Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

The SWAT members were shooting, the gangsters were shooting—all of them—the tear gas was decreasing an already poor visibility in the warehouse, and those who still had their hearing after the flashbangs couldn't hear anything because of the gunshot cacophony.

The bright flashlights on the barrels of SWAT team rifles made the place look like a nightclub party for gun addicts.

When so many little events happen around all at once, the human brain can't comprehend them all. It can either grasp and process one thing at a time and let the rest fly past, or give up and shut down completely.

Tristan saw a few people like that—huddled on the floor or behind cover, completely disoriented by the flashbangs and the fighting.

'This is shit. This is a completely pointless fight. Fuck, why does this warehouse has only one exit? The cops have us cornered here!'

Tristan grit his teeth and looked out of his cover and through the haze of tear gas.

He saw Whitman, trying to reach cover, but just stumbling and falling, then clutching his leg.

Then Tristan focused on the police. Their high-protection bulletproof vests and helmets would stop a bullet from Tristan's handgun without a problem. The only vulnerable spots were ones unprotected by armor: mostly face.

'There's no point trying to give commands here. Nobody will hear me.'

Tristan aimed at the nearest couple of SWAT members, one with each arm. His hands were steady. He shot at once, with his precision unaffected by the mayhem.

Bullets hit both men right through their transparent visors. They fell to the ground, but now others turned toward Tristan.

'Shit!'

The time slowed down momentarily, giving Tristan time to think.

There were around ten people in total—maybe twelve, based on how many fit in two SWAT vans. Tristan killed two, so eight to ten were left.

'I could shoot another man or two. Or I could get away before I turn into a pincushion.'

Chapter Continue:

The choice was obvious.

As the time resumed, Tristan dove for his crate cover. Just in time—the first few bullets missed, but the next ones went right through the thin wood.

Several splinters scratched Tristan's cheek, and a bullet hit him right in the stomach.

With most of its force taken by the crate and Tristan's bulletproof vest, it felt like being punched by a tiny but powerful fist. Breath flew from Tristan's lungs—only for a moment.

'This will bruise.'

Tristan kept moving—past his cover, toward others, sturdier ones. His eyes began tearing up, and breathing became harder.

He caught glimpses of more people falling from the gunfire on both sides.

James was darting from cover to cover, running like a cockroach on amphetamine, dodging every bullet and spraying his own back generously. He was laser-focused on the exit. His boys were following, but much slower.

'And I thought Damien would be the most reckless here.'

Several SWAT members focused their fire on him, while others began spreading for better cover themselves. Tristan was finally not being shot at for a moment.

He prepared to shoot again, but it was hard to aim with tearing up eyes and uneven breathing.

'Focus, Tristan… Just focus.'

Tristan covered his mouth with an elbow and tried to take a deep breath without inhaling a lungful of tear gas. The terrible stench—at this point he could feel it even on his tongue—still made him cough once, but he powered through.

He could tell that others were succumbing to the gas much faster. Although some, like Vargas and Damien, spent time covering their faces with improvised cloth masks.

Holding his breath, Tristan wiped tears from his eyes, blinked again, aimed, and fired several times from both hands.

Two more men fell—one dead, another just to his knee, clutching an arm. A lucky shot between the bulletproof plates, but not lethal.

Then another SWAT member fell with a hole in his visor—someone else's work. But gangsters had many more wounded.

A glance showed that Whitman's men were all down, at least.

The apparent leader of the SWAT team made a few gestures, and the group went deeper into their covers. Then someone threw another grenade.

The time slowed down.

'Another flashbang!'

But this time, thanks to his dash between covers, and to the SWAT moving deeper into the warehouse, Tristan was in a better position.

He opened his stinging eyes wide and aimed his right pistol at the grenade in slow motion. His left looked at the man who sent it—because Tristan had time.

Two shots! Tristan's muscled arms absorbed the recoil like it was nothing.

The grenade thrower fell back with a hole between his eyes. The grenade, thrown off by a shot, flew back toward the SWAT team.

They recoiled in alarm just as the flashbang went off.

'Even if no one hears me, leading by example might do something. We need to clear the way out before those helicopter guys come down, or we all suffocate in the tear gas! We need to make them run!'

The next moment, Tristan sprung from his cover, guns blazing.

"NOW! CHARGE!" Tristan shouted as loudly as he could. He could barely hear his own voice, but he hoped that he'd be seen.

He was.

His dark clothing made him stand out on the gray backdrop of the tear gas fog, the concrete dust from broken bags, and the flashlights of the SWAT team. At that moment, Tristan was a dark beacon in the sea of blinding light.

He charged forward while his enemies were disoriented, closing the distance he created earlier. A few bullets whizzed over his head, another grazed his leg.

But left and right of him, all the gangsters Tristan gathered were, for the first time, truly united against a common enemy.

They charged, too, breaking the distance and pouring the SWAT team with bullets until their vests couldn't take it anymore.

Their spirit gave up first.

[Ding!]

[You have terrified 7 people of high skill. Reward: your PP increased by 1200!]

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