At Any Cost: The Men of FTI

By Olivia Night

In the mangroves of Sierra Leone, two strangers raised a world apart find themselves inextricably connected.

Aislinn Salameh, an American relief worker, is searching for purpose in her self-imposed lonely world. The stranger who enters her village on a blistering hot day seems more animal than human. She knows she should stay far away but can’t stop herself from being drawn to the mysterious man.

Brandt Fairlane is haunted by the sins of his past. Detached from others, Brandt has spent his life alone. His line of work is too dangerous for the luxuries of love and family.

When Brandt sees Aislinn and her haunting eyes, he knows he must possess her. But when Brandt’s past comes back from the dead and Aislinn is caught in the crossfire, it is up to him to keep her safe. In order to survive, they must learn to rely on one another. As they run for their lives, the heat between them becomes undeniable. Now, Brandt must not only protect Aislinn from a madman committed to stealing her away, but he also must protect her from himself. Because if Brandt steals her body and her heart, he’ll never let her go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Night
• Release date: Apr 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386079439

Olivia Night

Olivia Night, a fictional character herself, has always been an avid reader and writer. She found the romance genre in college and has never been able to get enough. One sleepless night, the main characters of Book One in her The Men of FTI  series sprang from her head fully formed. They demanded she tell their story; so she did. As they revealed themselves, so did two other intriguing characters. Those characters convinced her to give them their own books because their stories were worth telling too. And so Olivia suddenly became a romance author. When Olivia is not writing, she has the best job in the world, which, too, will remain a secret. In her free time, she reads, writes, runs, or is, most likely, out emulating Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Olivia lives in one of the most diverse and vibrant cities in the U.S.—Baltimore. She lives with her cat, which she is convinced was a gladiator in his past life. Olivia plans to continue being awesome at this thing called life. Really, that’s her only goal.

Book preview

Dedication

To my two besties, one near and one far. Thanks for being on this awesome journey, called life, with me.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my big sister, and biggest fan, for encouraging me to keep submitting and for reading through my manuscripts with enough enthusiasm to give me confidence.

Prologue

Twenty-four Years Ago

Cambodia

Heavy feet hit the pavement behind him in chorus. He was out of time. Jumping up to grab hold of the fire escape, he pulled himself up with his arms. His small body struggled and shook. Battling against his sweaty palms and heaving chest, he pulled up as hard as he could. Harsh shouts sounded below him as he ascended the ladder. The foul smells wafting from nearby assaulted his nose in the heavy air.

Barely able to concentrate behind the roar of his pulse thundering in his ears, he blindly reached for the foothold with his hands. Someone grabbed at his ankle and he shrieked. His heart shot through his chest to his throat. His small bare foot connected with a nose. The crack was successful in easing a small slice of his panic.

Another hand shot out, and this time held on. He was dragged back, his fingernails clutching for purchase on the rooftop. A cry escaped his throat as he left a trail of scratches across the expanse of roof.

"Soam! The small boy pleaded as the man wrapped both hands around him, securing him to his chest. Please..." He was cut off by a backhand across his delicate cheek. Stunned, he fell silent. Wire cut into his wrists as they were wrenched behind his back.

As he was righted to his feet, he spat in the man’s face and held his chin high, his eyes blazing. There was no open hand this time as his lip split and his nose bled. There would be no more begging. He was resolved.

Voices behind the boy picked up in earnest as he was carried down the fire escape over the large man’s shoulders. Angry hands bit into his sides, and he cried out. He knew her touch. A wave of terror coursed through his body quickly, raising the hair on his arms and neck. The pavement came at his face fast. His hands could not help him as he smashed into it headfirst. The wet concrete stung his cheek as the others stood around him in the large alley, surrounded on three sides by building after building. Each looked as if a child had haphazardly dropped one floor on top of the other. Some crooked, each different colors, though non-vibrant, it reflected humanity living like cockroaches.

Above him, others were arguing with the woman, others defending her. Inside he began to pray. He couldn’t go back with her. He did not know who it was he was supposed to be talking to, but he had seen it many times as he hid inside the countless places of worship. Sometimes he was allowed to stay, and people with sad eyes gave him food and a blanket to sleep under. Other times he was shooed out with a broom like the dog that he was, he thought.

Wiggling his hands, he tested the restraints. A boot came down on his back, forcing the air from his lungs. The woman’s voice was resolute, calm.

