The sun's down. It's time.

They gather in the basement training room in their black fatigues.

Armed with machine guns, they slip on their bullet-proof vests and helmets, adjusting their earpieces and polishing their goggles.

The all-important question rises above the chatter: "Everybody got their gas masks?"

A plain-clothes narcotics officer steps to the front of the room, pointing to a dry-erase board with a hand-drawn sketch, depicting the layout of the north side Terre Haute home. It's the target for the high-risk search warrant this night.

The warnings follow. Firearms. Vicious dogs. Surveillance equipment. Anhydrous ammonia. Body armor. History of domestic disputes. Threats of going out like George Schlapp (a known methamphetamine user killed during a shoot-out with police). All are possibilities -- along with an active meth lab -- the officer says.

The team plans its approach. Terre Haute Police Special Response Team: front and back door. Vigo County Drug Task Force: wait in back.

"Clear it quickly," the commander says, reminding his men to rally on the northeast corner for a head count, if anything goes wrong.

They file out of the basement, jumping into vans and unmarked police cars. No flashing lights. No sirens. The convoy heads east, then north, past oblivious drivers who are headed home for the night.

A block away: Headlights off.

The officers jump out.

They rush through the gate and in the unlocked front door. Others approach through the back.

From both directions, they're met by dogs defending the property, one inside, one out. Indoors, the dog nips at a police officer who is pinning its owner to the ground.

Rapid fire. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The dogs lay dead, the chow outside, the Dalmatian inside.

Cuffed in plastic ties, Jason Bays sits on a chair in his dining room and cries softly. "Why did you have to kill my dogs?" he asks.

No one answers. "We don't take any chances," a police captain later explains.

"You have the right to remain silent," one officer says, continuing the Miranda warning as another removes the plastic ties around Bays' wrists, replacing them with metal handcuffs.

Two detectives escort Bays into a bathroom, closing the door.

Other officers search.

And search.

Up the stairs decorated with a lighted garland that plays Christmas carols, they rummage through children's dresser drawers. Downstairs, across from the refrigerator that displays a child's weekly attendance award, they open one kitchen cabinet after another. Still nothing.

"There's dope in this house. It's just a matter of where," a narcotics officer says. He worries, nervously pacing.

Before long, another detective announces Bays has disclosed the location of the drugs.

In a basement shop drawer, they find what they came for. Two drawers above colorful spools of holiday ribbon, police discover the white powder, packaged in six plastic bags. In all: 78 grams of methamphetamine, worth $7,800 if sold by the gram.

And there's more. Decongestant pills -- about 1,000 whole tablets and 1.75 pounds of crushed. Sixteen camera batteries. Electric scales. Coffee filters. Glass Mason jars. Denatured alcohol. Burnt tin foil. A portable police scanner. Night vision equipment. Nine surveillance cameras, along with three monitors. And a stack of laminated newspaper articles about Schlapp.

A sigh of relief for police. But not so for Bays, who is led away to the Vigo County Jail, where he's to be fingerprinted, photographed and provided an orange outfit to wear.

Back at Bays' home, Drug Task Force officers continue their search. They'll be there for another hour, snapping pictures of the evidence and loading the items into their unmarked cars before heading back to their east side office. For most, the night's about over.

But for one officer, the night has just begun. Sitting at his desk, he'll gulp a Mountain Dew as he types up evidence and witness lists, along with a report about the arrest. About 3 a.m., he'll slip out the door, heading home.

For Bays, the wait has just begun. He'll spend weeks, if not months, in jail awaiting the outcome of his case.