The additional body between himself and the bullet takes enough speed off to lessen the hydrostatic shock, though the impact alone lifts Marlowe and the soldier into the air and back the few inches into the wall... "Ah FUCK!"  the pain's like a bowling ball dropped on his shoulder, and his arm won't lift the pistol from the holster... the nerves firing too many impulses to distinguish pain from movement-command...<br/><br/>He's astounded that the head officer would so carelessly shoot his own man... but that, he realizes, was a stupid mistake to make.  Marlowe should have expected a bureaucrat to put his own safety and agenda far over those of other humans, ally or enemy.<br/><br/>The officer atop him writhes, half-stifles a cry of pain, as they sink to the floor.  Marlowe, shock having not set in yet, hisses into the agent's ear.  "Forgot your fuckin' vest today?  Just my luck..."  He takes a drag from the lit cigarette still dangling from his lips as the officers move to take the gun away from his feeble reach, and looks down at the officer's shoulder and his own.  "Aw, it's through-and-through, Nancy... you'll be fine.  I'm at shit-all, though... thanks a lot."<br/><br/>He looked up at the head officer, pistol still smoking in his hand, and made himself a promise to live long enough to make that fuck suffer.  Or else come back for him.