Ten Past Four

Ten Past Four

Sergeant Ramirez swore under his breath. The bomb squad wouldn't arrive for another ten minutes, and the timer, a crude digital monstrosity blinking a malevolent red, read ten past four. Ten past four, etched into his memory like a brand. Sixty seconds. A lifetime in the bomb disposal business, but sixty seconds could be an eternity.

The device was crude, a mess of wires and duct tape strapped to a rusty gas canister. It sat innocuously on the coffee table in a cramped, second-floor apartment, surrounded by scattered toys and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. A child's apartment. Ramirez felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.

He'd entered under the pretense of a gas leak, a lie that sat heavy on his tongue. The young woman, barely out of her teens, had looked at him with a desperate mix of fear and relief. Ramirez had seen that look before - the look of someone who knew this was it, the look of a cornered animal.

"Where's your husband?" he'd asked, already knowing the answer.

"Gone," she'd said, her voice barely a whisper. "He wouldn't listen. Said he'd make a statement."

A statement. A word that often translated to pointless violence, leaving Ramirez to pick up the pieces - or worse, become part of them. Now, with sixty seconds ticking down, Ramirez had a choice: prioritize the woman's safety or try to disarm the bomb.

He glanced at her again. She was huddled in the corner, clutching a small teddy bear, her eyes wide with terror. Sixty seconds. His gaze flicked back to the timer, the red digits mocking him.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced. A training exercise, years ago. A similar bomb, a similar timer. His instructor, a gruff, old veteran named Miller, had barked out instructions, then thrown a wrench. "Improvise, Ramirez!" he'd bellowed. "That's what separates the bomb techs from the bomb victims."

Ramirez scanned the room. His eyes landed on a metal lamp stand. It was flimsy, but it might just work. He grabbed it, ignoring the woman's whimper of protest.

"Stay back!" he yelled, his voice surprisingly steady.

He knelt beside the bomb, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Forty seconds. His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as he used the lamp stand to pry open the back of the device. Inside, a mess of wires snaked around a circuit board. He needed to find the power source, the heart of the beast.

Thirty seconds. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He spotted a red wire, the most common for positive current. But there was no guarantee. Improvise. He remembered Miller's words.

Twenty seconds. With a deep breath, he held the lamp stand aloft, the metal tip poised inches away from the red wire. He closed his eyes, picturing the training manual, picturing Miller's gruff face.

Ten seconds. Time seemed to stretch, each tick of the timer an eternity. Then, with a surge of adrenaline, he brought the lamp stand down.

Five seconds. A spark. A deafening crack. The room plunged into darkness, the smell of burnt wires acrid in his nostrils. His ears rang with a persistent whine.

Zero. Silence. Deafening, beautiful silence.

Ramirez waited, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the windows. The apartment was a mess, but the bomb was neutralized. Relief washed over him, a wave so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees.

He turned to the woman. In the dim light, she looked even younger, her face streaked with tears. But there was a spark of life in her eyes, a flicker of hope.

"It's over," Ramirez managed to say, his voice hoarse.

She didn't speak, but a small, grateful smile touched her lips. In that moment, sixty seconds of fear and adrenaline translated into something far more profound - a life saved, a future preserved. As the bomb squad finally arrived, Ramirez knew this wouldn't be a day he'd soon forget. Ten past four, the time etched into his memory, would forever be a reminder of the day he defied the odds, the day he improvised his way out of sixty seconds of hell.