You get under the desk to see if anything is taped up there, like maybe a packet of cocaine, but there is only dried snot. Damn. Gotta keep looking, find something, somewhere . . . but a voice, a man, shouts suddenly: "What the hell do you think your doing?"
Shit. You try to get out and up quick, only to bash your head against the underside of the desk. Your vision goes wobbly, ears ringing, like maybe you gave yourself a concussion, and you look up to see a man in a suit-and-tie looming, screaming in outrage, calling you a spy, a snitch.