The Story of Blood and Roses

"Anthony, what else do you think is required?" I asked. Anthony hummed in acknowledgement and scrutinized the men who were still standing.

"I will say that the team will have no more than six people. I need three volunteers from here." The statement seemed to make a few of the men more nervous. Two more sat down. "I need people who are coordinated. You must decide among yourselves as to who you can work with without even speaking a word to them. Am I clear?" The idea was clear; Anthony would do nothing to help them. They knew their own strengths and they had been to enough operations in trust each other's abilities.

What surprised me was that he needed only three volunteers. What of the other three? What was to happen to them?

By the gleam I saw in Anthony's eyes when the raid was mentioned, I knew that he wanted to be a part of the team and blow things up just to get a first-hand taste of the carnage that will badly affect Darcy. So, one was out. He would not go without him. That was in my job description. I was to be with him at ground zero no matter what. Two down. Who was the third?

My eyes shifted to Ethan, who still leaned on the wall and kept staring at Anthony. And I understood. He wanted Ethan.

Curiosity ate at me. Why Ethan? Would we be a good team? I wondered. Only he could answer all my questions.

"The next day..." the conversation went on with people asking Anthony and Ethan various questions. I, on the other hand, remained silent and bickered with my internal monologue about the uncanny choice of people in the group. Surely, I would never be able to work with Ethan like that. I wasn't even sure I'd be a good choice to work with Anthony. We were getting close, but was I a good choice for the first mission? I could handle it, but what did it say about his trust in me? What of Ethan? He also seemed to have no thoughts over how peculiar it was that Anthony wanted me to go with them. Me going was a given, but Anthony could put me off the mission if he thought that I wasn't a good candidate for the job.

Dread speared through me as I considered myself being deprived of my primary job description. That would definitely not be a good thing for me.

As I pondered over these trivial matters, a certain bold question caught my attention.

"If we are still outnumbered after splitting up between two days, don't you think we should call in a few favors and use the help of mercenaries?" The question made Anthony's eyes flash with anger.

"No," he simply answered, not offering any explanation for his denial. I had no real context of the question, but I took a guess and figured that the matter of having fewer resources had come up.

"We are yet to know how many people are there at the locations as of now. Eric will let us know as soon as he can." Anthony spoke with his jaw clenched together. "We leave in three days. Pack your bags, boys. We'll treat this as a picnic and bust some Russian ass, okay?" he gave them a tight-lipped smile and then walked out of the room. No one noticed the change in his mood.

.

I followed him after everyone had left. It had taken an hour to get those people out. Ethan had joined me as I left the room, but never spoke a word as we headed towards Anthony's office. Of course, he had noticed the change in Anthony's mood, as well. I would expect nothing else from him.

I took the initiative to knock on the door, and Ethan retreated. I gave him a curious look, in reply of which he just smiled apologetically and then turned to leave. Shrugging, I waited, or should I say, expected his gruff voice to ask me to enter. When a moment passed and he still hadn't answered, I turned the knob of the door and peered in. He seemed to be facing away from me, sitting on that leather chair of his. I knocked again, but he didn't answer again.

I scrunched my brows and then entered, anyways. I softly approached him, making sure that he didn't get startled. And I didn't think it possible, but it was; there he was, his head leaning back on the chair and his eyes shut. I leaned over him and pressed my hands into his forehead to check if he had a fever. He was sweating and the air conditioner was doing nothing to help him.

His forehead was burning and his breath came in hot, but soft pants. Worry overcame me as I stared at his face. I wondered why he had a fever. Emotional suppression? Maybe.

"Anthony," I whispered softly, but he just kept breathing evenly. Has he fallen asleep? I wondered. "Michael?" I tried. I'd wanted to say that name ever since I had heard him being called that.

This time he responded. He moaned and then turned his face to seek out my hand. I pressed my palm to his cheeks, my hand cold against his heated skin and I smiled. He replied.

Pressing my palm to his cheek, I reached into the pocket of his jeans to search for the handkerchief that I knew he carried around with him but never told anyone because it would hinder that badass image of his. Pulling the small, folded material I dabbed it at his sweaty face. He shivered the moment the cloth pressed against his neck.

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