Gregg Hurwitz: The Tower

Jade's mouth tightened. "You guys took long enough to get here. What, was there a cat stuck in a tree somewhere?"

"We didn't get the call till you'd already cornered them, then we came as fast as we could. You should've waited for us to back you."

"I didn't have the luxury."

Hawkins grimaced and glanced back at the house. Goatee's arm was visible in the doorway, lying in a pool of blood. Cops stepped over the bodies and headed inside to examine the scene. The sound of the boys weeping upstairs became softly audible.

"Jesus Christ, Marlow, you left the kids in there?" Hawkins asked in disbelief.

"Oh yeah, shit, that's right."

"'Oh yeah'? You leave three kids alone in a room with a corpse and that's the best you can do? 'Oh yeah'?" Hawkins scratched himself angrily.

"Look, Hawkins, I don't see baby-sitter anywhere in my job title."

Hawkins gestured to a newly arrived paramedics team. "You three-upstairs. Let's go." He turned back to Jade, shaking his head. "You bounty hunters are sick fucks."

The paramedics rushed out carrying the kids. The children were sobbing freely now, all three of them. Jade looked down as they passed, studying the ground. "I'm not a bounty hunter," he said. "I'm a tracker. It's an art."

"A madness, Jade." Hawkins wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "A madness."

" Tracker " was the term that Jade used to describe the new profession he had carved out for himself after resigning from the FBI. When he broke his second case, the media began referring to him as a "TDer" or "tracker and destroyer," but the phrase was too strained for his style. His language, like his actions, was quick and efficient.

Being a tracker set Jade apart from the bumbling military Soldiers of Fortune and the trained dogs that the bail-and-loan companies sent out. He was the only one, and he worked alone.

Tracking didn't entail following a physical trail, it involved more subtle measures. Jade had learned that there was no straight line to a criminal's door. He began a case by going backward, studying a criminal's history-his motivations, his weaknesses. Once he got a profile, he could close in on him with the precision and determination of a shark circling its prey.

He said that he quit the feds because he couldn't stand the bullshit of hierarchy. But there was a truer, more difficult explanation: He didn't get along with people. And in general, they didn't get along with him either.

There were people in his life, of course, but they came and went as the weeks passed. He was always going somewhere else, always looking for something else. He was a hunter by trade, and hunters never stay in one place for very long.

Jade didn't like covering the same ground twice. And he didn't like the feeling that settled in once he stopped chasing. He pursued his prey with such fervor that it sometimes seemed he himself was fleeing from something. And it was true that he sometimes heard voices behind him, voices from his past. The singsong, manic voices of children spinning nursery rhymes in the hot summer air.

Eeni meenie minie moe, they sang, the notes of their song burning into his memory.

But eventually, after blisters, calluses form. They're much easier to live with.

When it came to himself, Jade didn't have time for complexity. Because he spent his days dredging society's murky waters, he had little energy for introspection. As a result, he viewed himself as fiercely independent, not isolated, as self-reliant, not difficult. It was easier that way.

Jade left the FBI after his rambunctious attitude landed him in trouble. He had upbraided the Head of Operations of the Hostage Negotiation Department for allowing a terrorist to escape. The incident came after the agents had been ordered to stand down because hostages were in the line of fire. So when Jade had seen his shot open up for a split second, he had forced himself to resist. The terrorist had escaped and had been taken down by another agent in Maryland the next week. There had been other casualties along the way.

"You always shoot," Jade had yelled at the balding Head of Operations. "You shoot and ask questions later. So he takes out a hostage, big deal. If you let him escape, who knows who he'll do next?"

The Head of Operations had replied without looking up. "You throw temper tantrums like a child," he said calmly. "You have no grasp whatsoever of public relations. You don't follow orders and when you do, you do so grudgingly. You were the top agent in your entire graduating class, Marlow," he said, finally raising his eyes to meet Jade's. "And for the life of me, I can't figure out what you're doing here."

Jade walked that day, and burned all his suits and ties that were part of the Bureau's uniform. He was on his own.

He was too good to be forgotten by law-enforcement officials, though, since during his five years as an agent he had had the top arrest record in the FBI. His combat skills and his abilities in criminal analysis and tracking were extremely well respected. He was best known, however, for his instinct. Jade had instinct like a tiger on the prowl; it seemed to come from the very blood running in his veins.

Local police units began hiring him to help take care of problems that eluded their own forces, everything from catching a burglar to tracking missing children. Eventually, even the FBI began to hire him for special cases, calling him in to coordinate and oversee operations. He felt a deep flush of satisfaction rise to his cheeks as he issued his conditions to them. He was the only outsider they'd ever hired for cases, and that knowledge was sweet revenge.

The FBI knew he was a risk. That was why they had asked him to resign. But in some cases, a risk was what was needed-an expert with a sharp tongue, a quick temper, and a quicker trigger finger. Sometimes, a threat arose that was so dangerous it was worth unleashing a tiger.

Jade Marlow was a tiger burning bright. He fed on the hunt, and his eyes sparkled green and yellow from the thrill of the pursuit. When he was angry, his face became downright cruel, and when he smirked, a thin scar across his left cheek rose slightly and highlighted the disdain on the rest of his face.

Jade left the San Francisco Fifth Precinct building, Hawkins and a group of officers behind him.

A brown Honda Civic squealed to a stop at the curb. The left-front side of the car's bumper was caved in, and one of the back brake lights was broken. A bumper sticker was stuck crookedly to the back, proudly declaring: MY SON BEAT UP THE STUDENT OF THE MONTH AT VISTA ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. A green, scented pine tree ornament dangled from the rearview mirror.

A woman in her mid-twenties fumbled at the door to get out. Her mouth was a red line, stretched thin with fearful anticipation.

"Oh my God." She saw Hawkins and ran to him, her arms out-stretched. "Are you the lieutenant? Is it true? Oh my God. Where's Dave?"

Hawkins consoled her as the other policemen departed quietly.

"The rookie's wife?" Jade asked the nearest cop.

"Yeah. Eight-year-old kid too."

Jade swore under his breath. "He should've fucking listened to me."

"Well maybe he didn't-"

"He didn't fucking listen." Jade pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. "I really need this right now."

The officer stopped and looked at Jade, not quite sure he had heard him correctly. "You know, Marlow, you're a real asshole."

Jade paused and ran his thumb across his bottom lip. "He gets himself killed breaking cover and I'm the asshole. Astonishing logic."

"He died."

"He was my backup. He should have listened to me. If he had, he wouldn't have died."

"You think you're fucking flawless?"

Jade leaned back against a police car, ignoring him.

The cop bit his cheek and looked away for a moment before facing Jade again. "I heard you were a prick, Marlow. But this is unbelievable." He pulled his shoulders back slightly, waiting through the tense silence for a response.