Musk. Mildew. Confinement. A rank smell of molding cheese on spoiled burger pickles. The only place that could smell like the trashbin behind a fast food joint on wheels was Frankie's backseat.

Graham woke up by steps. First, he heard the dull rumbling of wheels, followed by the sway of the car swinging him left to right. Then, the smell. So invasive. Then, light, flickering on and off as the car cruised beneath the streetlamps, shown as an orange pulse through his closed eyelids.

He then immediately felt the whole weight of his pain. The worst pain was his fractured nose. The only way to describe that pain would be pungent; a mass of flesh that kept squeezing his face, as if his nose was replaced by a bowling ball. His missing fingers were tightly bandaged, and only the throb of every heartbeat reminded him of his missing limbs.

A groan escaped his parched lips as he moved into a more comfortable position.

"He's up," said a growling voice from the front seat. Kenny.

Graham felt a heavy palm smash into his chest, pinning him down to the seat. Boris was seated next to him, as stalwart as a mountain.

"No funny business," commented Kenny. "Chill. Jus' takin' ya for a ride."

Even though he had just woken up, Graham could feel the tension in the car--dank and thick, one that could be cut with a knife. Surprisingly enough, the one who was the tensest was Frankie, who was driving the car with his arms outstretched unnaturally. It didn't escape Graham that it was Frankie who pleaded with Kenny to end his torture. He was like a father to Graham, after all.

Nobody spoke, not even a peep. The car kept cruising for a while in a neighborhood Graham couldn't recognize. It was definitively the good part of the city. By the type of brick homes, he could deduce Cambridge, or even Sommerville. He couldn't think straight. The only thing on his mind was pain and the unequivocal feeling of being completely screwed. That, and a voice in the back of his head yelling at him to escape. But escape where?

Sadly, his escape plan never left the concept phase as the car pulled into the driveway of a beautiful colonial townhouse. The faded masonry mixed with the snow and the yellow glow from a lamp just beside the door gave it a very posh look. The front door, made of wood and glass, showed a wooden entryway just beyond. Even inside the car could Graham smell freshly-baked gingerbread cookies from inside the house.

Kenny jumped out of the car and bolted inside with a hunchback gait. Frankie killed the engine, not bothering to look Graham in the eyes. He got out of the car and opened Graham's door, pulling him out roughly by the arm.

"Frankie... please," said Graham softly. The only person that could have saved him at that moment was Frankie. If there was even a glimmer of compassion in his weather-beaten soul, Graham needed to plead to it. "Let me go."

Frankie dared to look at him straight in the eyes for the first time since he woke up, but there was no compassion behind those dim eyes, only pity.

"Sorry, Gra'am."

Boris took hold of Graham's other arm, and together they pulled him inside the house. As soon as they opened up the door, a slightly nasal, but commanding voice yelled at them from a few rooms away.

"Please, take off your shoes when you enter. We don't need you to drag any more filth inside."

Both Frankie and Boris looked at each other in annoyance before kicking off their boots. For the sake of practicality, they left Graham's on.

Graham couldn't take a good look at the decor as he was being dragged deeper into the house, aside from several beautiful paintings that were oddly familiar for some reason.

The group quickly arrived at a dimly lighted dining room. Even though there were lots of furniture in the room, Graham's attention was immediately seized by the three figures sitting at a dining table in front of him. The first one was Kenny, scarfing down a gingerbread cookie like his life depended on it. The other one was Dara, who was busy spreading chunky peanut butter on a cookie herself. But neither of them was the focus of his attention. The one commanding it was no other than Sean Lynch, the oldest of the Lynch siblings and head of the Lynch family since his father's death.

His eyes were not as green as Kenny's, nor his hair was as red and wild as Dara's, but he had a somberness that followed him wherever he went. Perhaps it was his lanky frame, or his thick glasses, but there was something off about him that made him the center of attention wherever he went. For Graham, it was the vitiligo patch that ran from his left hand, all the way up his arm and ending on his neck. It was unnerving.