"Kh'mâyng khlaH chhêu."

No movement could be heard, not a breath save his own as he struggled to drag it back in. But inside he stilled. Hope, something he knew to be dangerous, surged through him. Some of those children are sick, one man had said.

The woman’s reply was swift and sure. The man responded, sounding less angry, perhaps even intimidated. Her voice came back absolute.

The small child, lying on his empty stomach in the middle of an alley with his bruised hands bound and a man’s boot in his back, began to cry. He heard the victory in her voice. His fragile body began to shake. He was going back. He was going back.

A world away, a cherubic, glowing baby giggled and clapped her hands as she blew her first birthday candle out amidst a chorus of singing.

Chapter 1

Adrop of sweat trickled down her neck, following the smooth path between her shoulder blades, and disappeared into the band of blue material at her waist. Aislinn stood tall, rubbing the base of her spine. Quietly, she walked to her water bottle, making an effort not to draw attention to herself. She didn’t want it to seem that she was complaining about rebuilding the home that had once stood in this very spot. Tipping her straw hat to cover more of her forehead, she attempted to shade her burning, tearing eyes. Describing the weather as hot and stifling would be the understatement of the year. No, the decade. But Aislinn had known exactly what she was getting herself into when she signed up to travel thousands of miles away from home.

Arriving in Lungi, Sierra Leone, she had been thoroughly confused. Wasn’t this country third world? What exactly was she helping as she stood in front of a fancy hotel, equipped with bellmen and luggage trolleys? But now, she wished she would have more thoroughly enjoyed her last moments in civilization. The next day she was in the back of a 1962 Ford Econoline with her one bag, her only bag. From there, she connected with another worker, Geoffrey, in Freetown. The only reprieve was to use her last working bathroom for what had now been...one, two, three...seven months. It had been her first experience with such a deep stratification in social classes, although truly she had never taken the time to see it in the United States for herself.

But here in a small village somewhere between Freetown and Shenge, Aislinn was helping. It was what she had wanted to do her whole life. To help people.

This meant digging a hole for the structural supports for a new home to be built somewhere on the coast of Africa, thousands of miles away from her world, the one with running water and Supernatural and air conditioning. Right now, though, she would sell her soul to sit quietly in a room with air conditioning and, while she was at it, an ice-cold Coke. A Coke and Dean Winchester and air conditioning. She knew what she would be thinking of when she fell asleep tonight on her lovely bed, which looked exactly like the yoga mat she had back at home.

Sighing, Aislinn straightened to her full height. She wouldn’t really trade what she was doing for a Coke. For the first time in a long time, there was a stirring somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. She felt lighter, happier, freer here. Why Sierra Leone? Even she didn’t know why she had to go and pick one of the most war-torn countries in the world. Perhaps it went back to the sorrow she’d felt for the people here. Aislinn had arrived knowing only a few words of Krio, but she had managed after seven months to get the hang of the tribal language that united the country, perhaps the only thing that united the country. No longer did she say kushe to everyone everywhere just to prove she could say something, anything, to them. She could talk briefly to the natives, though she was sure they spoke slower when conversing with her to ensure she would understand their small conversations.

The sun would be setting in a few hours, which meant there was still two or three more hours of digging ahead of her. Geoffrey had offered to make dinner for the two of them this evening. She was glad for the break, even if dinner meant sitting on the dirt floor of Geoffrey’s tent eating Jollof rice, a filling meal that would normally consist of dahl and lentils and sweet potato...if Geoff could find all of the ingredients. He normally couldn’t. But it was nice to just have a companion in the evening.

Geoff was a nice enough man; he was easy to get along with and had a lovely sense of humor and pragmatism. Geoff was tall but still a little bit gangly. He had natural sandy blond hair that made him seem like a California surfer rather than a relief worker. He was classic American right down to his blue eyes, freckled nose, and wide dimples. He was average height and didn’t carry around a lot of weight. Aislinn had felt an immediate connection with him, as though he was a long-lost brother. It seemed Geoff had made a different assessment of her. His crush was obvious, though she pointedly ignored it. But Geoff had not approached her regarding his feelings, which was fine by Aislinn. She wanted to keep the friend she had found in Geoff, afraid a rejection would change their relationship. She liked the nickname he had given her. Most people tripped over the pronunciation of her name. But he had rolled with it and made her odd name something she didn’t mind anymore.

