Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

The fanatics standing between Tristan and Gospel reacted faster than Tristan could pull the trigger.

Two of them jumped at the path of the bullet with speed that must've been at the limit of human possibilities—at least, it felt like it. One was slightly faster than the other.

The bullet that should've struck Gospel hit the fanatic into the shoulder—right into the clavicle.

Tristan didn't stop shooting because of this, still trying to hit Gospel—but there were more people moving into his line of fire, and some of them were aiming back at him. His bullets made two people fall to the ground, clutching their bleeding wounds—but they were already getting up, and the Gospel was still unharmed.

Worse, Gospel's influence on his followers became even stronger than before. The aura he was spreading had only increased in power, and it made movements of his fanatics just as good as Tristan's best trained men.

Tristan didn't need to be a tactical genius to realize that he was in an unfavorable position. His position—a narrow hallway—only let him alone open fire at the enemies, while they could cover him with bullets.

And they won't miss. He could tell it from the way the barrels of their pistols located his face. Tristan's chest was protected by a bulletproof vest, but his face was only protected by goggles and a respirator.

Tristan raised his free hand and signaled his group to retreat; an instant later he ducked and dashed back, seeing cover behind the corner of the hallway.

The earplugs muffled the sounds of gunshots to quiet pops. On his way to safety, Tristan saw bullets break off pieces of concrete from the walls.

His people were dangerously close to being hit as well, but they knew enough about fighting in tight spaces to not crowd Tristan. When he signaled retreat, they were already halfway to behind the corner.

Tristan pressed his back to the wall and carefully peeked outside. To his dismay, the Gospel was still talking.

But much worse, he remembered what he saw while he tried to shoot Gospel.

Behind the group of people was another door—another exit from this basement. From this room, at least.

If not for it, it wouldn't have been a terrible problem if this basement had only one exit. Now, however, most of the group could escape through this door while a few people cover Tristan's path!

'Shit. The people who scouted this place earlier didn't have a second exit. This door might really lead just to another room—but… Logically, it probably leads to the upper floors. Or, perhaps, to the elevator shaft. It's not an exit, but someone can escape through it. At which point they can climb through anywhere.'

Tristan grit his teeth. Even if he could just radio to Damien to move his team to cut off Gospel's retreat, he didn't know where Gospel would go.

Tristan made a decision when he peeked from behind his cover again and saw that Gospel was creeping toward the door.

He really was leaving.

'Well, shit. Let's hope this works on him, then.'

Gospel somehow made his followers immune to the teargas, but Tristan also had a flashbang grenade on him.

He gestured a warning for his team, then pulled it out and threw the small cylinder from behind the corner.

Tristan was precise enough with it to hit one of the fanatics square in the forehead. The force of the blow made the man stagger back; anyone normal could've got a concussion.

Then the grenade bounced off and exploded with a bang loud enough to make Tristan wince a little, even with the earplugs. The flash seared his eyes through the closed eyelids, but he blinked it off a moment later.

The fanatics, to Tristan's joy, were standing around in shock, some holding their ears or rubbing their eyes through the hoods. They were in a much better state than they should have been, though—at this range, in an enclosed space, a flashbang grenade should've ruptured their eardrums and fucked up their inner ear!

'Gospel made them into freaks. Freaks of nature! But they aren't invulnerable… Wait, is that guy getting up? I thought I hit his liver. He's a goner by now!'

It was the second man Tristan's bullets hit—his wound was a lethal one, but apparently, not immediately lethal. The first one already got up, although one of his arms hung limply.

Tristan gestured his team to attack forward, then added another gesture so they would pass message backward, to Damien's team.

'We can't let Gospel escape!'

They understood.

Tristan was still on the point of the charge. He dashed forward, aiming with the right hand and pulling out his second handgun with the left one.

He marked the most dangerous targets—ones with guns—in his mind. The first two cultists died from shots in their heads before they could shake off the effects of the flashbang. The third got pinned with a calcifying glare and shot, too.

Then things turned much messier.

Tristan's people emerged from the hallway, opening their own fire—but the fanatics had recovered as well. They charged at the gangsters, ignoring all but immediately lethal wounds.

The tight space was on their side. As soon as a cultist got into a melee with a gangster, the other had a much harder time dealing with them.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

And only Tristan had his perfect aim. Worse, some of Tristan's people clearly were still underestimating their opponents and trying to land non-lethal shots—which did almost nothing against these enemies.

The fanatics enhanced by Gospel were almost inhumanly fast, strong and tough. In front of Tristan, a single blow of a metal pipe had crumpled a gangster's helmet like an aluminum can—together with the man's head.

But Tristan's people were much better prepared and had much better weapons. Taking wounds and losses, they were still winning. At some point Damien joined them, and together they tried to cut a path through the cultists toward Gospel.

Tristan himself used his abilities to the limit, helping his group. In fights he excelled, even without the 10000 Criminal Points he was saving for something that will definitely be important later, he was sure.

Tristan kicked, elbowed and shot people that tried to attack his men and people who were in his way. One by one, with the help of others…

But by the time the fight fully died over, he already knew he was too slow. He saw Gospel leave the room—the second door leading outside was open.

Still, there was hope.

The room was covered with enough bodies to create piles. Many people who were still standing were clutching their wounds. Blood was creating gross piles on the floor, and if Tristan didn't have 'Clean Hands' talent, he'd be covered in it from head to toe.

Like Damien, who was standing near a wall, holding a bloody combat knife with both arms and panting.

Tristan pointed at him until Damien raised his eyes at Tristan. Then Tristan gestured around and made a gesture for medical aid.

Damien nodded.

Tristan knew he understood what this was about—'the clean-up is on you'.

Then Tristan gestured to his team to stay here and rushed after Gospel.

Risky—but he had to try.

The hallway was dark, but Tristan switched to heat vision. Through it, he could feel Gospel's footprints in the dust.

They led forward, toward another door, and past it—the elevator shaft, like Tristan predicted. There was no elevator in it, of course—only naked and cracked concrete walls.

There were enough footholds for Tristan to easily climb up a floor. Now he was at ground level—and more footprints leading away.

Gospel escaped through the back of the building.

Tristan ran after him, but when he reached the window through which the Gospel's footsteps went and saw no other traces of the man, Tristan knew he was too late.

At this point, Gospel became impossible to track. The area was a concrete maze, and Gospel clearly knew it well.

"Fucking hell!"

Tristan kicked the nearest wall in frustration. It only increased from the pain that echoed through his bones.

His mood was still stormy when Tristan returned to the basement. By this point, he had removed his earplugs.

Others did the same already by then, and were talking to each other. Their voices were muffled by their respirators. The most wounded were already being moved away from the noxious basement to fresh air, which didn't sting their wounds.

"Stop prodding at me! It's just a bruise," Damien hissed at one of his people, who was poking at Damien's ribs.

Tristan only needed a single glance at his underboss to say, "It's a rib crack, Damien. Gospel had escaped—now tell me we have at least someone from his fanatics alive."

Damien scowled.

"Yes. The first two you've dealt with are quite alive. The others would only go down one way."

"That's something. As soon as we clean this place up, I want to talk with them."