Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

Next day.

Tristan spent most of the ride from Los Angeles listening to music and pretending to be asleep. The ride jostled his bruise and all the scratches hidden under his shirt, and although he could stomach the pain and pretend that all was well, he was conserving energy.

Derek accepted Tristan's explanation about the escaped security team (delivered with absolute conviction), but had been in a worse mood since then.

Nelson was just sad to say goodbye to Los Angeles, although he was already dreaming about returning there permanently, and soon.

Upon arrival, Tristan escaped all responsibilities related to stardom as soon as he could.

He had more time-sensitive things to deal with.

***

There were many people who had been waiting to see Hayes in person again.

It was evening when he stepped inside the Good Lion Bar. There were a dozen visitors at the time, and their conversations paused for a moment as people dealt with their surprise. Even the pianist hired to replace Tristan Gemello missed a key because he turned to look at Tristan.

Tristan nodded to the people he knew personally on his way to the office. He could've come from the back, but this was a show—he was showing these people that he was back in the city.

But he stayed there only for long enough to give Kevin the most vital instructions, and hear from him the report of the most important things that happened on the last day.

And something happened, something that put a wide smile on Tristan's face.

Then he left again.

***

The next place Tristan visited was a basement under one of his properties ("his" inside the gang—technically, this one was owned by a fake person who didn't even exist).

It was a small place, with bare concrete walls, a single light bulb on the ceiling, and the floor covered in plastic tarp. Despite the latter, one could spot speckles of old dried blood on the walls.

A classic torture basement.

At the moment, its guest was Whitman. He was sitting on a folding chair, slumped on himself, with his legs bound.

His hands were left free, but they were lying on Whitman's knees powerlessly. In the recent fight, he sustained several wounds, but the worst one tore something in his shoulder that made his right hand unable to move.

The rest just made Whitman unable to do much more than glare at his captors.

There were two present: Tristan and Martinez (still on painkillers and leaning on a wall, but proudly refusing to even sit).

Tristan threw Martinez a glance and decided to not throw him out yet.

'The man deserves some satisfaction.'

He turned to the glowering prisoner.

"Mr. Whitman. I know you aren't in the best state at the moment, but that state can easily become even worse. Talk to us."

Whitman sneered.

"No. Do the thing, torture me—I will kick the bucket before you get anything out of me."

'Stubborn bastard. He still hopes that someone—his people, or Leon himself—will get him out of this in time. Too bad the system didn't give me another truth serum vial until now. All the items were weapons I could get through other sources, anyway.'

The shop's daily selection was usually a talent, a skill or two, and an item or two. But the pool of all of them was limited and repeated at least every couple of weeks. Not always when Tristan needed it to repeat.

"We don't need to get anything out of you but your split tongue, snake," Martinez spat out.

Whitman just smirked.

He was hurting terribly, but he was tough enough for some pain. More importantly, he was going to deal with both Hayes and Martinez by the end of all this. His wounds were playing for him in this case.

They couldn't just kill him—Leon won't let it go without proof of his guilt. And Hayes won't be able to hide Martinez or Whitman from the world for long, not after Whitman's people, ones that escaped the shooting, will tell what happened there.

Those people didn't see things themselves, but they didn't need to. The shooting was on all the news! "Gang violence on the rise: two dozen people dead after a failed SWAT operation in Los Angeles. What is the police going to do? A statement from the LAPD captain on the news at 9…" and so on.

In short—Leon was going to have questions for Hayes. Lethal questions. And Whitman was going to come out on top, because Hayes was too reasonable and ambitious to just kill him.

Tristan Hayes watched all those thoughts flash in Whitman's eyes. His reasoning was easy to understand.

Despite that, Tristan smiled.

Whitman frowned, and Tristan smiled even wider.

He even chuckled.

"You think that you already won, Whitman, but what you don't know… is that you already lost. Lost so much that I don't even need you alive anymore. The only reason I brought you here is an execution."

Tristan pulled out a gun and offered it to Martinez. The man took it and stared at Tristan in confusion.

"I'm not going to believe your bluff, Hayes! If you kill me, the boss will shoot you like a mad dog! You can't just betray the organization by attacking its members unprovoked!"

"A lot of things happened between yesterday and today. Whitman, Mr. Clavon's investigators got to your personal files in your absence and dug out your link with the Los Angeles police. They were, as it turned out, competent people. Now there's a target put on YOUR head."

Whitman stared at Tristan, pale and wide-eyed.

"You are bluffing."

"What? They did! Glorious bastards…" Martinez clutched the gun tighter and aimed it at Whitman. He paused to glance at Tristan.

Tristan nodded.

"Go to the deepest Hell, where even I won't see you ever again," Martinez said, pressing the trigger three times in succession.

Even with shaking hands, at least one shot hit something vital in Whitman's chest. When the man fell to the ground and the quiet returned, Tristan turned to Martinez.

"This was just the beginning. Next stop—the complete takeover. Try to rest for that night, at least. I need you alive tomorrow."

To subdue Leon Clavon.

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