Geoff suddenly came up behind her and took the shovel from her hands mid-motion.

Ash, you need to take a minute and drink some water. How long have you been working?

Geoff, really, I’m not a child, Aislinn said as she turned to look at him, pursing her lips and giving him a pointed glare.

Geoff was a pleasant-looking man, three years her junior, which effectively sealed his fate to a permanent location in the friend zone. Aislinn was twenty-five, young but too old to date a twenty-two-year-old man, which in testosterone terms meant about nineteen. His light complexion lent itself to the hypothesis that Geoff would go up in a pile of smoke and ash in the sun. But instead, he had developed a deep tan. A world traveler by the time he was eighteen, he went around and helped where it was needed. A true, wonderful soul. His caring nature would leave permanent fixtures on his face in the form of wrinkles. It would age before its time from his copious amounts of sun exposure. But Aislinn was convinced it would make him look only more rugged.

I know you’re not a child. You’re practically ancient...spinster, Geoffrey joked as he danced out of reach from her swing. Just take a minute and drink some water, sit in the shade. Notice I didn’t say take a second. I said a minute.

I’ll ignore the spinster comment, but I do need something to drink.

She turned to walk the few steps to the shade. But the dirt rising from the one road in the small town caught her attention. A truck had stopped on the side of the road twenty yards from them.

Are we expecting aid today? Aislinn asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Geoff looked up from assessing the hole she had begun to dig and over to the truck.

Stephanie didn’t mention it, no. Geoff walked to place his body in front of her. It was a move that was natural for him because he didn’t seem to notice he had done it. She felt a groan bubbling up.

You’re being ridiculous, Aislinn said, exasperated as she swatted him on his back and stood on her tiptoes to see over Geoff’s shoulder.

Together, they watched the truck, a far better model than either had seen in their time here, tip and tilt as four men emerged. Aislinn couldn’t see any of them very well, though she could tell they were all very large, muscular men, all in different ways. One was short and squat, and one was short and lean and looked as though he really needed to eat. The other two were tall. Those two were muscular and looked more dangerous than the others. Perhaps it was the serious look on their faces, as if they had never smiled. But one was more muscular than the others. He was the tallest in the group. And he was really, really easy on the eyes. And as if he sensed her watching him—okay, staring—he turned his head and looked directly over at her.

His face was blank, his eyes unblinking. He looked across the short distance at Aislinn, apparently not even noticing that Geoff was standing in front of her. From the distance between them, his eyes seemed to be charcoal gray, a color she had never seen on a person. Animals yes, people no. His skin was tanned, and there was a slight sheen of sweat, giving him a sort of healthy glow. His dark black hair was cut short, but not in a military fashion that had that silly flat surface at the top. No, there was just enough to run her fingers through. His legs were huge, like tree trunks that made their way up to a tapered and slim waist. His chest flared back out to meet his thick neck. Veins stood out on his arms as he picked a bag up from inside the car, all the while staring at her. She fixed her eyes shamelessly at his full lips that were a dark pink, a color you normally didn’t see on a man. His nose had been broken before, judging by the uneven placement on his face. The rest of his face was perfect. Perfect angles, perfect mouth, perfect eyes.

She came back to his eyes and realized she had just, very slowly, given this stranger a full-body perusal. He didn’t offer a nod, or any other type of greeting; he just kept looking at her. She felt herself blush. And then, suddenly, he turned. Brima, the town elder, was approaching the men—quickly for an old man—with a broad smile on his face. Brima rubbed the man’s chin, a traditional Mende greeting, and, as was customary, the man did not return the gesture as a symbol of acquiescence to the elder. Then they both smiled and shook hands. The muted tones of their conversation drifted over to her as they walked to the elder’s home farther up the path, leading away from the road.

Brima must know ’em, Geoffrey observed.

Yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious, Aislinn said, once again swatting at his back. What’s with the he-man macho bull?

Oh, you never know, Ash, Geoff explained, not seeming the least bit embarrassed of his overreactions.

Mmm hmm.

Aislinn walked over to the water jug but saw Geoff’s shadow move quickly and she lunged out of reach at the last minute. She shrieked as she dodged his second move toward her and then giggled as she sat down. She watched the man walk up the hill and wondered who he was and why he was here.

