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

“On the level. Crap’s your thing, Tanner.”
    What she’d said didn’t seem to bother him. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” Then he slowly ran his hands down her arms to her elbows, tugged her closer and—shockingly—kissed her on the forehead, just above her stupid glasses. When he stepped back, he straightened her glasses on her nose, then tapped the kissed spot with his finger and smiled. “See you around, Laine.” With that he was gone; she hadn’t seen or heard a word about him since. Her father said he’d joined the army.
    Strange though it was, she’d never quite forgotten him.
     

     
    Tanner barely made his connecting flight to Heathrow, let alone found time for shopping. And damn it he was already freezing his ass off. Transitioning to London from the Congo was like stepping into a meat locker.
    Wearing khaki shorts, a cotton shirt with a passion-flower pattern bright enough to fry eyeballs, and a pair of sneakers, he was conspicuously underdressed for London’s November weather. And for a supposed guest of a family hot-wired into mega money, big business, and high society, the outfit was a definite fail.
    He’d snagged the threads from a street vendor outside the women’s clinic where he’d dropped off a cash donation before heading for his flight. His way of making some dirty gun money do something good for a change.
    Spotting a guy in a neat blue blazer holding a sign that said CROSS, Tanner flagged him, and headed out of the arrivals area.
    “I’m Cross,” he said, standing in front of him.
    “Collier. The Derek’s driver.” Not a smile. Not a facial tic. Nothing. Just a slow detail-grabbing body scan. A driver maybe, but a whole lot more. “May I see your passport, please.”
    “Sure.” Tanner dug his passport out of the pocket on the leg of his shorts. Smart move, asking for ID. But then everyone working around the Dereks and their fortune was paid to be smart.
    Collier gave the document a thorough once over, handed it back, and said, “This way.” He headed for an exit.
    Tanner slung his duffel over his shoulder and walked in lockstep. “Mind if we make a stop before hitting Mayfair?” He plucked at the bilious shirt. “I need to get some clothes. Take me fifteen minutes tops.”
    Collier eyed him, raised a brow. “Fifteen hours more like it. Another two in the barber’s chair.”
    “You’re American.”
    He didn’t answer. “Over here.” He stepped up to a sleek gray limo. “And re that shopping stop, you’ll have to ask Miss Derek.” Collier opened the rear passenger door.
    “I’d like to clean up before I meet the lady, if it’s all the same to you.” This guy was starting to piss him off.
    Collier smirked.
    “I think a short stop at Harrods can be arranged.” The words came from inside the car, seconds before the woman who said them leaned into the light offered by the terminal’s halogen. She smiled. “Nice to see you again, Tanner. It’s been what? Twelve, fifteen years?”
    The voice stopped him cold. “Yeah. Something like that,” he managed to mutter, while his oxygen supply turned to sludge in his lungs. And what was with that deafening alarm going off in his head? Damn thing sounded eerily similar to the one that had, on more than one occasion, stopped him from driving over an Iraqi road bomb. Now it had him hesitating outside Laine’s limo like a damn school boy.
    Jesus, she looked good! If he’d been wearing socks, she’d have knocked them off. And that perfume she was wearing, wafting out from the car’s warm interior— if it was perfume—hit him like nerve gas. Too long in the jungle, Cross. Way, way, too long.
    “Get in,” she urged. “You must be freezing.”
    Collier, still standing beside the open door, coughed indiscreetly. Tanner, sucking in some bracing, cold night air, slid into the dimly-lit limo and the privileged life of Laine Derek.
     

     
    When the car was underway, Laine asked, “Would you like a drink?” She