I click the light button and examine the circuit board. I know I canвЂ™t cut any of the excess wires away, so I pull them carefully out of the way from my pocket knife. I dig deeper within the mess of wires, my fingertips finally brushing the circuit board. Several of my colleagues had died in vain trying to stop AlbertвЂ™s reign of terror, and I wasnвЂ™t going to help him add another victory to his achievements. I pull out my pocket knife and sift through the tangles.ДЄlbert had designed this bomb, and in a trademark move of his, he distracts any future disarming attempters by placing multiple wires that if cut, detonate the bomb straight away. That means that a lot of these wires are wired to different parts of the bomb, each deadlier than the other. I know from hours of training with dummy bombs under constant timers and pressure, that the wires that correspond with shutting the bomb down are located closest to the circuit board. If I cut the wrong wire, itвЂ™ll either blow up in my face right away or quicken the time, which are not good options, because then the chances of me saving millions of lives, mine included is close to impossible.

Inside are a mess of different colored wires, each corresponding to a different part of the bomb. I pull off the metal plating that encases the bombвЂ™s inner wires. I yank away the cloth covering from the bomb and gasp when I realize I only have ten precious seconds left. As the CIAвЂ™s best bomb defuser, I may be the only one qualified to prevent the mass levels of death and destruction such a bomb can create. Besides, I wouldnвЂ™t get very far before the plutonium bomb nestled in the tent of the worldвЂ™s most dangerous terrorist and anarchist blows up, taking most of the Pakistan-occupied state of Jammu and Kashmir with it. Thirty seconds before this bomb brings you down to hell with me.В I turn and run. He was psychopathic through and through, with all the charm they use to manipulate and threaten all at once. But take away that loot, take away the gun, and all thatвЂ™s left is something so pathetic, something that gave up his heart long ago, that sold his soul for extra champagne and a private jet.

His terrorist organization had been responsible for dozens of countriesвЂ™ downfalls, and he was trying to add another to his belt. And all he wanted, was to tear down governments and make sure that they would never rise again. All he cared for were his luxuries and the dirty money that floated in electronic nothingness. There is a dead quality to his eyes as if the soul had long departed and left this zombie-man in his stead, a monster to do the bidding of the dark force. I stare in horror at the smirking face of Albert Grindstaff, the purveyor of death and horror, not the sanitized version of television screens, but the real genocides, the killing of entire families, smirked at me, scarlet blood blossoming over his heart from the bullet I just shot into his chest.

Can you feel my love bombs away