Chapter 2

Brandt hated the heat . He was so sick of the damn heat. When it was possible to peel his shoes from the ground like rubber glue, it was too damn hot. But it was part of the job, and he would take it if it meant getting the job done. Having lived in this climate for such a long time, he was surprised that he hadn’t grown accustomed to it. It had been years since he had experienced cold. Fast temperature changes had been used as a training device, but he hadn’t been in the colder climates for more than a decade. Lord, he wondered if he would even be able to stand freezing temperatures at this point. It was times like these that he tried to pull forth the vague memories of the temperate climate of the States. He was almost positive at this point he was remembering things he had seen on TV, rather than any real things all those years ago.

As his truck bounced down the road like a ping-pong ball, Brandt thought about the series of events that had made his life what it was. It was, on one hand, completely unexpected. He should have been dead at ten, thrown into some ravine to rot. On the other, once he had moved past his childhood years, his fate had been sealed. There really weren’t too many options for a man like him. Not that he was disappointed. He made good money, had a few friends, a nice apartment, and a plot of land in Washington State in the U.S.—though he hadn’t been there since he was a young child. He had traveled through the ranks, first in the United States Army as a lowly soldier then a not-so-lowly Special Forces officer. He had been quietly recruited to an offshoot, no-name sector of the U.N. Peacekeeping Force, an offshoot that the U.N. denied existed, even today. Their avenues of peacekeeping were quite different than the visions stated on any website or in any speech.

After a particularly difficult battle with a local militia in Liberia, he’d been approached by an arms company. He'd jumped on board as a weapons and security specialist with the largest arms distributor on the African continent. From there, he was upgraded to being the company’s middle man, ensuring the money was exchanged, end-user certificates were accurate, and contracts were carried out. And now he owned that particular arms company, the ownership changing hands by force rather than a gentleman’s business deal.

Because he owned the largest arms supplier to military forces in Africa, select countries in the Middle East, and portions of Europe, security was a concern each day. He was worth a lot. More than a lot. He kept a low profile and lived far below his means. Most of his trusted men argued safety with him each day. They thought he needed a bodyguard. What use was going through SERE school if he couldn’t protect himself? But he understood their concern. Not only were men after the money he earned because he out-bid their contracts, but he had made several enemies when he had taken over the company he owned today.

The arms business was not known for its honest men. His company was one that bid for—and always won—the major contracts throughout the Eastern Hemisphere. He had a large piece of the pie in a business that accounted for a bit more than two percent of the world’s GDP. His wealth dictated that he never lacked for companionship, particularly of the female variety. When he wanted a woman, he had one. And when he didn’t want her anymore...Well, he made that happen too.

The hot, stifling weather created wavy mirages off the dirt like the sizzle of a medium-rare steak on a charcoal grill and took Brandt’s mind to other, more pleasant mirages he’d have liked to see at the moment. He thought of palm trees and cold drinks, beautiful women flouncing around in small bathing suits. He’d have his pick; any of them he wanted could be his. It was to his satisfaction that he’d found out one very basic thing about women. They liked money. They would do just about anything he asked them to. He’d had many of them, but he grew tired of their company quickly. Thankfully, it was easy to get rid of them. Usually all it took was a small parting gift, a piece of jewelry or a good fuck. Whatever.

He shook his head. Sighing, he stared out the window at the barren landscape and watched his surroundings for danger. Muted greens and dusty browns was all the eye could see. A lot of land in Sierra Leone was farmed and provided many resources for villages. But so much of Sierra Leone was dead. He saw it in the land, in the people’s eyes, in the hope they had lost. There was, conversely, so much beauty to the country and its people as well. The shorelines, those not populated by the wealthy and tourists, were beautiful and full of colors. The mangrove swamps, the lush land, and the green forests contributed to the economy. Brandt had seen every corner of the country. The green outside the truck window whizzed by quickly and grew more vibrant as they approached the village.

He cursed inwardly. He hardly had the time for this. So what on God’s green earth was he doing in this piece-of-shit truck surrounded by his men who smelled as if they hadn’t showered in days—which they probably hadn’t—traveling down this dirt road to meet with Brima? It was simple actually. Brima had called in his favor. It had taken eight years for him to do so, but he had finally called it in.