"My God. What did you do to this man?" cried Sean. "Let him go. He is a guest."

Both men looked perplexed, looking at Kenny to see if this was some kind of joke. Kenny rolled his eyes, waving them away. They obeyed. Graham immediately fell to the ground. He hadn't accounted for his weakened knees not having enough energy to support him. Too much blood lost.

Sean got up from his seat, running to aid Graham. "They roughed you up pretty good. Pull up a chair for him," he ordered. Frankie grabbed one of the dining chairs and together, they managed to pull Graham into it. Despite being the business end of the entire Lynch operation, Sean was quite strong, dragging him just as easily as Frankie could. Why would he treat him like a guest, Graham didn't know. Maybe he just wanted to mess with his mind. Whatever the case, Graham was wary of the three kingpins.

"On behalf of the Lynch family," said Sean while taking his seat, "I must apologize for any undue damage we have inflicted upon you. Isn't that right, Little Brother?"

"Sod off," said Kenny with his mouth full of cookies.

"Lovely," replied Sean. "Speaking of, would you like a cookie? They are fresh out of the oven, and sugar is great for energy, especially after blood loss."

Graham shook his head, but as the three siblings focused their attention on him like he was the last gazelle in the Serengeti, he decided to take one. It was warm and gooey on the inside.

"Good, right? I just made them."

"Yes... good," Graham said. He placed both hands on the table--what was left of them--finding the proper words for the occasion. "I don't want to be rude, but why am I here?"

Graham was surprised by his level of meekness in front of what amounted to the most powerful criminal mastermind in all New England. He shouldn't have been polite in the face of his imminent danger--far from it, he should've been screaming and kicking. Was it a survival instinct to roll over belly up? Maybe it was just his natural cowardice telling him to be quiet in front of a dangerous being. It was not the time to be introspective.

Sean kept a soft smile, one that didn't quite translate into his movements. Even the way he reached for a cookie, slow and deliberate, gave him the look of a calculative robot. Graham couldn't tell if he had blinked the entire time he had talked. "Of course. You are here for an... exit interview of sorts."

Graham's heart skipped a beat. The way he spoke conveyed the underlying meaning behind his words. His fears were true. Death was coming.

"You see," said Sean while breaking apart the cookie he was holding, "I see every employee in our organization as part of our family, and whenever we let one of our family go, they deserve to know at least why. Our organization has three main pillars, and when one of those pillars jeopardizes the integrity of the rest, we must rectify them, correct?"

"Yes?" said Graham, not realizing it was a rhetorical question.

"Indeed. See, I run the business. I clean the money, making sure everything is legit. Make the deals, shake the hands. Take your pick. I'm the brains of the operation. Kenny here runs the... how would you qualify your job as?"

"Shit-stirrers," said Kenny.

"Right. Let's keep it at that. They handle the dirty stuff. Moving merchandise; shakeups; collections; hit-jobs. They are the muscle. And Dara, sweet Dara, makes sure that our tracks are covered. Misleading the feds; keeping us out of trouble. She's the anima--the soul."

Dara's face bloomed in red. "Shucks, dat's-"

"However," interrupted Sean, "Our soul has been poisoned, and our muscles are weak. Our organization is in peril."

"All cuz' of ya," added Kenny.

"All because of you," added Sean, pointing at Kenny and Dara, "not him. If you lot had performed your duties as I ordered instead of taking creative liberties, we wouldn't be having this issue. He is not to blame, but he will pay for your sins."

"My own personal Jesus," said Dara, eating a spoonful of peanut butter.

"Shut up!" Sean slapped the table, making the plate of cookies jump up. Everyone in the room froze, and even Dara dropped her spoon. Only when everyone seemed to be paying attention, he continued.

