Dust drifted past the shaft of sunlight lighting the room from the small window at the top of the wall. Other than the single stab of sunlight in the darkness, there was no other light. Small packets of white powder sat in stacks on a small wooden bench on one side of the room. On either side of the bench were doors. A young man of 18 or 20 sat at the bench. Frantic fingers wrapped the packets in tape and dropped them into a messenger bag on the floor. Bloodshot eyes glanced at the door to the right of the bench. Ragged, nervous breathing escaped dry lips. The fingers worked independently of the mind, wrapping plastic packets and dropping them in the bag. Muttered words filled the room. Between them, a choking whimper occasionally broke the silence.

*He’s going to kill me. He got out and he’ll know it was me. I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t. He won’t care. Not unless I get out with the stuff. Give it back. He can start somewhere else. I could run aw—NO! He’ll hunt me down and kill me slow.*

A crash upstairs. Boots running on creaky floorboards. Shouting. A woman screaming.

*Nikki!*

The young man started from his chair, but the packets drew him back to the table.

*I have to go! Nikki, I can’t come. I have to get out of here.*

 A gunshot. A body hit the floor. The last of the packets dropped into the green bag and the young man threw the bag over his shoulder. He threw the chair back, lunging for the door on the left. He threw it open, and ran through the twists and turns of the lightless tunnel. He heard the blast of a shotgun and the crunch of splintering wood behind him as the other door disintegrated and the SWAT team moved into the room he had just left. Someone shouted for him to come out of the dark. He ran on memory alone, until he at last reached a ladder. He scrambled up the ladder and pushed the trap open.

