She stared down the muzzle helplessly. Nowhere to go! Time seemed to click into slow motion, everything happening at a crawl. Instinctively, she tried to fling herself aside. Felt her muscles contract, felt her weight shift as she lunged to the right. Too late, too slow. Her own movements were as slow as everything else—as slow as everything but her racing thoughts. She saw the Amerindian runner’s finger whiten as he tightened down on the trigger. She was right out in the open, no cover. No time to reach cover. I’m dead, she thought, expecting any instant to feel the bullets flaying her flesh from her bones. She heard herself start to yell, her voice pitched too low, like sound from a tape running slow. "Noooo!"