For a moment, Silas thinks they may have killed Cho-Tyrek altogether. Grease smoke smears the scene near oblivion—it's only the faint glow of a lavender halo that suggests their mark survived. The bot is tugging at Cho's crumpled form with an insistence uncharacteristic of its kind. Unless the crash seriously screwed up its sensors, it should know it's got no chance moving him anywhere. It's strangely… emotional. The desperate dregs of hope. 

You have to leave him behind. There's no saving him.

Taking the stairs down two at a time, Silas shakes the thought from his head. Comms crackle to life in its place—Ijin, ready to put a round right in the center of that halo. Practically target practice, not that he needs it. “Hold your fire,” says Silas. “We don't know for certain there's a bounty. It's more valuable intact.” 

Jogging towards the crash, he continues, “Molly, Quintus, I'm headed your way. Tell me you were wearing seatbelts.”