++++++++++++

A hundred yards away from the dusty house, Richard Neverault swept his gaze through a cluttered shed, gun at the ready. He never stayed behind on a bust, especially a major one like this. He hoped that this raid would break the back of the Clearwell drug trade. After this the work was merely cleanup. He took a metal rod and probed under tarpaulins and into toolboxes. Chances were the actual lab was in the house, but one could never be too careful. He was picking his was through a tangle of old bicycles when he heard the creak of a door slowly opening. He looked up and hurriedly navigated the rotten tires and rusted frames to press himself against the wall. The trap was in a corner of the room underneath stack of newspapers. The only noises in the room were the noise of the trap opening and the sound of his own breathing reflecting off his Plexiglas face shield. A pair of eyes peeked from beneath the wooden door. They widened, locking onto Richard’s badge and the head dropped from view. Richard dashed for the trap and threw it open. The boy was gone. He jumped into the hole and slid down the ladder. It was black as pitch down here. The light from the open trap showed only one direction to run. Richard took it at full speed, fumbling with his helmet light along the way. He managed to turn it on and flood the tunnel with light. The teenager was running down the tunnel not too far ahead of him. Richard stopped and drew his Taser from its holster, bringing it to bear on the running suspect. He squeezed the trigger. The darts flew true, and Richard pushed the button that released a charge into the steel barbs. The electricity caused the boy’s muscles to seize, and he fell like a stone. Richard lost no time. He released the pressure on the button and took off at a sprint, catching the boy with a flying tackle before he could get back on his feet. He rolled off of the boy and stuck the gun in his dirty face. “Don’t Move,” he said.
The Boy showed no sign of resistance, so Richard helped him to his feet. He called for backup and then waited, studying the young man standing in front of him. He looked fresh out of high school, Hispanic, with dark eyes and black hair. The radio crackled an acknowledgement: two men were on their way to pick up the suspect. Richard dusted off his gear as well as he could, the dust in this dirt tunnel only settled back onto whatever he tried to clean. The two men arrived, Payne and Montenegro by the names stitched on their backs, and took the boy by the arm. Richard instructed them to exit via the shed and pointed the way. The two men obeyed, leading the suspect down the hall. Richard looked down at the bag and picked it up. It was heavy, as if it were full of sand. He looked inside carefully and saw the tightly packed packets of powder. Bingo. With the loss of so much narcotics, if any of them had escaped the raid, they would have no capital to work with. A clean bust, so far. It would be impossible to know for sure without investigating the site and cross-examining the suspects. He walked down the tunnel in the opposite direction from which he came, inspecting the ceiling, walls and floor of the tunnel. Nothing unusual, just a hole cut through the dirt to a shed outside. A simple enough escape plan, one by which a drug dealer could get out of the house quickly and unseen even if it were surrounded. He activated his radio again and called for three men to perform a more thorough search of the shed. He would come up shortly to oversee the processing of the suspects. He reached the end of the tunnel and carefully stepped into the room. A chair lay on its side against the back wall. Splinters of wood and the remains of a door lay to his left. The smell of spent gunpowder lingered in the room. Holes had been punched into the back wall from the buckshot as it had ripped through the lock of the door. There was a desk at his left elbow. On it were traces of white powder, no doubt where the dealers filled those packets in the green messenger bag. He decided to leave this scene to the investigators. His job was the thinking, the masterminding of this moment. Richard walked up the stairs to where the surviving suspects were being held, waiting for transport back to the station.
Three years. Three long years he had been slowly, slowly working his way towards striking the head from the snake. Now that it lay on the ground, it just looked like a ragged band of losers with no other way to pay for their existence. It was why he had accepted this job. Someone had to find a way to stop the relentless flow of teenagers and young adults into this lifestyle. It destroys those who sell it, and it destroys those who buy it. Richard felt of surge of compassion for these kids. Kids who appeared to have no idea of what they were getting into on that day the “cool” guy with all the money invites them to become part of the “group.” He feeds them, gives them a place to stay and gives them a family. All he asks in return? Their soul. He was not here. He had escaped. Gone to ruin countless lives somewhere else.
The vans were pulling up the driveway as Richard emerged from the hole where the front door used to be. One van for each suspect; five in all. Armored figures in black held each suspect by the collar, waiting for their turn to push them into the van. Richard removed his helmet to feel the September breeze on his face. It was perfect weather for a raid. Clear skies, dry air, and cool enough that the body armor and heavy clothing of the SWAT gear didn’t fill up with sweat like it did on the summer days. The plan was to keep the suspects from communicating with each other, in order to increase the likelihood of finding the truth amidst the lies and inevitable denials of the suspects. Clearwell’s statutes on Drug Trafficking were lenient if the suspect cooperated, but Iron-Fisted if he refused to provide information. Talk, and the worst a teenager like the ones standing in front of him could expect was a year of house arrest under a foster care family. It was a new project, one aimed at changing the hearts of the perpetrators. It was the only city in the United States with the permission to attempt such a change.
As the first van slowed to a stop, four men in black cargo pants and navy blue t-shirts jumped out and prepared to lock the house down as a crime scene. Their tool belts were loaded with tape, markers, UV lights and other tools of the trade. Two of them carried a version of that new RadiantScan system, modified to suit the needs of Crime Scene Investigators. The other two men followed, each with a padded case of sensors. This was brand new equipment, to be used this first time in conjunction with a conventional investigation as a sort of field test. The Clearwell Police Department had acquired it three days ago, ahead of the public release of the technology. Radiant Technologies Inc. scheduled the full launch of its new technology in three weeks. In short, light waves can be tuned to a particular frequency and every molecule of matter responds to a different frequency. This RadiantScan technology takes advantage of this and with the use of a grid of sensors, records the responses and compiles a 3D map of the scanned area. Spectrographs—very common in the narcotics department—do the same thing with individual substances, but this is the first time the idea of a spectrograph had been applied to a 3D mapping utility.
Richard followed the survey team into the house to inform them to search the tunnel and shed outside with extra care, and then walked back to the foremost van and climbed in. each van was separated into three compartments. The first held the driver and a passenger. The middle compartment was designed like a holding cell, with double wire barriers between the other two compartments. The barriers were rated at 200 pounds per square inch each. The mesh of the wire overlapped so tightly that a pencil would not pass through any of the holes. The seat in the middle was bolted to the floor and carried a five-point harness with a hardened steel lock around the buckle. Padded braces at the head, wrists and ankles rendered the suspect motionless, even in the event of a rollover. Each van was a rolling fortress. The rear compartment held a rack for the gear and weapons of the SWAT team, with a seat beside each rack. This last compartment could hold four officers with all their equipment.
The van Richard had chosen carried the young man he had caught earlier in the tunnel. He kept his mouth shut but Richard could see the panic in his eyes. The completeness of the restraints didn’t help to calm his fears at all. Richard opened the gate and unlocked his head restraint, snapping it into the open position. He walked back outside the cage, locked the double gates and resumed his seat. Regaining the use of his neck and head returned some calm to his countenance, diminishing the fear to a controllable level. Within a few minutes the boy had calmed enough to begin asking questions.
“Where is Nikki?” He demanded. “What is going to happen to her? She didn’t have no part of this. Shes just a friend, she don’t even use the stuff! She’s clean, man! You gotta let her go!”
“She’s in another vehicle,” Richard responded, voice calm as the morning breeze.
“Are you listening to me? I said, she’s innocent! You gotta let her go! You can’t hold—“
“The girl we arrested, whoever she is, is a suspect. As is everyone else we found in that house. We will hold her until we clear her of any participation in this illegal operation. Now if I were you, I’d keep quiet. You’ll get the chance to talk all you want when we get to the station.”
Richard’s words seemed to shut the boy up. He just closed his eyes and laid his head against the rest at the back of his seat. The only sound in the SWAT van was the engine and the sound of tires on the road. No one spoke for the rest of the trip.