Ionshaker (Part I) by Felix Timothy (phonics story books .txt) 📖

no reason to take her out of the hospital. All they care about is to see her dead. That means, who ever took Ironside from the hospital was trying to protect her from them.”
“And exactly who is them?”
“My guess is some kind of a network that wants Robin dead, the people behind the cover up at the junkyard, the people Robin Ironside was running from before the accident.”
“And don’t you see we’re on the same page? Trey can’t possibly protect Ironside by himself. It’s impossible. Think of the state and federal felonies he has already committed and the many more he’ll have to commit to protect her. The only way to protect Ironside is to bring him in so he can tell us where she is, then we will protect her. More importantly, she needs medical attention.”
They stopped at his office door. She knew he could have been right, but she wasn’t going to pat him on the back.
“There has to be another way,” she said beginning to walk away.
“If you think of one, I’m all ears,” he told her loudly as she walked away.

* * *

Trey could not remember the last time he’d eaten anything, and he urgently needed something hot to lighten up his foul mood. He pulled up at a coffee shop for breakfast and was served a steaming latte and a burger that he gobbled down in no time. Afterwards, he wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin and walked over to the cashier’s counter to pay.
He handed the cashier – an Indian man with a heavy accent, a twenty dollar bill and as the cashier pulled a drawer to fetch him his change, Trey idly turned to the TV.

As soon as he saw Brett on the screen being interviewed by reporters, his hair stood on end. Brett was appealing to the public to pass information on Trey’s whereabouts for a cash reward of a hundred thousand dollars. He was wanted for Robin’s kidnapping. All of sudden, he’d become a kidnapper.

He was so taken by the news that he failed to take his change in time and the cashier was also drawn to the breaking news. The cashier instantly figured out he was sitting on a gold mine. The ten grand reward money had parked outside his shop, eaten in his diner and was standing right in front of him. Images flashed through his mind – he’d do a nice paint job, revamp the place with a new set of chairs and tables, expand his carte de jour and hire additional staff. When the news item passed and the two stared into each other’s eyes, it all became too clear; the cashier knew who he was.

With his poker face on, Trey grabbed his change and exited the building. But he knew he wouldn’t walk to his car, at least not right away.

As soon as Trey stepped out, the owner called a waiter and asked him to tail the ten K as he hastily dialed the FBI hotline still scrolling at the bottom of the screen.
“Hello, my name is Vardik Patel.”
“Yes Mr. Patel, you understand this is an FBI hotline?” Responded a lady voice over the telephone.
“Yes yes, that’s the reason I am calling you,” the Asian struggled to enunciate with his heavy Indian accent getting in the way.
“Go ahead.”
“I want to report that I have just served that man, the wanted man for the kidnapping of that lady who has been on the television a minute ago.”
In the meantime, inside the FBI office, the lady on the phone quickly covered the telephone receiver’s mouthpiece with her palm as she gestured to her colleague to start running a trace on the call.
Patel paused for a while to make sure the lady on the other end was following since she’d been quiet.
“Hello?” He inquired.
“Yes I’m listening,” she responded.
“My coffee shop is called Yummy Yummy. So what about the ten thousand? They said on TV that…”
“Is the wanted man still in your coffee shop?” She interjected.
“No but I assigned one of my…”
Inside the FBI office, another agent who’d initiated a trace on the location of the call, cued the one on the phone – they had the location.
“I’m sorry sir, but until we apprehend the wanted man, we can not discuss the reward right now. We will be in touch and thank you for calling. Tiiiiii…,” all that remained was a dial tone.

Patel’s chance of clinching the reward rested on his waiter.

* * *

Meanwhile, Trey made a quick glance backwards and recognized a waiter from the coffee shop tailing him from a distance.

Immediately, he pulled the red hood over his head and quickened his pace, heading to the subway station on Third Street. He then turned and hastily descended the steps. Left to play catch up, the stalker ran after the man in the red hoodie.
Among the crowds awaiting the morning train, was a teenage couple on cloud nine, madly in love, giggling, hugging, fooling around, simply not bothered by the countless scowling eyes envious of their public display of affection.

