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miles.”
    “This won’t be easy, with all the trees and slides,” the pilot said.
    “Never is,” Nathan said, “never is.”
    “We might try the FLIR this evening, or at least in the early morning,” the copilot said. FLIR, Nathan knew, was an acronym for Forward Looking Infrared Radar, a unit that tracked heat sources. Heat, as slight as body heat from one person (or deer, bear, or cougar) generated an outline of the mammal. It was also useful in finding campfires, or fires in general.  Law enforcement had used the technology for years to locate marijuana growing operations. The military used it to find enemy campfires, engine heat, and soldiers.
    The FLIR unit could, under optimum conditions, trace a person’s movement through the landscape, with body heat lingering in the air. In some cases, you could see footprints that faded as the heat left them.
    They flew him back to the base camp, and immediately took off to use the remaining daylight.
     
    Whitewater River
     
    Jennifer heard a noise and looked up. A buzzing noise. She just wanted to sleep. She clutched her Nanna and kissed the doll and closed her eyes. She had heard the noise before, but she couldn’t remember where. The buzzing grew closer, then faded, and was gone altogether. Silence came back to her place.
    Helicopter. That’s what it was. Helicopter. Sometimes they came up the Willamette River, through downtown Portland, not too far from my deck..
    But they shouldn’t be this close .
    Good thing they went away. I need to sleep.

C hapter 7
     
    Cold River Indian Reservation
    Given s Heights Subdivision
     
    Smokey looked over the line of vehicles ahead of him. They were two blocks from the target house when his cell phone rang. Surveillance team on the house.
    “Smokey.”
    “Uh, bad guy number one is still here, we got at least seven Eighteenth Streeters in and around the house.”
    “We’ll be turning on the street now.”
    “Right. See the first patrol car now, we have the rear and corners of the house covered.”
    “Copy.”
    The subdivision was spread out on a sagebrush hillside, each house on an acre lot, the target house at the end of the lane. The hillside rose up behind the house to a line of basalt rim rock, two hundred yards away. A detective was up there with a spotting scope.
    The lead patrol car turned on the street, accelerated past a house toward the target house a hundred yards away, with four additional marked patrol cars, and four unmarked detective cars close behind, each car slamming around the corner. This run and shoot was the only way to do it in the daytime, and daytime raids were all they ever got.
    Go in fast, get the perimeter out and the entry team up. Hazardous, but the only way to do it.
    The house was a single story ranch-style house with nondescript grey siding. As Smokey rounded the corner with the ambulance trailing behind him, he could see eight or ten cars in the driveway and on the side of the house. Some had been permanent fixtures for years, left there for tenant after tenant to work around.
    The lead patrol car slammed to a stop at the entrance to the driveway. The front doors flew open and Officers Kincaid and Burwell ran out, running fast to their assigned perimeter positions. Kincaid ran for a tree on the west side of the residence as Burwell ran for a vehicle on the east side, thei r submachine guns up and in firing position.
    Smokey saw the rest of them come up fast, three patrol cars and a detective car, doors flying open and officers running for their assigned spots.  Smokey stopped and watched as the entry team ran for a spot to the west of the front door. Sergeant Lamebull was followed closely by Officer Sarah Greywolf, her UMP machine gun at the ready.
    Bad guys have to know we are here by now. They get out and on the run, we’re go ing to have trouble containing this.
          From where he was at the end of the line of cars Smokey could hear yelling from the house. The last member of