Jayne was dragging the bodies into one corner of the warehouse to keep them out from underfoot if there was another fight going to happen, and taking the opportunity to go through their pockets as he did so, while Mal and Zoe peered gingerly out of the door.

“How many you figure?” Mal asked, trying to see through the still driving rain.

“Can’t tell, sir. Possibly another four. Maybe five.”

“At least the odds are a bit better this time.”

“We could use the mule, make a break for it,” she suggested.

“They’d be able to pick us off too easy, and at least one of us would be likely to be hit.” He shook his head. “And I’m more than a trifle concerned about what he said about Serenity.”

“You think Freya can’t handle them, sir?”

“Frey’s hurt.”

She stared at him. “Badly?”

“I don’t know. She’s not talking.”

Now she could see the tight worry lines around his eyes. She knew them of old, when they were waiting for a patrol to come back from a recon during the war, when he could feel in his gut that something had gone wrong, that his men were lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding their life into the mud. “She’ll be fine. You’d know otherwise, Mal,” she said softly.

His lips twitched at her use of his first name. “Always figured that.”

“How come no-one’s come to find out what the noise is?” Jayne asked, coming up behind them, unaware of the conversation.

“It’s a public holiday,” Zoe said, surprising them both. “Hank looked it up,” she explained. “And I'm guessing the rain’s keeping most folks inside. Unless they’re crazy.”

“You mean like us?” Mal smiled at her, then looked out of the door. A bullet thudded into the doorframe, throwing up wood chips. He ducked back, swearing, as he reached up to his cheek and dug out a large splinter. He could feel blood running freely down his skin and he pressed against the small wound. He looked at Zoe. “You know, I think someone just tried to kill me.”

“That’s unusual, sir,” she said, deadpan, earning a raised eyebrow from her capt