Daemon

majority of the DEA agents were still thundering through the house, overturning the drug tables and pushing aside the stacks of money – frantically searching for something. The agents never said a word to each other; instead, they moved as if they were a single entity, searching methodically from behind their mirrored helmet faceplates.
    They came up from the basement, in from the garage, down from the attic, and rifled through every closet. They tore open the kitchen cabinets and aimed weapon-mounted tactical lights inside. It was there they discovered two terrified black boys – about seven years old – hiding beneath the sink. They dragged them out screaming.
    The search abruptly stopped. Agents gathered around the boys, who clutched each other and stared in fear up at the mirrored faceplates staring back down at them. They were more than mirrored – they had the complex iridescence of mother-of-pearl. Their appearance changed as the men turned.
    Still without speaking, the agents pried the boys apart, holding their arms back. One agent knelt down and extended a fingerprint-capture pad toward one boy. He forced open the boy’s hand and pressed the kid’s thumb against the pad – then checked a display reading. A pause, then he repeated the process with the second boy – once again consulting a display.
    The agent nodded and pointed to the second boy.
    The other agents zipped hand ties on the first boy and tossed him, crying, in with the rest of the prisoners. The second boy they held on to, and the group of agents parted to reveal atall, broad-shouldered officer, also in black body armor with a mirrored faceplate. He strode forward.
    The boy, already scared, now cowered in fear, tears streaming down his face.
    The big agent grabbed him under the shoulders, plucking him up off the floor. The boy struggled, but the man’s viselike grip was unshakeable. They walked out the shattered front door of the house and into the street – where a black Chevy Suburban pulled up to meet them. The side door opened, and the big agent pushed the boy inside – following close on his heels. The door thumped shut behind them as the remaining DEA agents poured out of the house, climbing into their black vans.
    Inside the Suburban, the boy curled up on the opposite end of the bench seat. The large DEA agent sat on the far end, staring from behind his mirrored helmet at the terrified boy as an agent in the front seat drove, beyond a tinted glass partition.
    The big agent brought his hands to his helmet, released twin catches, then twisted, removing it.
    Charles Mosely wiped sweat from his face, placed his helmet on the bench seat behind him, and turned again to face the child.
    The boy now had a look of utter terror on his face, and he curled up harder against the armrest, covering his head as though he was about to be beaten.
    Mosely made a cryptic gesture with his right hand, causing the white DEA letters on his chest plate to slowly fade away. He looked back up at the child. ‘You remember me, Raymond?’
    The boy robotically nodded his head, visibly trembling.
    Mosely’s hard face softened. He leaned closer. ‘It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.’
    The boy didn’t relax one bit.
    ‘I’m sober now.’
    The boy had his face buried in the seat cushion.
    Mosely looked down. Complex emotions knotted his face. ‘I came up here to say I’m sorry. For all I did – and for all I didn’t do.’ He was lost for a moment, but then his resolve returned. ‘I heard your momma died a couple years back.’
    When he looked up, Mosely noticed one of the boy’s eyes peering out from under his arm, watching him.
    ‘I thought about you all the time in prison – about your mom dyin’. You all alone.’
    The boy stared with his one exposed eye, unflinching.
    Mosely sat back again. ‘You weren’t easy to find. You ran off from that foster home. Can’t say I blame you. Bad people. I met ’em. But I had real good private detectives searching for you. The best.’ He looked Ray straight in his one exposed eye. ‘I’m sorry.’
    Mosely ripped the Velcro straps securing his armored gloves and pulled them off, one by one. He placed the gloves in the back and extended his hand toward his son. ‘You got a hand for your old man? You want to shake on a new start?’
    The boy curled up tighter.
    Mosely lowered his hand. ‘Well, I guess I got it coming, don’t I?’ Mosely watched the frightened boy. Resigned to this, Mosely