Falcon didn’t have to reply; she could see the answer as well as he could. The elf’s entire chest was a mass of blood and torn flesh. He’d been wearing a padded jacket, perhaps armored enough to stop rounds from a light submachine gun. But against a blast from an assault shotgun—at less than ten meters? Not a fragging chance. The elf might as well have been wearing a T-shirt for all the protection the jacket gave him. He was dead, Falcon knew, if not now then soon. And whatever time he had left wasn't a blessing.