Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

James was one of the first, with his tearing up, red eyes opened wide and a semiautomatic pistol held tight in both hands. Damien was not too far behind, but the rest were an indistinguishable mass of humans and bullets in the dark.

Another of the SWAT men fell from a lucky headshot, and the rest began running. Even now, their professionalism showed—they retreated in an organized way, covering each other and not being stuck in the narrow door.

'They hope that if they can hunker outside, we will eventually all choke on the tear gas, then they get reinforcements, and we get caught here like rats in a bucket!' Tristan understood immediately.

He evaluated possible tactics in a flash. His eyes zeroed on a gate control panel, which stayed miraculously not destroyed by the stray bullets, despite many holes in the surrounding wall.

"KEEP PUSHING THEM OUT!" Tristan shouted and charged toward the button.

Behind him, gangsters, catching the smell of fresh air from the door, sped up in getting closer.

The SWAT members kept shooting inside the warehouse from behind the door, but the returning fire kept them pinned in cover and unable to aim.

In moments, Tristan reached for the button and slammed a butt of his gun on it.

There was a moment of pause.

'Dammit! If this thing doesn't work now… I will take off Damien's head, I swear!'

The gate groaned and began rising.

Tristan immediately dropped to the ground, and as soon as there was a hole wide enough, began shooting through it. A moment later, he was surprised to find James doing the same next to him.

A couple more SWAT members fell, and the rest began retreating in earnest. Those who could walk picked their dead as they dashed away.

James rolled under the opening gate to chase them down. With another curse under his breath, Tristan got after him, holstering his left gun.

He caught up with James in a couple of steps and grabbed the back of his collar just as the SWAT vans were driving off. The bullets James sprayed on them until his gun went empty just ricocheted from the armored vehicles.

"Stop! Let them run. We have better things to worry about!"

James reacted immediately by swiveling on his feet and trying to elbow Tristan in his face—but luckily for him, stopped half-way there.

If he didn't, Tristan's own reflexes would've made him grab James' arm and dislocate it, or worse.

"But those—" James was interrupted by his cough. "Fuck, fuck, fucking gas!"

"Just breathe. Breathe, calm down, and calm down your people."

Tristan gave James a pat on the shoulder and looked up.

Somewhere from above, from a large distance, Tristan heard the noise of a helicopter's rotor.

He looked up and saw its lights on the backdrop of the dark sky—not an immediate threat, but a watcher. Tristan could feel eyes directed at him from there.

'This helicopter will track everybody who tries to escape today. Or at least, as many people as it could. Perhaps there's even a sniper there. Or somewhere else.'

Tristan listened in to his senses, but felt no gazes from fitting vantage points nearby. Most buildings around here were warehouses, and many of them were unused or under construction. Not a lot of good sniper nests.

Finally, Tristan turned back to the warehouse. The gate opened fully by now, letting in the fresh evening air, and letting gangsters out.

They were a mess. Almost everybody was wounded to some extent. Many were lying on the ground, dead or unconscious. Tristan's eyes searched for the most important people.

Martinez was slumped in a corner, clutching his side and leaking blood on the concrete floor. At least he was alive.

Whitman was lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, but it was impossible to tell how much of it was his, when two other bodies were lying near.

Damien had a few grazes, but moved smoothly.

Vargas was covered in concrete dust, but also looked healthy.

Victor was propped up by one of his men, and had a bad-looking wound in his hip. Despite that, he held onto his composure and was already giving commands.

And James barely had a scratch, despite charging toward the enemy first.

'What a wonder… Is luck somehow grows with recklessness? Or is it the other way around?'

Tristan dismissed the thought and stepped into the warehouse.

"Everybody! We got the cops off us, but they will return. Pack everybody up—alive AND dead! Who knows first aid? Alright, Vargas will get someone to carry the worst wounded outside. And those who just said they know first aid—help them!

The worst wounded are ones who can't walk! And bandage Victor, too, before he bleeds out!"

Tristan's commands quickly put order into the chaos. At least, being prepared for a fight meant that his people had med-kits with them, and not only his. But nobody was prepared for the bloodshed on this scale.

He helped personally, too. His first aid skill was very helpful there.

By a preliminary head count Tristan did in his head, they lost at least ten people dead, and about ten more were badly wounded. Almost a half of his entire force!

Whitman's second team escaped, too—nobody had time to deal with them when they sensed danger.

Now Tristan was watching everybody pack in the trucks and cars they drove there in.

"What a mess," Vargas said, echoing Tristan's thoughts. "I couldn't even imagine that THIS was what the pigs were preparing. Nobody could! An anti-gang operation of this scale?.. No way."

"I think the cops were surprised, too. If they knew there were so many of us, they'd bring more people," Tristan replied grimly. "I hope this teaches them a lesson."

But he felt a gaze from a helicopter on the back of his neck.

'Nobody leaves until we deal with this, somehow.'

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