Hunting Taylor Brown

By Rhys Hagan

Outlaw bikers, rogue police, brutal gangsters and a ruthless assassin converge in the city of Shoremont to claim the bounty on Ryan Hall's head and recover the girl he rescued-Taylor Brown. Detectives Jesse Wishman and Larry Manning must clear Hall's name and uncover the conspiracy behind the disappearance of a child before overwhelming underwor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rhys Hagan Books
• Release date: Dec 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645346916

Rhys Hagan

After finishing high school in 2008, Hagan underwent training with the Australian infantry to become a rifleman. Many of his military skills would follow him in his transition to civilian life and heavily influence his writing. He assisted in training exercises based in a range of environments from arid plains to dense jungles which would see him qualified in weapons such as assault rifles, machine guns, and rocket launchers. Years later, in 2012, the church congregation that Hagan and his family attended would reach a disturbing breaking point. The leaders of the group had become controlling to the point of publicly humiliating and physically assaulting the members. Unable to justify their extreme actions, Hagan left with his family. With his ties to the church that was later defined as a cult, Rhys spent some time reconnecting with his family and building relationships. However, with one commitment finished he began looking for a new ambition. It was then that he returned to his life-long love-writing. Today, Rhys uses his life experiences coupled with hard work to develop his novels.

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HUNTING

TAYLOR

BROWN

Hunting Taylor Brown

Copyright © 2016 Rhys Hagan

4th edition 2017

Published by Rhys Hagan Books

Printed and distributed by Ingram Spark

Edited by Sally Asnicar of Full Proofreading Services

All rights reserved ®

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—including, but not limited to, electronic, photocopy, recording—without prior written permission of the publisher. The sole exception is brief quotations in reviews.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance they bear to actual people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

I’ve heard it said:

Every man’s first love is his mother.

My debut novel—dedicated to my first love.

Acknowledgments

No doubt there are few authors who have written a novel and not thanked their families for the support they provided. I’m no different.

It might be a cliché, but I am indebted to my family for their time, honesty, love, and encouragement, not only throughout the daunting task of completing my debut novel, but in all things. Thank you.

This book is a testament, not to my own self-discipline, ambition or hard work, but to the collective desire of those who love me and want to see me succeed.

One

Small minds think alike, Wishman. Great minds think for themselves.

That was the first thing I remember Ryan Hall saying to me. I didn’t know him well then, so his words didn’t mean much to me; but in the months that followed, I’d realize that to someone like Hall, they meant a great deal.

In my experience, there isn’t much separating the great from the small. Last year, there was an open-shut case surrounding a republican business owner who was running for congress in Colorado. Louie Upton was motivated, had the means and know-how, and he knew all the right people. Everyone loved him and he was polling in way over his opponents’ heads. The man never even smelled bad until one day, an over-zealous democrat gave him lip about something personal, and he snapped.

He hit him in the jaw.

People didn’t think too much of him after that. He went from being the most adored person in the state to a public enemy overnight—these kinds of snap judgments seem typical in the Western world. What if that democrat had threatened to kill him or his family? Everyone has a breaking point.

Hall, on the other hand, believed in things that were bigger than he was. Bigger than anyone was. He also believed in turning the other cheek. I never liked that about him but then again, I had never really believed in anything. I’d call him naïve; he’d call me cynical, which explains why we never seemed to fully understand one another. All I knew was plenty of people would call him a friend, but he’d say the same of only a few. I like to think I was one of those few.

Six years earlier, Hall and I had been charged for disobeying a lawful command when we were on a security operation in Iraq. Even though we were in the same platoon, we’d never had anything to do with each other until shit hit the fan on a botched building seizure mission. The orders were to clear a warehouse on the outskirts of Baghdad and to shoot on sight, which made things easy for us. Only problem was we didn’t count in the intel being bad. Why would we? Being told there was a strong insurgent presence only put us on edge. So when we kicked in the door and found a large gathering, we didn’t consider they might be civilians.

That was always a danger with shoot to kill orders; it eliminated the need for critical thinking—at least in the minds of some. Most of the other soldiers killed based on orders, not on their own judgment. We were the only two who acknowledged the mistake, at least in time to stop firing. 

It was over quickly, but our platoon commander threw around threats of court marshaling even quicker. Before we knew it, we were sent home and an investigation was underway but by the time we were charged, they figured out we’d made the right call, so instead of reprimand, we received praise. There was even mention of a Bronze Star citation, but that was just to soften us up so we wouldn’t feel compelled to tell the press about the slaughter of a few dozen innocent Iraqis.

I appreciate the exemption, sir, Hall told the lieutenant colonel sitting behind his solid oak desk, but what happens to the people who gave the order? Will there be an investigation into how our intel was so off?

I assure you, gentlemen, that all those responsible for what happened in Baghdad will answer for their actions, he lied. After receiving any intelligence that’s even remotely misleading, an investigation is mandatory.

Hall didn’t let the commanding officer’s assurances get him off topic. That’s a good start, sir, but with all due respect, the American people deserve to know what happened . . . what’s happening, he added.