Back when Brandt was twenty-eight and nothing more than a henchman for the man whose company he now owned, he had been injured in a small firefight, just outside of this tiny village. Brandt had crawled for hours on his elbows like an ant after he had eliminated the threat. But his legs hadn’t seemed to work. Perhaps it had been the well-placed bullet in his upper thigh. Or maybe it was the one in the left side of his stomach, which thankfully had been little more than a graze but hurt like a bitch. But, still, he had crawled for what had been an eternity to him before he reached the edge of the village. He was able to watch the villagers scurry to and from houses, no doubt on edge from the echoes of gunfire two miles east. With the intention to sleep and regain some strength, he kept quiet and watched for any soldiers who might be passing through. The only reprieve had been that night was coming and it would be slightly cooler than it had been at noon. Once Brandt knew the sun was fading from the sky and the diamond lord would be pulling his troops back in to regroup, he pulled himself under some brush and constructed a quick but adequate blind and then collapsed face first in the dirt.

At first light, he made his move to locate his troops. He didn’t make it farther than ten or eleven yards before the pain crept in and seized his body. He couldn’t stop the darkness from settling in over him like a suffocating wool blanket.

He woke later on the dirt floor of a small house, if you could call it that, completely naked as a small, dark man worked slowly, meticulously on his wounds. Back then Brandt had spoken no Krio, but as he cleared his throat to speak, the old man placed a hand on Brandt's forehead and shook his head lightly, as if to say that no words were necessary. The man’s eyes were hooded with age, and his face was full of plump, deep wrinkles from the sun. His jowls were pronounced, though he was underweight, as most people were here in Sierra Leone. His ears were pressed back against his skull, almost unnaturally, and his head was bare. But his face was calm and pleasant as he squatted next to Brandt’s bedroll. It was his face that reassured Brandt as his eyes grew heavy and he drifted away.

The next time Brandt had come to, it was bright outside, the sun high in the sky. It was unclear how long he had been asleep. He was sure Rick was looking for him, and he feared that Rick’s notorious impulsiveness would get innocent villagers killed. Kill first, ask questions later. It was imperative that he leave in order to protect the people who were helping him. His throat was raw, as though it had been through a shredder, and it took him several minutes to clear it.

What day is it? he asked the man sitting very still in the corner.

You have been asleep these last three days. The old man had a quiet, smooth voice in direct opposition to his weathered exterior. Through the slits of his swollen eyes, Brandt saw a small stove, a single window running parallel to the stove, and a small bucket which could only be a chamber pot. Simple, unadorned without modesty. It was the way most of the world lived. Contrary to the westernized countries’ beliefs, they were still outnumbered by the poor.

Brandt attempted to sit up. I need to go. I need to get back to Freetown.

The old man was suddenly upon Brandt, his movements shockingly sturdy and sure.

You must rest further. Your wounds are not healed. There is still much risk for infection. The man stood still over Brandt, with a calming hand on his forehead.

I thank you for your help, but I must return to Freetown, Brandt stated simply, accustomed to getting his way. He wasn’t used to repeating himself, no matter that the man had saved his life. Brandt came to a full sitting position, only to quickly find himself on his back again. Huh, he hadn’t expected the pain.

We have no medicine to soothe the pain of wounds, only medicine to hold off infection, the old man said as if reading Brandt's mind. The caretaker’s face swirled in Brandt's vision as his mind went blank, and the world, again, went black.

Four days later, Brandt emerged from the house, somewhat healed, with a limp that would take years to correct. He shook Brima's hand, a western greeting Brima seemed delighted to partake in. He was indebted to Brima and promised to return if the old man should ever have need.

Eight years later, Brima had need. Brima had since become the elder of his village, and as such, the village’s protection was Brima’s responsibility. And Brandt knew protection. The company he’d been employed by worked closely with ECOMOG and was to be thanked for pushing the rebels out of Freetown in 1999. Fairlane Trade International usually supplied the armed forces and ECOMOG with weapons and, on certain occasions, supplied to villages fearing for their safety.

And now this small village and the small man, to whom he owed his life, was in need of what he did best. But it wasn’t as simple as handing over a few assault rifles. No, Brandt would need to be sure they could build a safe place to store the weapons Brima wanted for his village. This favor would take weeks, if not months. Brandt was none too excited to sleep in a tent on a small mat. After the armory was constructed, Brandt would move his sleeping quarters to it. But he had slept in worse places. Hell, ten years ago, these sleeping conditions would have seemed luxurious.

Logan angled the car to the side of the road, as if any other cars would be traveling down it today, tomorrow, or