Following Frankie's cryptic directions, Graham managed to find a rusty warehouse at the edge of the river. The facade was faded in tints of yellow and orange, blending together with broken windows and random graffiti telling this person or another to go fuck themselves.

Frankie quickly got out of the car, unlocking a garage door for the car to slip in.

Heavy machinery of some sort Graham couldn't recognize was pressed against the far wall of the warehouse. A few puddles were left where snow fell through the cracks. Crates and water-damaged cardboard boxes littered the floor, making the whole room smell damp and musky. There was a vague scent of piss, but Graham couldn't tell if it came from the room or the woman he was currently prodding towards the middle of the room.

"Here. Tie 'er to the beam," ordered Frankie, standing next to a support beam that was stuck in the middle of the room.

As Graham approached his destination, a new scent took over his nose: copper, with a tinge of biological waste. Blood.

All over the base of the beam was a layer of dried blood. A particularly big stain seemed to be fresh, with a few fat blobs still partially wet.

"What is this place?" asked Graham. The woman would have asked the same, but the dirty sock on her mouth held her tongue for her.

"It's Sean's. He buy it a long time ago. I take people here to wack 'em. Quiet 'nd with no fuzz."

If Kenny was the muscles of the family, and Dara the eyes, Sean Lynch was the brains. The eldest son of Jack "Hammer" Lynch, Sean was groomed from a young age to have the education his father couldn't have. The best schools, the best University, the best life. When Jack fell ill due to his age, Sean took over the family business, making a complete makeover of the whole organization. He was apparently as charming as he was ruthless. Not like Graham would know; Sean never mingled with the riff-raff.

While Graham tried to tie the terrified woman to the beam, Frankie moved towards one of the big machines, flipping a big lever on its side. The yellow monstrosity came to life, rumbling a deafening screeching sound that enveloped the whole building. He yelled something towards Graham, but his words were lost in the cacophony of the imposing machinery.

"What?!" yelled Graham back, not knowing that his words were landing on deaf ears. That is if you don't count the terrified woman shivering from fear in front of him.

Frankie ran towards Graham, taking hold of his shoulder once he got close enough. "I said: Can ya hear me?!" yelled Frankie.

"Yes!" he yelled back.

"Good! Now, shoot 'er! Ain't nobody gonna hear a gun over this noise," Frankie said, putting a revolver in Graham's hand.

It took a few moments for him to process what was given to him. The cold metal felt foreign to him.

"Wait! Why do I have to do it?!"

"What?!" answered Frankie.

"I said, why do I have to do it?!"

"You fucked up; you un-fuck it!"

"No!" he said, thrusting the gun back at Frankie. "I've never killed a person!"

"Well," Frankie said while pushing the gun back at Graham, "time to pop yer cherry! Time you become a made man."

With a push, Graham stumbled backward, pulling some distance between the tied woman and him. He could see her doe eyes filled with terror, her face pale in fright. Her whole body language screamed for mercy. Her head shook from side to side, making her matted hair cling to her sweaty forehead. How she managed to sweat in this weather, with such ragged clothes, Graham could not tell.

"Whattaya ya waitin' for? Shoot 'er!"

Graham tried to raise the gun, but his arm dropped straight down as if the gun weighted a ton. He couldn't do it. Every part of his being yelled at him not to do it. He couldn't take it anymore. He dropped the gun on the floor.

"Shit, Gra'am, ya makin' this hard. Here, lemme make it easier!"

Frankie jogged towards a group of crates on the back of the room, retrieving a black crowbar. He walked to the woman, yanking the sock out of her mouth. From where he was standing, Graham saw how she mouthed something he couldn't comprehend. Her piercing wail as Frankie smashed her kneecap with the crowbar, however, was easy enough to hear.

She let her entire being drop from the sheer pain. The knee began to swell, with bone splints poking through her skin. The impact seemed to have broken her leg too, as it was bent at an awkward angle. Graham had tied her hands on a hole in the beam, so her arms were raised above her head as the rest of her body was sprawled on the ground.

The wailing was unbearable. The sight tore apart Graham's soul. Frankie was laughing, or at least, that's what Graham thought, seeing him bend over himself while opening his mouth as he walked towards Graham.

