Emma Swan stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom of the seedy bar, smoothing out any wrinkles in the tight, red dress wrapped around her body. She hates dresses, always has, but she has to admit that this one looks good on her. Red has always been her color. The black pumps that she rarely ever drags out of the back of her closet add an extra few inches to her height and accentuate the defined muscles of her long, slender legs. Long blonde curls ripple down over her shoulders, framing her face nicely, and green eyes sparkle. While Emma has never really thought much of her looks, she can't deny that tonight she looks hot.

"What's going on, Emma?" Barry Kowalski's deep, raspy voice comes through the phone Emma holds to her ear as she surveys her reflection. A long exhale punctuates the question, and Emma can practically see him reclined in his leather chair, booted feet kicked up on his desk, chain-smoking cigarettes like lung cancer is little more than a myth. The older man is her boss, the owner of Barry's Bonds—a name she pokes fun at every time the opportunity arises—as well as the closest thing the blonde has ever had to a family. She started working for him when she was just twenty, and she'd been with him ever since. He was a grump and a cheapskate, but there was something of a camaraderie between the two. An understanding. They had no one else in the world, so they may as well be good to each other.

"I'm powdering my nose at the moment," Emma says sarcastically, and he snorts on the other end of the line. "I got here early to stake the place out, and I just saw him enter the bar. I'm about to go out there."

"You sure about this?" Barry's voice is gruffer than usual to hide his concern. "This guy ain't no petty thief. He's up for three counts of assault, and he's got some pretty violent tendencies. He's dangerous, Emma."

"Remind me, Barry," Emma says as she wipes a smudge of mascara from the corner of her eye. "What is the price on this guy's head?"

"Fifteen," he answers with a sigh.

"Alright then," she nods. "That's all I need to hear. I'll call you when I got him in cuffs."

"Hey, be careful," Barry throws out before she can hang up, and she smiles to herself.

"Are you worried about me, Barry Bonds?" she teases him.

He coughs. "Of course not. Just don't want to lose my best tracker." She grins. "Call me when you're done."

"Will do. Initiating Operation Money Bag," she says, and he sighs exasperatedly. "Swan out." Emma hangs up the phone and smirks to herself. Maybe it is just her childhood fantasies fueled by watching too many James Bond movies taking over, but she can never resist treating her jobs like secret missions fit with codenames and everything. Barry makes fun of her for it, calling her a geek, but it does nothing to discourage her. She basically gets paid to be a badass. Like hell she isn't going to milk that for all it's worth.

Emma gives herself one more satisfied look before turning and walking out of the bathroom. The bar, a roadside attraction on the way out of the city, is filled with all kinds of suspicious-looking characters, but Emma is able to blend in seamlessly with the environment. She weaves between bodies with a look of tough indifference and the swagger of someone who is not to be fucked with. A loud, high-energy metal song plays out.

Her target sits at the bar. He is thirty-seven-years-old, six-foot-three and two-hundred pounds of muscle mass. His brown hair is shaved close to his head, like some punk-rocker wannabe, and his blue eyes are lined with bags and dark rings. He hasn't shaved his face in a while, so there's a dirty stubble that makes Emma's nose wrinkle as she approaches him. She has always hated facial hair, especially that grubby kind. He's been on the run for four days now, and he definitely looks worse for the wear. He is dressed like a teenaged metalhead in a Metallica t-shirt, plaid button-up, baggy jeans, and combat boots. There is even a chain hanging from his pocket that almost makes Emma laugh. This guy is a fucking caricature on two feet, she thinks to herself.

"Is this seat taken?" He looks up at her question and raises his eyebrows. His eyes roam up and down her body for a moment, taking her in slowly. It's clear to him, her, and everyone else there that she's about ten levels out of his league, but he's cocky. She knows that. She's counting on it.

"For a beautiful woman like you?" he says with a tug of a smile that she supposes is meant to be charming. "Of course not."

"Thanks," she smiles and sits down on the stool beside of him. The bartender comes by, and she orders a simple shot of whiskey. This doesn't exactly look like the type of place where they serve cocktails. "I'm Emma Swan."

He shakes her hand. "Mitch Grant." Lie. She doesn't need her built-in lie detector to know that he isn't telling her the truth. His name is Bradley Irving, and he's got a record as long as Emma's arm.

"Mitch," she repeats with a smile. It's her pretty-blonde-with-no-brains smile. The one that always reels in the pigs and scumbags. Which, in her line of work, is a big advantage.

"So, what brings you to a place like this alone?" Irving asks, but his eyes are trained on the generous amount of cleavage that is pushed up along the neckline of her dress. Like taking candy from a baby, Emma thinks to herself.

"I actually came here looking for someone," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. The bartender brings her shot by, and she downs it without batting an eye. "He's in a little bit of trouble, and he owes me some money." Irving's eyes narrow, and he looks up at her face suspiciously. She smiles back. "Really, Bradley, I thought this was going to be harder. With a rap like yours, I expected much more of a fight. Thanks for being an easy fifteen grand." She retrieves the handcuffs from her clutch, and he draws back. "C'mon now. Don't make this difficult now."

His eyes shift up at her, and he screws his face up. "Fuck you!" He's on his feet in an instant, shoving through the crowd and heading for the door.

"Son of a bitch," she mumbles and starts in after him. She decides she's going to slam his head into her car door for making her run in heels. Accidentally, of course.

Emma follows Irving outside the bar, heels clattering against the pavement of the parking lot. The cold night air cuts through her thin dress, and she curses under her breath. This guy is going to pay for putting her through all that bullshit.

She catches up to Irving as he crosses the parking lot, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder hard. Her tight grip brings him to an abrupt stop, and she jerks him around to face her. Rearing back, she punches him dead in the nose. He yelps and covers his face as blood pours down his chin like a fountain.

"That's for making me run in these shoes," she growls at him. "Asshole." She goes to cuff him, but he surprises her with a quick recovery. Before she can blink, his fist collides hard with the side of her face. The salty tang of iron fills her mouth, and her cheekbone throbs and aches. Taking advantage of her shock, he sprints away again. She looks up just in time to see him leap into his clunky, bronze sedan and take off down the highway. Emma watches him go with narrowed eyes as she rubs her pulsing cheek. She can already feel the swelling.

"Fucker," she mutters and retrieves her cell phone from her clutch. Opening up the tracker app she installed years ago, it shows her a map. A blinking beacon, the bug she'd planted on the car earlier in the evening, shows that he's headed North on I-95. Maybe for Canada? No way is he getting across that border on her watch. Gripping the phone tightly, she marches over to her waiting yellow Volkswagen and throws herself inside. Starting the engine, she pulls out onto the highway and heads north as well, following the marker on her map with even more desire to catch this guy. Before, it was just business. Now, he'd made it personal.