Just after sunrise on a still July morning, federal agents swarm a one-story house on a quiet residential street in Seattle.
A SWAT team in camouflage wields assault rifles and a battering ram as they file between a row of vehicles—a furniture truck, a Jeep, and an Airstream RV—parked in the front yard. The unit advances past them and, guns still pointed, bangs on the protective security door. “FBI, open up!”
The shout and the rattle rouse the five residents at the Beacon Hill home. The feds clear them from the premises, then fan out among three bedrooms and a cluttered living room bathed in the galactic hues of
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