He picked up the gun from the ground, placing it back in Graham's grasp.

"Stop her pain, Gra'am. Put her to rest!"

Once again, he felt the weight of the gun on his hand. It felt as if the revolver was draining his will little by little.

The woman's eyes were pleading, for release, for the pain to stop. But he still couldn't pull the trigger.

Frankie grabbed Graham again, pulling him closer to him, almost whispering in his ear.

"If ya don't end it, imma break the other one."

He gulped. It was unfair. He wasn't but a lowly grunt. Why did that innocent woman have to suffer for him? It wasn't his job. He only had to smuggle them into the city. It was the employer's fault for letting her loose in the first place. Yet there he was, weighing life and death at the end of a barrel.

Graham knew the only way out of this was to shoot her. He couldn't just run with her to a faraway land. He couldn't save her. Or could he?

Could Graham shoot Frankie and disappear? Spit in the face of the people that gave him everything?

No, he already knew the answer. It was then that Graham understood what Marvin meant. He had taken the wide path, and this was the price to pay.

Graham pulled the trigger.

Officer John Klein's day started easy enough.

His wife had been nagging him all through last year for him to demand a promotion, and he took it as a New Year's resolution to finally work the courage and ask the Captain for one. For some reason, she had been in a good mood that day and gave him the chance to spearhead his own investigation. That's where the day went down the toilet.

The case he was handed was the equivalent of a police fever dream. A car had run off the Harvard River, dropping onto the river below. The whole thing was a logistical mess, spending most of his time trying to request the towboat to take the car out of the water while keeping out the gawkers out of the bridge.

He took out his cellphone, finding a couple missed calls from his worried wife. It was nine-thirty pm. Normally, he would already be at home, having a nice dinner and chatting with his wife about whatever thing she did that day. He regretted even thinking about the possibility of a promotion. He couldn't even think about leaving until the forensic team was over.

The top of the bridge was only illuminated by the faint glow of lampposts placed every few feet. He had a flashlight to help him survey whatever the lamps or the flashing lights didn't. Most of the officers were either on the beach or working the tugboat. He stayed with a small force on top of the bridge to protect the impact zone.

It was a windy night, as New England nights tend to be in winter. His state-issued coat did next to nothing to stop the icy daggers the wind bellowed at him. He took out his pack of Camels but failed miserably to light one. He decided to walk the cold off, maybe get some heat from friction.

He clicked his flashlight on, lighting his way as he went. Aside from a few cigarette butts, nothing really caught his mind, until he found a woman sitting on the edge of the bridge.

A woman he could swear wasn't there a minute ago was using the rail as a seat, with the legs dangling precariously on the side of the bridge. A tussle of black hair whipped back and forth on her face, obscuring her fair-skinned face.

"Ma'am! Ma'am, please, get down from there!" yelled Klein, approaching the lady.

She moved her face towards him, but only a little. Her attention was still robbed by the great beyond of the Cambridge skyline.

"Ma'am, I will approach you now!"

He came close to her, determined to get her down from there. Just as he was about to touch the woman, her head whipped to stare at him. Her eyes were almost yellow, filled with rage and pure anger. That, combined with her narrow face and hooked nose, made her look like a hawk about to pounce on her prey.

Klein immediately felt threatened. His instincts told him to run. But he was frozen on the spot.

"Well," she said, "you are here. What now?" The tone of her voice was low and grave, a direct contrast to her lean and small frame.

"P-p-please, come down from there."

She peered at him with lazy eyes, almost in a daze. For the longest time, neither of them dared to move.

The woman shrugged, jumping back onto the bridge. Klein let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. Now, please leave. This is an off-limits area, police only."

The woman took something out of her back pocket. A silver badge. It was polished to perfection.

"Internal Affairs," she said, not wasting a breath.

Klein froze on the spot. What the hell was I.A doing here? He tried to say something, anything, but nothing came to his mind. He knew he had screwed up, somehow. It didn't take much for an Internal Affairs officer to dislike someone, after all.

To his surprise, the woman turned back, moving off the bridge.

"Don't worry, I'm done here," she said, stopping for a minute. "I just need a favor from you."

"Y-yes?"

"Tell that Lynch bitch that Adrian Sauer is coming for her."