Time was running out.

Ten.

I fumble with the paperwork, desperately looking for that tell-tale ripped corner.

Nine.

I start panicking but force myself to hold it together.

Eight. Seven.

My fingers find what I'm looking for; I pull it out in one swift movement.

Six.

A single word spoken on the radio.

Five. Four.

A car door slams, footsteps running away. My heart starts beating again.

Three.

I plunge my hand back into the desk drawer, once again rummaging.

Two.

I feel the cold metal on my fingers, grasp it.

One.

I swing the small pistol, cocking it as I aim it at my own head.

Zero.

Bang.