SA Brigit 'Bree' Walsh nodded as she looked over the schematics one last time, grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully, one leather-clad finger tracing the outline from the building's 'front' to the belly of the building, to the illicit casino for what had to be the hundredth time. Even here in the back of this covert SUV, her M4 resting against her knee, the thick soles of her black Hi-Tech boots tapping a tuneless rhythm against the floorboards, Bree just had to run this rut over again, digging a trench in her mind that she could run in her sleep if she had to.

They'd only get one chance at this, getting that idiot Victor out of there all in one piece, without bullet-made ventilation courtesy of the mobsters he'd pissed off. He'd gone to ground in Jersey after transferring millions in mob money to the Cayman Islands - why the hell he hadn't followed the money soon thereafter would remain a mystery for the ages, as far as Bree was concerned.

But no, no this guy wasn't going anywhere too far from the epicenter of mortal danger. Of course not. Not when you have a jones as bad as Victor's. Hell, gambling with your life was every bit as delectably-tempting-siren-song-enticing as gambling with all your stolen mob blood money it seemed. But this guy was about to seriously crap out.

"Walsh, you ready?" She glanced up at the enormous man in the front seat, the FBI SWAT commander for the Richmond Field Office, SA Javier Gomez. Nodding her head quickly, she folded the schematic along well-worn creases and tucked it into oneof her pants pockets, smiling her assent as she put the ear plug into her ear, clicked the mic to check the radio transmission. This was a courtesy call on their part with the Organized Crime team, busting the illegal casino here alongside the [hopeful] recovery of that dumb ass Victor, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible (or rather, as quietly and unobtrusively as a SWAT bust ever really gets?)

"Yeah, good to go Javier, thanks," she replied as she pulled the balaclava down over her face, auburn hair tucked and braided at the nape of her neck, all signs of her true identity tucked under layers of black camo and kevlar body armor. Working in the Organized Crime unit was definitely not one of those high-profile jobs, where you wanted everyone and their brother checking you out in all your glory on the evening news. That kind of publicity didn't seem to shine a... Ah... "positive" spotlight on the happiness, well-being, and peace of mind [not to mention longevity] of family and beloved friends.

No, not when these rabid dogs found themselves all cornered in a place where money or influence or corruption couldn't help them slip free anymore, with nowhere else to escape but through the guts of the agents standing right in front of them...

And no, it didn't matter to Bree in the least, that the only real family she had anymore were two cats and her pussy-whipped brother Michael. For all he irked the hell out of her, she really loved that poor bastard whose exquisite, well-bred wife gave his 'mannish' sister the stink eye every time she showed up on their doorstep (usually after receiving a furtive invitation-via-e-mail or a whispered voice mail begging her to come up for the holidays please please please!?)

"Your men got my guy's face down, right?"

"You know we do Walsh. Safe as a babe in the manger - or some shit like that," Gomez turned to give her that patented 'relax, you're in good hands' smile that probably worked wonders on most every other person on the entire damn planet, probably warm enough to grow hothouse plants in Antarctica - but Bree wasn't buying it. Not tonight.

Time was of the essence. They had been stupid-lucky-amazingly-blessed to have gotten the information they had, that Victor would be there tonight - was already in there right now as a matter of fact. But no one was dumb enough to think that if the feds had the info, that the mobsters looking for Victor didn't have it too. Somewhere in the night, unnervingly close Bree just knew, the wise guys looking for Victor would be closing in as well, this very minute.

But Gomez knew his shit, that was for good and damned sure. The first team cordoned off the exterior of the decrepit-looking building like the well-oiled machine they really were, while the second team - Bree in tow - moved into the interior. The hobo-turned-armed-doorman at the entryway didn't even bother with any kind of fight when he saw the numbers of FBI SWAT descending on him (though for a split second, she hadn't been sure - there'd been something in his eyes, some calculation he abandoned at the very last second).

Bree relieved the 'doorman' of his piece, handing it off to one of the security team before she set the guy to his knees, cuffing him with one of the string of zip ties she had clipped to her belt - and then kept right on behind the entry team.