Free Overkill (The Mammoth Book of Special Ops) by E. C. Sheedy Page A

whose brilliant, Byzantine plots had saved thousands of lives—and taken down dozens of murdering warlords?
    This order had to be bullshit.   Had to be. “You sure about this, Holister?”
    Tanner heard a hard breath come down the line. “He specifically asked for you—says you ‘don’t blink.’ So get your ass to London ASAP.” Pause. “And clean up before arrival, okay? Suit. Tie. The works. The Dereks don’t do casual.”
    “Oh goody, a shopping spree.”
    Holister ignored the joke.   “And remember this is what Derek wants. This is his plan. And whatever that man wants, he gets.”
    “Even to choosing his own time and place to die.” Tanner rubbed his jumpy gut.
    Silence, a full five seconds of it, then a hard exhale. “Yeah, even that.”
    Tanner took just as long to answer. “Shit,” he said, because there was nothing else to say, but a lot to think about. Like why in hell Derek asked for him. You owe the man, Cross, maybe this is his bizarre way of calling in the debt. One thing was certain, his brain was going to fry figuring this one out—if he even could. No one yet ever got the jump on Joe Derek or puzzled through his obscure way of thinking. Tanner wondered if he should even try, because like it or not, this was Derek’s order. Which meant it had to be for the benefit of Raven Force. And if Tanner had a passion for anything, Raven was it.  
    When Holister hung up, Tanner stared at the phone, working to get his thoughts in a line that made sense.
    He didn’t know what was worse, being ordered to kill Joe Derek, or seeing Laine again.
    He picked up his beer from the floor beside the bed and took a long pull. Hell, chances were good she wouldn’t even remember him. He didn’t know how he felt about that either.
     

     
    Laine Derek waited in the stretch limo outside Heathrow, her legs crossed, the index finger on her left hand making slow circles on the leather arm rest. Her right held a chilled bottle of Perrier.
    Tanner Cross—after all these years.
    The last time she’d set eyes on him was at their home in Chicago. Back then she was an achievement obsessed A student destined for Harvard; Tanner was a badass trouble maker destined for Cook County Jail—until her father stepped in, muttering something about not letting potential go to waste. How he’d seen potential in Tanner Cross escaped her.
    Not much evidence of that potential at school unless you considered the wishes and dreams of the girls who ogled him, the ones with a taste for fun—and trouble. Tanner offered plenty of both. Or so she’d heard. Given she wasn’t exactly the fun-and-trouble type, he’d barely shot her a glance. Whenever he did, she’d skittered away like a frightened cat then, two minutes later, berated herself for being an idiot.
    He was damn fine to look at...
    A couple of times, he’d come to the house to talk to her father, but their conversations came through the study door as an indecipherable mumble. She should know, having had her nosy nose pressed against it. The memory made her wince, then smile. Maybe she wasn’t as immune to Tanner Cross as she pretended.
    The last time he was there, he’d bulleted out of her dad’s study with a face like thunder, almost knocking her over. He’d grasped her upper arms to steady her. She remembered his strong fingers digging in so hard they’d hurt.
    Her father yelled from inside the study, “Your decision, Cross. A chance to do something good in this world or... not.”
    Tanner ignored her father, instead looking first at his hands gripping her arms, then at her. His blue gaze, framed by thick dark lashes, was laser intense. He made a backward gesture with his head and asked, “That old man of yours... filled with crap or on the level?”
    She had no idea what he was talking about, but she did know her dad was not full of crap. Adoring her father was what she did back then—and what she did now. Which made her the tiniest bit defensive when she replied.