His eyes had looked like an angry sea. That was the first thought Esmeralda ever had when she allowed herself to remember the single time in her life when she'd slipped up. The boy-for he'd been barely older than her, not yet old enough to be truly a man-had had dark, cool eyes the color of an ocean's thrashing waters during a storm. A dark, piercing blue they'd been, just a few flecks of gray and green making themselves known when they narrowed in anger or annoyance.
She had been doing her job, and doing it more than well. She had been in the middle of Mardi Gras for three days, with no one realizing she existed for even an instant. At the moment, she'd been relating with the main character from 'The Princess Diaries', in the scene where she was so 'invisible' that someone sat on her. It hadn't gone quite that far, but it was as though she were simply on a different plane than the rest of humanity, shifting between them without so much as disturbing the air.
Her mission had been a simple one. Simply nip the Mardi Gras beads from the necks of seven sober people without anyone noticing. Though it may have seemed quite pointless, she knew it was good practice. Things worth stealing weren't always courteous enough to be locked away in some empty, secluded room. Though, had they been, she was perfectly capable of shutting down all security and getting around all trip wires, lasers, or whatever else was thrown at her. In this case, however, none of that had been necessary, and she'd strolled easily through New Orleans, three of the seven strands of beads already around her own neck.
It was then, as she'd stopped to watch a parade tramp through the street, when she'd felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A warning, she'd known then, that all was not as well as it seemed here. She hadn't moved a muscle, merely glancing nonchalantly around, thinking perhaps it was somebody slipping through the crowd lifting wallets, or a police officer strolling through the crowd.
But then she'd glanced to her left, pretending to be focused on the man walking on stilts in the parade. And she'd known it was no wallet snatcher or police officer that had her senses on high alert. There, amidst a crowd of drunks and partiers, one pair of eyes locked directly on hers, intense blue staring into smoky gray. Automatically she'd filed away the rest of his facial features.
Skin tanned to a light brown, straight black hair, just a little too long, falling over his ears, a squared jaw covered with a bit of dark stubble. An attractive face, she'd thought despite the circumstances, and full lips had been curved into an arrogant smirk, one eye brow cocked as he stared at her.
She'd been seen. The realization came with a jolt, and with the shock, a fear. No civilian, after all, could have locked their attention on the Ghost. Only someone highly trained, highly skilled, could've ever hoped to spot her. Her gaze latched onto his left ear, where three small silver hoops ran in a line on his lobe. Her blood had run cold, though her facial expression had remained blank.
Creed. Creed had found her. Oh, that wasn't his name. She'd had no clue who this particular individual was. But it became all too clear that this boy who saw the Ghost was a member of Creed. And no, absolutely no agent ever, ever wanted to find themselves staring down a member of Creed. Creed was, and always had been, a group of…elite rogues would be the best term. The top members were recruited at an early age, and trained as thoroughly as any Gallagher Girl was. Oh, technically they were on the same side as the Academy and the US Government. But they followed no rule book, dishing out their brand of 'justice' however they saw fit. Agents were merciless, without morals or a conscience. And they were always, always recruiting.
Their version of recruiting, of course, was more like a draft. You didn't have much of a choice. A member of Creed was sent out, hunting down the newest agent in training that had been marked for recruitment. Any who resisted either learned quickly or were never seen again. These recruiters, the best trackers Creed had, were marked by three silver rings in their left ear.
And there, not twenty feet from her, was a Creed recruiter, still staring at her with a smug gleam in his eyes. Pretending her pulse wasn't racing, she'd calmly reached into her pocket, pulling out a camera. With a steady hand, she'd lifted it, caught his face in the frame. And snapped a picture.
Esmeralda studied that picture now in the secret chamber, frowning down at the darkly handsome face, drawing in a breath when she ran a fingertip over the three earrings captured in the photo.
Oh, it had been all too easy to get lost in the crowd again, of course. Only a moment, just a blink on his part, and she'd been gone. But that did not, absolutely did not change the fact that a Creed recruiter had come looking for her. That meant, all too clearly, that this organization, this group of rogue agents, knew that she existed. Perhaps they didn't know she was a Gallagher Girl, or her real name, but they knew she existed. Somehow, one of their recruiters had found her in New Orleans. And he'd seen her, when she'd been trying to be invisible.
That wasn't to say, of course, that she'd failed the mission. She glanced over to a hook on the wall, her lips curving a bit as she studied the seven strands of brightly colored beads that hung there. The mission had been completed, and she had said nothing, not a word to Mr. Solomon about the Creed recruiter.
To admit that, after all, would have been admitting failure. And Esmeralda Medina never, ever failed.