Sam Tanner tilted back in the hard backed chair, studying the pictures covering the walls of the chamber. It had been the right move, trailing her here that first night. It was obvious that no one else was aware that the tunnel existed, much less this room. While he'd been waiting for her to come down-and he'd known she would, once he'd planted that coin in her room-he'd taken his time, examining her little souvenirs, trying to find out just what made Esmeralda Medina-which, he'd found out, was her actual real name-tick, what exactly was inside her that made her The Ghost.
It was obvious, at least to him, that this was her memory chamber. Many Ghost Operatives had them, though it went against protocol. Liabilities, after all, these little pieces of sentiment, the memories and information attached to them. He'd seen two other rooms such as this during his time with Creed, but none so detailed as this. There were pictures here he was sure only she understood, of empty cracked sidewalks and potted plants on a terrace. He was also sure that, should he put one of those pictures in front of her face, she would know, just with that image for mental stimulation, each and every detail of whatever mission she'd been on during the time that picture had been taken.
That kind of memory, the access to such information, was a powerful thing. Not many could pull it off, which was why there were very few active Ghost Operatives. Esmeralda Medina was, quite simply, the best of this generation of Ghost Operatives. The name 'The Ghost' was whispered reverently in some circles, said with envy or disgust, depending on what side you were on. Imagine the world's surprise, Sam mused, if the population knew that the one human they feared so much was a teenage girl who looked more suited to dancing around a camp fire than flitting around the world gathering information and objects.
The operative in question was currently flat on her back on the center table in the middle of the room, which he'd cleared ahead of time of all souvenirs and knick-knacks. Forward thinking, he knew, was the key here, at least with this one. Because it was, he'd made sure to double knot the ropes around her wrists and ankles, which were tied to the legs of the tables. The blade she'd been carrying was tucked safely in his waistband, to be admired later, for it was surely a fine blade.
He was, in his opinion, a genius. Who, after all, would think to look below the school, in an unknown, secret chamber, for a missing student? Oh, he imagined once word got out that The Ghost had disappeared, operatives all over the world would be combing over every inch of the estate, and beyond that. Eventually, of course, he would take her from here and get her to Creed Headquarters, where his superiors were waiting. But for now, there was no problem simply staying here, where the walls were so thick that no one would ever, ever hear anybody scream.
He was sorry he'd had to hit her. She was such a pretty little thing, once you realized that she was trying very hard to downplay her looks. And that, in his opinion-of which he had many-was yet another of the skills that made her ever so formidable. Any woman, with a bit of time, could make themselves look beautiful. But it took a special kind of skill to-without the use of cosmetics or tools-make one's self fade into the background, a ghost among mortals. It was all, he decided, in the way you walked, the way you talked-or didn't talk, the expressions on your face. It took the perfect combination, one she had obviously mastered.
There was no doubt in his mind that he was going to have some fun with this one. It would take days, maybe weeks, depending, to reach Headquarters, which was placed not-so-conveniently out of state. Transporting a fighting female notorious for disappearing in an instant over five hundred miles…It was suicide mission, he decided. Unless, of course, you were Samuel Ian Tanner. Then, of course, it was a mission that was just up your alley.