are you unhurt?"

"Just peachy. That was some cowboy-style shooting—and you had a gun all that time?"

"I had—it was a trump card in my sleeve. A single one," Tristan said. "Thank you for being a distraction, Sam—I wish it hadn't been necessary."

He put his pistol back into its hiding pocket. Without Sam, he couldn't have pulled it out and hid it in the side pockets of the jacket without the smugglers noticing. At least, not that easily.

And he definitely would've had a harder time shooting them all before they shot someone.

"Check the goods, and whatever else these people had on their boat," Tristan said to his team. "When you are done, we should break the bottom and push it into the sea to drown. No need to attract attention to this spot."

Gunshots were already bad enough, but there were no people living around for kilometers to hear them.

"Yes, boss."

Tristan's people were too loyal to ask where he got the gun from, even if they were curious. Most of them weren't the curious type, anyway.

At least the smugglers' wares were as good as they promised. Tristan guessed they must've realized that Tristan's group was vulnerable on their way to the drop-off point. That was when they came up with that ill-advised scheme.

Now everybody on Tristan's team had a rifle and a sidearm. Tristan himself had two semi-automatic pistols, because he preferred shooting from both arms—but there was a disassembled bolt-action sniper rifle packed, too. And explosive materials, of course.

"Good haul," Tristan said, smiling. "Pack it to our car and we will move to the next step of the plan."