Not even Book could dispute the veracity of his aim this time. Simon watched, horrified, as the man dropped to the ground with a surprised gasp.

Which gave way to an explosion of cursing in Mandarin.

Oh God.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh God, no, oh God, wo de tien, a, oh God... Simon scrambled across the yard and fought down a wave of nausea as he knelt beside his victim.

“Ni ta ma de! Tian xia suo you de ren! Dou gai si! You shot me! I can’t believe you gorram shot me!”

“I’m sorry…I’m… tzao gao…I’m sorry!” Simon pried Mal’s right hand away from where it clutched the wound, the instinct to assess overriding his own shock.

Gun shot to extreme upper left quadrant, involving chest and shoulder.

Significant bleeding…not spurting or pulsing… no major blood vessels... no exit wound…

But there was something else…his fingers found the damage as Mal yelped: bone was pushing up under misshapen skin. Simon winced. That was going to cause problems.

Mal chose that moment to confirm the prognosis, digging his fingers into Simon’s shoulder with a sharp intake of breath as he jerked himself into a sitting position. “Son of a bitch,” he ground out.

“I’m sorry!” Simon caught Mal’s good elbow to steady him, cursing himself in four languages. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“That’s a---ah,” Mal’s voice hitched as he tried to get his feet under him --- “that’s a comfort. We got to get inside.”

“But where’s the other---”

“Dead.” Mal shifted, using Simon for leverage. “Come on. We gotta --- gotta move.”

“First let me stabilize this.” Simon reached for the arm Mal had cradled against his side, noting the unnatural slump of his