Being in the right place at the right time can be a blessing. Seeing a situation, lending a helping hand or just witnessing an event that will be historic can leave an everlasting impression on the mind. In this short story, our mortal encounters a set of conditions unknown to himself or scientific discipline.

Bonito de Silva knew he had joined a dangerous and possibly lethal operation upon entering the "Treasury Department" as a black operative. With his assignments came total denial of his part in any and all activities and would be repudiated by the U. S. State Department. What he didn’t know, was that his placement as a mole in the Columbian "Medellin Cartel" would eventually lead to his exposure. The Cartel’s intricate network of clandestine informants within America’s infrastructure was far more reaching than expected. And so it was, that Benito had been exposed by a so called "loyal friend" and was to pay the ultimate price.

Deep in a forest’s dense foliage, sixteen miles east of Medellin, Bonito found himself in a defenseless predicament. His accuser, along with three other cartel members, stood directly in front of him, each brandishing an AK-47 which were pointed directly at his head. Dressed in military fatigues and wearing a look of self satisfaction on their faces, Bonito knew this was going to be an execution of unparalleled gratification. A top U. S. spy, a "Treasury Man" no less and nowhere to go except to die. He was a plant and he was going to die mercilessly.

Agreed upon by the AK-47 enforcers, was the technique to be used for this execution. It would be a slow and very painful demise for this spy. One militant would take a single shot at an extremity of Bonito and celebrate at the resulting bodily damage. His suffering would be laughed at aloud with each bullet penetration. Upon the final shot that would kill him, his carcass would be cut up and sent back to the U. S. as a warning to others who wished to infiltrate their domain.

As a termination to his life, Bonito had accepted his fate by such a gruesome act. Not quite what he had expected, but all the same, his life was at an end. Both of his arms and legs had been shackled in chains. His arms were outstretched to a make-shift cross allowing him to move slightly while the chains pressing against his ankles were pegged into the ground.

His executioners were ready with loaded rifles with his accuser to get the first shot.

Standing twenty feet away from Bonito, he raised his rifle and took careful aim at the palm of Bonito’s right hand. There was a loud noise from the gun and all the Cartel members waited with baited breath for the scream of pain. But there was no cry of pain. There was no blood. He had missed.

"Where the hell did you learn to shoot?" said the number two shooter." Fire again. And don’t bloody miss this time."

Number one aimed again and squeezed the rifles trigger. Another loud noise and the smell of cordite. Again, the results were identical. No blood, scream or damage anywhere on Bonito. Bonito just looked at his executioners with a face likened to molded plastic.

"Check your eyesight. Get a good pair of glasses. You had your chance, now it’s mine." said the number two rifleman. He took aim, pointed directly at his prisoners heart and fired off a round. Same results. This time, number two walked ten feet closer and repeated the exercise. Again, the same results.

Almost in unison, the militants exclaimed "What’s going on here?"

Number four shooter said, "Everyone shoot and empty the damn clips in your rifles at him. That will do the job." And so, they did just that.

What Bonito saw, was the flash from the rifles barrel of the first shooter and experienced seeing the bullet head towards him at an incredibly slow rate of speed. He assumed it was traveling approximately one foot every two seconds, although he really wasn’t counting by the second hand of his watch. That bullet was heading straight for his hand. Behind the spent shell, were small twisting circles of air created by the bullet’s passage. Bonito was shocked when he realized he could move his right hand and allow the bullet to pass harmlessly. In a state lacking any sense of motion, Bonito witnessed wooden shards being ejected from the cross he was tethered to.

While Bonito avoided these wooden fragments in the same manner as the bullet, he heard the sound of voices being played like a record increasing in speed. Eventually, his executioners rhetoric became normal and were arguing amongst themselves. Then another barrel flash. And again Bonito just moved his hand and for the second time watched in amazement as the bullet ever so slowly past by.

He thought to himself, "I have no idea what’s going on here, but this had better continue or I’m a dead duck for sure. If I’m not mistaken, these guys are just as baffled as I am! " And with that said, a barrage of lead was thrown at him by all four AK-47s. This time, Bonito had to avoid over one hundred of these deadly projectiles and as before, but with more agility, he voided each swirling path. He stood in the same position on the cross and looked at the four men. Time and movement went back to normal for Bonito.

Completely stunned by what had and had not happened, the four gun toting men dropped their rifles, walked towards Bonito with great caution and looked at his entire body. No bullet holes. Not a scratch.

"This is impossible" said number three. "I fired every bullet. I saw wood fly from behind this guy. I know I hit him at least a dozen times or more! He should be riddled with wood and lead." Number four thought for a moment. Then with a disembodied tone, blurted, "This guy ain’t for real. I know what I did and we all saw it. Every round went right through him. Right through this guy. I ain’t touching him. He’s the Devil. He’s the Devil I tell yah. I’m getting the Jesus outa here. You guys do want you want, but I’m outa here."

Number two reiterated number four’s exact sentiments. " Yep, I’m going to get my share of cocaine, grab my bag and leaving this place. Nobody will ever find me again. This whole thing ain’t right. We’ve been jinxed and I’m outa here forever. You do what you want and I’m doing what I want. I didn’t see a thing here. Nothing. You hear me? Nothing."

Bonito had never seen four individuals run so fast as these guys. Faintly, off in the distance, one fellow was heard yelling at another, "Get the hell outa my way." And then silence. It took Bonito several minutes to digest the circumstances he had just witnessed. There was no sense to the whole matter. He didn’t understand a thing. The swirling in the air from the passing bullets, the flash from their guns, dodging the shells, the flying shards and all in slow motion.

"Well!" he postulated, "I think I’m still alive. No holes in me, no worse for wear except my arms and feet are sore. But I can handle that. Time to get out of these chains." With great effort, Bonito was able to release himself from his irons, stole one of the Cartel’s new vans and left for the city of Cali where nobody would recognize him. At least not at first. Once he arrived, he would send a signal to his contact in Cartagena and ask to get safe passage out of the country.

Once arrangements had been made for his extrication, Bonito purchased local attire in an effort to blend into the local surroundings. He ditched the Cartel’s van, disposed of his working clothes and went to the harbour docks and waited for the launch to take him to freedom. The launch would carry an American flag and was to slowly enter the waters just off the wharf where Bonito would be. Then, he was to swim a short distance to the passing launch, climb aboard and back to San Francisco.

He saw the craft slowly enter the harbour and dove into the water. Grabbing the ladder left for him to climb, Bonito went up each rung and flung himself on the deck. He was spent and wanted to sleep.

Beachcombers, those basking on the beach, swimmers and guards were shocked at the size of the explosion and the aftermath. What they witnessed was a magnificent forty seven foot yacht rise into the air under an intense fireball. The craft disintegrated. Fragments were thrown hundreds of feet from the initial blast. If anyone was on board, there would be no survivors. And, upon investigation, no bodies or parts thereof were found.

The man looking out his penthouse window just two hundred yards from shore, saw the yacht and the explosion. His round face expressed in detail his exact feelings. The eyes were squinted, the mouth in a devilish grin and the forehead had more pleasurable wrinkles in it than normal. "Amazing what these Americans make! Just three pounds of C-4 plastic. Utterly amazing. Wonderful fireworks."

The man’s smug expression changed rapidly as he turned around and saw a man standing two feet behind him. "Hi." said the stranger. "My name is Bonito. What’s yours?"