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A man-sized door near the truck-sized main gate was cracked open in an invitation, but the sun had already set.

Damien\'s people filled some of them with boxes to create cover, and then Victor\'s guys added some bags with dry concrete as a proper cover from bullets.

It was the last evening in Los Angeles for Tristan—tomorrow, Derek and the entire crew were going to leave this city. Tristan was supposed to go with them. There was an interview scheduled in his city two days later with a major news outlet, timed with the upcoming release of the CYS contest on TV.

He had to make this evening count, and he had to make it in time for the interview.

\'Thankfully for me, everything was smooth enough until now,\' Tristan thought. \'As long as Whitman actually appears here, we are all set. And he should.\'

From what Kevin messaged Tristan earlier today, Leon Clavon\'s detectives were actually doing their job. It looked like they had doubts the information leak was Martinez\'s fault, and Whitman had to hurry to apprehend his target before someone lit a chair under him.

And Whitman wouldn\'t believe that Martinez found powerful enough allies here. Not with the picture Whitman painted around him.

The people Tristan gathered were waiting in cover, hidden well enough for a nasty surprise. A dozen from each of his allies, led by their respective gang leaders personally to minimize discord in ranks (and because these people still didn\'t trust Tristan much).

Victor\'s people of the First Day Army were the most disciplined of all—silent and wearing bright red jackets similar to some old army uniforms. They looked at everybody like at targets for a punch or a shot.

The Rose Street Gang, led by Vargas, were much less uniform. Very different people, united only by rough origins and experience with violence.

Damien\'s Bluebirds were grinning behind their boxes as if already imagining the bloodshed—and the spoils of it.

James\' Boys were the youngest people here on average. Some weren\'t even legally adults. But they all had a look in their eyes that told Tristan that they would shoot first, without even thinking. James appeared to be the only thing that held them under control.

Somehow. Even though the man was barely in control himself—even more jittery today than the last time.

\'He\'s on some sort of drug, and I wish I knew which exactly. How come my system still didn\'t offer me a skill to tell these things?\'

And, of course, there were Tristan\'s people. Also a dozen, all as disciplined and battle-ready as Tomas could make them in the brief time since Tristan took Pierce\'s place and made Tomas one of his second-in-commands.

Four more of Tristan\'s people—the last of them—were positioned at strategic points around this place, checking out the surroundings.

Tristan and Martinez crouched closest to the only entrance, watching a video feed coming from the camera directed outside the door. Today, they both put on presentable suits with bulletproof vests underneath.

On it, a car parked near the warehouse\'s entrance. Five men walked out—Whitman himself in his usual suit and four men barely hiding that they carried guns.

A text message popped up on Tristan\'s phone.

[A car with 5 armed people parked near point B. They are just waiting.]

\'So Whitman didn\'t expect Martinez to have any allies, but brought a reserve force, just in case.\'

[Text if they flee, shout if they move to the warehouse.]

Whitman\'s group paused near the open door. Tristan could hear bits and pieces of conversation.

They were wondering if this was a trap. Whitman gestured for one of his men, who peeked in to see what was inside.

A few moments later, he stepped in, looking around with his gun drawn. Tense.

Tristan turned and looked at Martinez—meaningfully.

Martinez clenched his jaw and stood up. As instructed, he turned on a recorder on his phone, hid it in his inner pocket, then walked from behind his cover, deliberately loudly and with his hands already raised.

The goon already had his handgun aimed at him when Martinez appeared in his sight.

"Stop right—"

"I said that I was going to speak with Whitman himself, not his people! Call him. Call him now!" Martinez ordered, interrupting the man.

It was unnecessary—Whitman was already walking in, followed by the rest of his people. The man was smiling.

"You are still as bitchy as always even now, Martinez. Trying to keep a tough face even on your gallows, huh?"

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Martinez\'s face went red with anger.

"So that\'s how you speak when nobody important is here to call you on it, snake? If only Mr. Clavon knew whom he chose as his right hand—he\'d tear off your head with bare hands. Only you could betray our brothers like that!"

Whitman snorted.

"\'Brothers\', really? We are gangsters—we are in this for money, not for family and comradeship. Hah, if you showed that soft, romantic heart of yours a little more often, Martinez, nobody would\'ve believed that you tried to get another underboss killed."

"People like you are what brings us closer and closer to complete anarchy! No organization can exist without trust within its members! You never understood it, Whitman. It was all about power and control with you, and it WILL stab you in the back one day!"

Whitman laughed.

"If so, then you won\'t live long enough to see it. Are you going to come with us peacefully, or should I order my people to take you by force?"

\'Whitman wasn\'t the type to brag too much. Fine, let\'s just bag him and THEN interrogate him properly.\'

Tristan clapped his hands loudly and stood up.

The signal was given, and his people walked out from behind their cover.