"I'm very sorry about my siblings. They can be quite uncaring. Nonetheless, I must apologize. I try to keep my workers busy with one specific task, but these two knuckleheads have used you without my consent. And it's thanks to them that our entire operation has come to a standstill."

"To be fair," added Dara, "I gave him specific orders to-"

She was interrupted by Sean's raised palm. He didn't even look at her. She knew she had to keep quiet when he did that.

"Dara was supposed to be clear on your mission. We needed that William boy to be guilty. We planted all the evidence and made all the necessary arrangements. She was supposed to let you in on the whole thing, but she decided to keep you in the dark. She thought you were too honest and a liability. That you needed to find them organically. Which was a stupid thing, by the way."

"I was right, by the way," whispered Dara, loud enough for Sean to listen.

Without looking at Dara, Sean slapped her right across the face with a backhand. It took her a few moments to register the hit-it had been too fast. She didn't make a sound.

"You performed your duty as you were given," continued Sean. "But your actions have jeopardized our operation. An Internal Affairs officer, one we cannot control, has taken your case, thanks to security footage of you killing one of our products. A job that the muscle, not the soul, should endeavor in."

Kenny, having learned the lesson by proxy, remained silent.

"Not only that," continued Sean, "as we have also learned that the District Attorney is using this case as an excuse to meddle in our affairs. All in all, you have become the weakest link in our structure, as such, we must remove you. I am sorry."

Graham was at a loss for words. Everything Sean had said was like a movie playing in front of him. Surreal and impersonal. Sean had just signed his death sentence, and he had made it look like it was the most logical thing in the world. Never mind the betrayal, or how he had been a loyal dog to the family his whole life. There was no way out of this one.

Unless he made one.

He knew it was going to hurt, but it was the only way he could think of that would save him. And that was making a huge leap of faith.

Under the table, he pressed the nubs where his fingers used to be. The pain was unbearable, but he had to endure. If his face showed any pain, it was over. He did it over and over again until some blood came out. His bandages started to turn crimson red. Now it was the time.

"I bleeding out," he said in his most convincing voice. Graham raised his hand as if to evidence his claims. Blood dribbled down his arm and onto the table. If he guessed right, Sean was a neat freak. He had seen Dara's desk and Kenny's truck. This was way too clean.

"Jesus," cried Sean, running to the kitchen for some napkins. "Please, take him to the bathroom. I'll have no blood in my living room."

Jackpot.

Sean threw a pack of napkins at Frankie, who immediately pressed them against the wound. With that, they both walked towards the guest's restroom. Everything played in stop-motion as Graham's mind went into overdrive.

An escape route. Where? Front door? No. He would be chased out. Backdoor? Neither, he didn't know the layout of the house. Kill Frankie. How? Weapon? He tried looking around for a weapon, but there was none. Pistol. He should have his police gun, but a quick pat-down revealed he didn't have it on him. Must have taken it when unconscious. Weapon in bathroom.

When they arrived at the bathroom, Graham scanned the whole area. Toilet brush. Plunger. Toothpaste. No brush. Odd. Window. Wide enough to escape. But how? Frankie was too much for him even in full shape. Take a dump. Make him leave the room.

"Frankie," Graham said, looking at the man trying to change his bandages over the sink. "I need to take a dump."

Frankie ignored him, continuing to change his bandages. He was surprisingly tender.

"Frankie," Graham repeated, but he kept dressing his wounds. Just when he was going to repeat again, Frankie covered Graham's mouth with his palm. His eyes were filled with a determination Graham had never seen in him. There was something afoot.

With the last of the bandages done, Frankie placed a fat finger on his lips. He wanted silence. He took something out of his pocket, placing it in Graham's newly dressed palm.

Graham knew what it was without even seeing it. They were the keys to Frankie's car.

Frankie pointed his finger at the window, followed by three more fingers. Three minutes head-start.

Graham mouthed a silent thank you before jumping out of the window.

That was the last time Graham saw his friend and mentor.