Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

Two hours later.

[Task complete: discover the mastermind behind the Los Angeles terrorist attack. Reward: your CP increased by 10000!]

The notification popped up as soon as Tristan became sure Damien got the right man. The ID was telling enough already, but the information from his phone was the last nail in the coffin.

This time, there were no wounded on either Tristan or Damien's team by the end of the day.

In fact, bringing as many people as they did turned out to be an overkill. Michael seemed to never had many followers—just people he occasionally manipulated to his own ends.

But Tristan was only glad. He was especially glad as he stared down Damien's latest trophy.

He really looked average. A brownish-blond white-bread man, 32 according to his ID. Not handsome, but not ugly either. There was some acne on his forehead and old acne scars on his cheek.

When Michael had been brought into this safehouse—another throwaway house in a city's poorer district, where a gunshot on the street could be heard every other day—he had two bullet holes in his torso with the bleeding stemmed by one of the people on Damien's team.

He also had a gag in his mouth.

Tristan had personally taken out the bullets and sewed the holes shut properly. Neither was too dangerous to Michael's health, or even bled too much—Michael was really lucky that nothing vital was hit. The main reasons he went unconscious must've been the pain and the shock.

Tristan injected Michael with a mild painkiller, anyway. For now, the man was sleeping with his hands tied to his cot; it gave Tristan time to shower and put on clean clothing.

An injection of something more stimulating would wake Michael up and make him ready to answer questions.

"I know you would want to interrogate him, boss, but maybe it will be better to just off him." Damien asked. "I bet Cutout would agree with me."

He and Cutout were the only ones left in the house besides Tristan. A couple more people were guarding it outside, but keeping more armed people who could be brainwashed by Michael was both unnecessary and an additional risk.

Cutout nodded. "Yeah. His mouth's too big."

"Besides, populist figures like him, boss… It's exactly the case when cutting off the head makes the entire beast fall. However many problems his followers might've brought thanks to the asshat's preaching, if he quietly disappears, most of them will eventually go home."

Tristan waved a hand in dismissal.

"I know all that, Damien. That's not what I wanted to ask him about. And no, before you ask—I won't tell you. It's more personal."

He spoke the words in a way that gave no opportunity to ask Tristan further questions. Although curiosity flashed in Damien's eyes, he nodded and swallowed it.

"Whatever you say. But how you will interrogate him at all, if he can fuck with your head by talking? Make him write?"

"He can fuck with our heads by writing, too," Tristan said. "No, we are going to do things with the good old threat of violence. Damien, you are unneeded anymore—go rest, I can see you wincing every other breath. Cutout, find some good noise-canceling headphones."

***

Half an hour later.

Cutout was wearing freshly bought headphones from the nearest hardware store. Their cable went to his phone.

The headphones were noise-canceling, but they sure let a lot of noise go outside. Tristan could hear the music Cutout was listening from two steps away.

"Can you hear me?!" he shouted.

Cutout took off the earphones and looked at Tristan questioningly.

"I can't make out a single word you said in these," he said. "Was that what you asked?"

Tristan nodded.

"Yes. Good—now let's go wake our prisoner up."

He was still where they left him—that is, in the next room. The windows had their shutters lowered and locked, and Tristan locked the door on a key as they entered—just in case.

Damien had left and the guards outside were told to shoot Michael on sight. Cutout stood near the bed with a knife in his hand.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

It was as safe as it was going to get.

Tristan pulled out a syringe with the stimulating drug. It was one of those King Lion Gang sold to people for recreational purposes, except Tristan diluted a carefully measured dose with a saline solution.

It won't make Michael high, just alert and awake. However, it was going to take a little time for it to work.

Before it would, Tristan pulled another prepared syringe. This one had a truth serum in it.

If someone was worth spending a dose of truth serum on, it was certainly Michael. Simply because he was too injured for torture and too dangerous to keep around before he healed.

The man's eyelashes fluttered, then his eyes slowly opened. He moaned something into his cloth gag.

"Hello, Michael," Tristan smiled sweetly and devilishly at him. That grin widened at the look of recognition in Michael's eyes. "So you know me. Too bad I don't know YOU. But that will change soon."

Michael wriggled in his bindings, but winced and stopped a moment later.

"Yeah, don't move around with the wounds you have. Now. I'm going to remove your gag. If you shout something that sounds even remotely like orders, or if you begin convincing me of anything I don't like, or if you just talk without being spoken to—I will give a signal."

Tristan snapped his fingers demonstratively.

Cutout immediately swung the knife downward, aiming for Michael's neck. Before the motion could complete, Tristan caught his arm in the air.

Cutout nodded and moved the hand away. Then he caught the look of fear on Michael's sheet-white face and, with a smirk, twirled the knife in his fingers.

"As you saw, my subordinate will not hesitate to silence you forever. So be very careful about what you say, and how you say it, Michael. Blink twice if you promise to be good."