They come, not in light.

Our enemies come, not with force and violence and noise, but with quiet arms that guide people softly but definitely into dark and darker places. No one knows and no one hears. Few surface.

They come with brutality selectively applied, rarely in the light of day. They come in stealth, in the dead of night, when man's heart is at its most fragile. They come when imagination and supposition can work its own work even before; before the gentle click, click, click of a lock being picked and opened. Click, click, click, a home becoming a house becoming just another building; an empty shell with the goods of half a home, half a life, a life that was ruined.