The chubby, gray-haired officer sat in silence. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. What do you think, Wishman? His cold stare now focused on me.

I paused for a moment, realizing my next sentence could determine a great deal in this case. I agree with Hall, sir, I finally said. It’s America’s reputation that was tarnished, so the people deserve to know.

You’re two peas from the same righteous pod, aren’t you? He leaned back in his leather chair, scowling at us over the rim of his glasses.

Great minds think alike, sir, I replied.

Small minds think alike, Wishman, Hall countered as he glanced my way. Great minds think for themselves.

*

Six years after that stint in Baghdad, I found myself, once again, with only one person I’d call a friend. And I’d bet my life that Hall was thinking the same thing. To make things worse, Shoremont was being hit by the worst storm it had seen in years. My car was parked in the overflowing gutter outside Larry Manning’s weatherboard house—the last place I wanted to be—but I was out of options.

I stepped out into the rain and walked past overgrown gardens up to a paint-chipped door. The mess Hall had gotten himself into was too big for me to deal with alone, so I thudded on Larry Manning’s door with a closed fist, doing my best not to imagine his response when he saw me.

The door swung open and an old, balding man with a beer gut stared at me through stressed eyes. It was a year since we’d spoken but he wasn’t surprised to see me. He opened the door all the way and stepped aside, never removing his sneering gaze. I walked inside.

Two

You think you know a guy, huh? I hadn’t been sitting at his dining table for five minutes and he’d already started on me by taking a stab at Hall. Larry Manning was an antagonistic asshole on a good day. Problem was, the last good day Manning had was the day he got divorced.

He went straight to the kitchen and poured two half glasses of something strong and blended—I guess he didn’t buy the good stuff anymore because his taste buds went years ago. He joined me at the dining table and sat one of the glasses in front of me. This was more hospitality than I expected, and given the fact he knew why I was there, it was a sign he could be willing to comply.

It’s all moving too fast, I said. That in itself is suspicious, Larry.

He gulped his poison as if it were water. What’s suspicious, Jesse, is some fucker who stumbles across a kidnapped girl in one and a half million acres of forest. Think about how that sounds. Think about it as someone who isn’t so close to the situation. I’m not saying it’s just him who’s in on this, but we’ve got him on tape taking the girl, Jesse. He’s done.

Sounds like you’re the one who’s too close to the situation. It was my turn to antagonize him.

I haven’t got the patience for this shit, for Christ’s sake! I’m doing you a courtesy by even talking to you—you know that and you still want to push me? Manning raised his voice.

Which makes me wonder why you let me in at all, Larry I stayed calm. As soon as Larry lost control of himself, I knew I’d lose control of the situation. You haven’t given me the time of day since she left us and now—

Fuck did you say? Manning puffed out his chest as he stood up. "What the fuck did you just say? She didn’t leave us—you fucking know that as well as I do. So don’t come in here with a chip on your shoulder lying to me, you mother fucker!"

I shut my mouth. If we both lost our heads, we’d end up kicking the shit out of each other and getting nowhere. So I let him stand over me with his lip twitching until the words came to me. What I’m saying is you didn’t let me in here for old time’s sake, I explained, nearly choking on my words, so let’s stop the pissing contest, and tell me why you let me in.

Larry backed off and took a deep breath. The window panes shuddered with a perilous gust while the relentless torrent outside distorted the view. As ominous as the weather was, it felt right given the circumstances. Manning took a moment and stared into the rain; God only knows what was going through his mind.

He wasn’t going to tell me why he bothered opening the door for me and it didn’t matter; there were more important things I had to get out of him, but he wouldn’t give it away for nothing.

I took my phone out of my pocket and brought up the photo. At least you were right about Hall not being the only one in on it. I threw my phone onto the table. Manning was drawn to the face on the screen. Somehow, his expression became even more severe. I spoke to him. After he found the girl, this guy turned up. Look familiar?

For fuck’s sake! Manning shook his head in disbelief.

He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead, trying to hide his nervous sweat. He wanted this to be over as much as I did. The only reason he’d wanted this case was that the evidence was condemning, making it light work, and it’d be good for his career. The question was could he live with himself if he ignored what was staring back at him from my phone for the sake of his reputation?

Here’s what’s going to happen. You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know, I demanded.

How do I know I can trust you? he asked. You could just be using me to help your buddy. Then I get fired, and you fuck up the case.

At this point, I’ve got a lot more to lose than you do. I leaned in and tentatively admitted, To get what I want, I need your help . . .

Manning began anxiously rubbing his wrinkled forehead again. Thunder covered the silence, making the entire house rumble while I waited for a response. Because of how fast this was unraveling, chances were Hall’s fate would be decided by what happened in the next few days—and by Larry Manning’s next sentence.

He hocked down the rest of his whisky and slammed down his glass. Taking a seat across from me, he began, Two days ago, Taylor Brown went missing . . .