Within no time the train hooted and made a stop.

It was time to be keen, and the stalker was thrice that. The subject was on the move and the waiter had his eyes locked on the red hoodie as it disappeared into the forth-last coach. Sensibly, he embarked the third-last coach, the idea being to be behind the red hoodie and monitor it from a distance. And truly, through the glass panes between the coaches, the waiter cum stalker, kept his eye on the red hoodie.

Everything was going according to plan; Trey was still on the train – he could see him still covering his head with the red hoodie. Then it was time to go, the doors shut and the train started picking speed. After a while, the stalker rose, slowly crossed into the coach in front in order to keep a closer eye on him. But when he reached Trey and threw him a glance, alas! He was nonplused.

Remember the kid who was making out on the platform at the subway station? Guess who turned in stead of Trey?
“What?” With a scowl on his face, the teenager asked the gawking at him.
“Where did you get this hood?” The waiter demanded, seizing the boy by the arm.
“Dude, what’s your deal?” The teenager retorted and the waiter’s grip tightened as he nearly shouted, “This is not yours, who gave it to you?!”
“It was a surprise gift from my girlfriend, fool. She had some guy give it to me just after I got on the train.”

Meanwhile, Trey was back on Santa Monica Freeway wracking his brain. He needed cash to stay on the run. As he walked past an ATM machine he was tempted to go to the cash machine, but he knew better – the FBI was watching his and Brooke’s bank accounts. Any withdrawal from an ATM machine would giveaway his location.
There was only one place for him to get some cash. He was going to ask Rendell - he owed him that much. He’d borrow some money from him.

But how would he get to Rendell’s house? He needed his car.
But then again, how would he pick up the car without the greedy Asian seeing him and alerting the FBI?
Damn. FBI.

A kid – probably ninish-tenish – was skating along the pavements, headed in Trey’s direction. He stepped to the pavement, blocking the kid’s way.
“Move! Get outta the way!” the kid shouted.
Trey didn’t barge, and eventually the kid stopped. But as the kid began going around him, Trey said, “Hi Buddy, how would you like to make ten bucks?”
Still peering through the glass, Patel saw a kid hurriedly get into the SUV. He looked like he was barely big enough to reach the pedals. Then the vehicle started up and drove off. What the…? The greedy Indian wondered as he hurried to get from behind the counter to look at the speeding SUV.


19


It was 9:50am and Rendell was organizing his briefcase before heading to the office. After meeting Trey at his gate he had gone up to the house, prepared himself then spend an hour in his study going over some files. But just as he was finalizing everything before leaving for the office, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was Trey, he unlocked the door and yelled “Come in!” He was probably back to apologize for his reaction to Brooke’s will and tape.

Suddenly a gigantic figure stepped inside wearing black jeans, black gloves, dark sunglasses and a black leather jacket with stenciled skeleton caricatures.
“Rendell?” The thug asked.
“…and you are…?” Rendell asked apprehensively.
“Step back,” the thug said, taking out a gun and placing it on Rendell’s chest. Rendell obeyed and the thug stepped into the living room with him.
“Take it easy. Take whatever you want. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

No no no! Lamented Rene Hernandez, Rendell’s wife, as she sped her two-seater convertible red Mercedes to work. She’s suddenly realized she’d forgotten an important file that she’d stayed up working on all night. Her boss would skin her alive if she went to work without it. She pulled the emergency brake lever, turned the steering wheel and spun the sports car into a U-turn as the rubber instantly smoked on the hard tarmac.
Destination: Home.

* * *

“Sit down,” the man said gruffly.
Rendell sat on the sofa trying to be calm. His mind flashed over the criminals he had wronged in his career. He had recently turned down a drug lord who needed representation; maybe he’d sent one of his goons to shake him up a little.
“Where is Trey Woodley?”
“What!” Rendell was surprised at the question. What could Trey have to do with this armed thug?
“Honestly I don’t know,” Rendell said quickly, “He was here earlier but he’s already gone. Where to, I have no clue. You gotta