I knocked on the door of the two-story suburban house.

It was a polite knock, not a, this is the police knock.

I wanted to get this thing started off on the right foot.

Plus, I was nervous.

I didn't know what to expect.

The reports we had about the place were very strange.

Agent Darius stood next to me on the concrete stoop, waiting patiently.

If he was scared, he sure as hell wasn't showing it.

Of course, not much scares a man of his size.

I'm not a small man, and Darius is a good foot taller than me.

I wasn't sure if the door would be opened or not.

I could hear no movement from inside the house.

I turned and looked around at the innocuous suburban neighborhood.

It was a spring day in North Dakota.

The light breeze stirred my blue windbreaker with large yellow letters on the back that read, FBI.

I noted the unmarked van about 100 yards away.

Inside the van was Agent Frederikson, keeping a lookout and maintaining radio contact through the earpieces

Darius and I wore. The sound of the knob turning had me refocusing my attention on the

door of the house, which opened neither fast nor slow. A Caucasian woman and man, both of whom

looked to be in their middle 40s, stood smiling

in the doorway.

The man wore a navy blue cardigan over a long sleeve blue and white striped shirt.

...