Three

Two Days Earlier

He was pulling out all the stops. Every cent he owned, every minute and every breath, every man and woman who’d dipped their hands into his deep pockets; in desperation, he was cashing it all in.

The enormous estate in Rolling Hills was being pummeled in the downpour, lightning cracked the sky and lit up the large garage where Cameron Brown sat at his bar and sucked on a cigarette. It had been a long time since he’d smoked—whisky was usually enough to calm his nerves, but with his stress levels through the roof he needed nicotine as well. It wouldn’t cloud his judgment though; he couldn’t let it. The tension and rage that was rioting within him was enough to make him erratic; excessive drinking wasn’t a luxury he could afford.

Brown heard a car pull up outside and headlights beamed through the gaps around the automatic door. He reached for his keys on the bench and pressed a button; the door hummed and rose to make way for three burly men to enter.

Craig ‘Win’ Winstead was pushing forty, but he could still bench press three hundred pounds even though he only weighed two hundred and forty pounds himself. And at six foot three, he was an intimidating sight. The other two, Malcolm and Peter Dunn, were black, ex-military brothers and only slightly smaller than Win. The trio was notorious for their brutality to any opposition, and their loyalty to Brown. It was assumed by most that they only worked for him because he paid them so well. That was until three years ago when a popular sports agent made the Dunn brothers a markedly more lucrative offer. He planned on commissioning the men closest to Brown so that he could attract some of his narcotic clientele. Shortly after, the agent went out of business when a couple of his star athletes had ‘unfortunate falls’ and each ended up with a broken leg.

There were hundreds, maybe even thousands of thugs and mercenaries in Shoremont who Brown could pay to do whatever dirty work he desired. Of all these, the only ones he trusted with his and his family’s lives were standing in front of him.

You know who it was, Cam? Win got straight to the point. Anyone claimed it yet?

Brown shook his head without turning around.

Win had been working for Brown for years and had the pleasure of informalities. He’d also learned Brown’s habits. When he was troubled or vengeful, he’d become quiet and pensive. Brown had a way of appearing eerie and ominous, as if he were about to do something unpredictable and drastic. Most of the time his reason would outweigh his emotions, which made him a powerful businessman. However, this wasn’t most times.

Talk to everyone; find out what they know. Start with Cassock, Brown commanded. All I know at this point is she was picked up by someone in a red Jeep with fake plates. No one’s asked for a ransom. No one’s said a word.

The men in the smoky room remained silent. They could feel Brown’s sanity being stretched by his circumstance, even though he sounded in control. Perhaps he was in control. Maybe he was the one pulling his own mind apart so that, should the need arise, he could tug it one last time and reduce this city to rubble in his unhinged fury.

Five million for the kidnapper—dead or alive. Twenty million for Taylor’s safe return. That’s what you tell people. The mob boss turned to face his men. I’m not sparing anything until I find her, and I expect you to do the same.

The three men listened patiently. They weren’t sure why, but they’d convinced themselves on the drive over that Brown would be lucid, that as a man of business and reason, no circumstance would eliminate his rationale. For the first time since Win had met Brown, he couldn’t tell what was going on between his ears. It seemed oddly unprofessional, at least by his standard, but as he always had, he’d trust him to deliver.

I’m only going to say this once, gentlemen. Brown stood up, an empty glass in his hand. He commanded the room, as always. This is close to home for me, so I’ll be frank. I’m not thinking clearly; what parent would? That doesn’t give you the right to question me; it doesn’t give you the right to be insubordinate. For as long as Taylor’s missing is as long as I’m going to be ruthless—and I’m going to be fucking people over to find her. You stand by me through this and I’ll make it worth your while, but be aware—there won’t be a minute your hands are clean. Brown paused to assess his men’s posture and expressions. Placid and prepared, they patiently awaited instructions.

He went to sip from his glass but realized it was dry. Returning to the bar, he thought about serving himself a refill but decided against it for his daughter’s sake. Win felt somewhat relieved when he saw his boss’s restraint.

Have no illusions. Brown’s voice became quiet and hoarse while he stared at his empty tumbler with destructive thoughts playing in his mind. In the next few days, a lot of people are going to die.

Four

One Year Earlier—Costa Rica

I felt kind of bad, seated on an unusually spacious bus while, alongside the road, the poor scrounged and begged. Was the bus driver lost? Didn’t seem like the ideal route for a scenic tour bus to take. Most Central American countries were doing well these days; Costa Rica was certainly doing well enough that there were less confronting roads going south. Most of the tourists, myself included, seemed confronted by the destitution. It was enough to entice people to pull out their cameras and gasp as they photographed the less fortunate masses.

The irony of capturing poor people on a twelve-hundred-dollar camera to show your friends wasn’t lost on me. Although savoring the squalor and saying, I should sponsor a child; I’m going to do that when I get home, in an altruistic tone seemed more naïve than ironic.

I hadn’t made a career out of my time in the Marines but I’d seen my share of impoverishment and it all looked the same—it all looked like this. When a person becomes desperate, they turn into a criminal. When a city becomes desperate, it turns into a slum.

A gentle hand