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“Gun!” the security man shouted, and with his right hand he swung the briefcase out in front of him.
The case seemed to elongate with the force of the movement, and instantly it extended into a large black mat, some five feet in length. It was a Kevlar ballistic shield, and the man had just held it up as Emilio got his gun out and began shifting to face the bike racks.
Wren stood ten feet in front of him; he expertly drew from his shoulder holster and swung his Beretta pistol as he swiveled his head back in the direction of the bikes.
Gunfire boomed on the pavement before he found a target; Wren knelt to make his body smaller, but he kept on mission. Scanning with his weapon, Wren saw the two bikers who had just arrived aiming stainless steel semiautomatic pistols, both dumping rounds at the entourage.
The gunman on the right seemed to twitch as if he’d been hit, but he re-aimed his pistol just as Wren got his own handgun up and into the fight. Wren centered on the target’s chest and pressed the trigger, and his Beretta snapped in his hand. Firing a second and then a third time, he saw the young attacker whipping back over a bicycle and falling to the ground.
The other man got a second shot off just as Wren began to shift to him. He fired a third time, focused on his target and not looking in Wren’s direction. The former SAS man fired once into the side of the man’s chest, dropping him to the ground ten feet from his compatriot.
The gunfire ceased instantly, but Wren now heard shouting. He turned for his principal and saw one of the men with a ballistic shield covering Anton Hinton as they ran back towards the van, its door already reopened as the driver prepared to get them out of the area.
Anton appeared unhurt.
Two other security men ran with them, their guns out and sweeping, and Wren could see that Kimmie was already back in the vehicle.
Gareth Wren had only taken a single step back in the direction of the van when he saw Emilio lying facedown on the pavement in front of him, blood pouring from an exit wound at the back of his head.
Wren raced toward the man, his pistol still up in front of him, but then he leapt over Emilio and kept running.
A university security officer wailed in pain on Wren’s right, but he didn’t even stop to look in the man’s direction, so focused was he on getting his employer out of the line of any more fire.
The door to the van was wide open as it sped off up Hythe Bridge Street; one of the bodyguards had draped his heavy ballistic shield over Hinton on the sofa, and Kimmie lay on the floor, tucked in a ball so that the others could have some space.
As the door shut, Wren tapped the intercom button to reach the driver up front. “Back to the Randolph! Call an ambulance for Emilio and at least one other wounded back at the scene, and then call Dr. Patel and have him ready to check Anton out when we get to the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now the fifty-seven-year-old former warrant officer looked over to Hinton; he could barely make him out from around the side of the shield, and instantly he worried that the man had, in fact, been shot. His face was white, his eyes wide but unfixed, and he lay on the sofa while his protector all but sat on him, the shield sandwiched between the two bodies.
Gareth moved to Hinton quickly, pushed away the shield and the security officer, and ran his hands all over his employer’s body. Soon he realized Anton was only suffering from shock.
Kimmie crawled on her hands and knees to the front of the cabin and sat in one of the chairs next to the reporter, whose face was as white as Hinton’s. Wren saw Kimmie and David and recognized the distress. “Are either of you hit?” he shouted at them, hoping to break them out of any shock they might have been experiencing.
The reporter for the Economist said, “I…I’m all right.”
Kimmie pushed long black hair away from her eyes. “Emi…I think he’s hurt.”
He’s more than hurt, Wren thought. He said, “An ambulance is on the way.”
“Shit!” Hinton shouted suddenly, his first real sign of life since being shuffled out of the gunfight, and Wren looked back to see what was going on. The New Zealander sat up on the sofa next to two bodyguards. His head dropped into his hands, and he looked utterly distraught.
Wren knelt on the floor in front of the sofa. “You’re okay, Anton.”
“Emilio. Is he…”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, God! I made us go today. I made us go!”
“Listen to me, Anton. Emilio was doing his job, you were doing your job. You’re not at fault for this. The shooters…” He hesitated, then said, “The people who ordered this…this is on them. Only them. You’ve got to get your head right, because this shit is going to happen again.”
Hinton cocked his head a little. “Again?”
“You’re still alive! Whatever this is all about, it’s bloody apparent somebody needs you dead. As long as they’re out there, you are in danger!”
Hinton stared off into space as the Sprinter van raced through morning Oxford traffic.
