Her eyes go wide, and she thrashes, trying to free herself from the rope before it's too late. She nearly wrenches one shoulder out of its socket, but ignores the pain in favour of continuing her struggle.
There's a clock hanging on the wall and, expression almost bored, he glances at it.
Fifty seconds.
She tries to scream, but the gag muffles the sound and it comes out as a desperate moan.
Forty five seconds.
Pulling out his phone, he raises one eyebrow in her direction. No call. No reprieve. No-one agreeing to pay the ransom and save her.
Not yet, at least –
Forty seconds.
– and there's not much time left.
"Think he'll call?"
Of course, she can't answer while the gag is in her mouth, but he continues talking.
"All he needs to do is make a decision."
Thirty seconds.
"Your life's in his hands, not mine."
Her eyes continue watching the clock mounted high on the wall; each second that ticks past brings her a second closer to imminent death.
Twenty seconds.
Again, she tries to scream. Fear constricts her throat and turns the cry into nothing more than a series of pathetic whimpers.
Fifteen seconds.
Her nails scrabble at the rope around her wrists, trying to chafe it, loosen it, break it. Exactly what she's been trying to do for the past few hours, without success.
Ten seconds.
He stands and, absurdly, she tries to run. She's lying on the floor with ankles and wrists bound, but she still attempts to push herself away. Futile. He grabs her hair in one hand, digs a knee into her back, and twists her head backwards so that her neck is fully exposed.
Five seconds.
"Such a shame..." he murmurs, sliding a long thin knife out of his belt. She struggles uselessly as the serrated edge rests lightly against the pale skin of her throat.
One second.
The clock hand flicks sideways, the motion sharp and precise.
She sucks in a trembling breath, her eyes squeezing shut of their own accord. The blade digs in a little as he prepares for the killing blow, and she feels a sudden dampness on her cheeks. She doesn't wonder, but she's slightly ashamed.
Then comes a sound, louder than her frantic breaths, louder than the monotonous ticking of the clock.
The phone is ringing.
Her eyes snap open, and she silently begs for deliverance from whichever god is listening. Any strength of character she thought she possessed has fled. There's no point being strong, brave, and dead.
Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he checks the display, the knife momentarily leaving her throat.
He glances at the clock –
"Just a couple of seconds too late."
– and ignores the call. In a single fluid movement he brings the knife back down and rips the jagged edge through her throat.