Valhalla Virus by Nick Harrow (best management books of all time TXT) 📕

up with clients who paid well but were awfully shady. First, though, she wanted him to be sure that was what he wanted. “Maybe you should go legit,” she’d said to him. “Head to San Diego, teach college kids how to ride hogs so they can play Easy Rider. Pay sucks, but it’s cleaner than the river of shit you’re about to dive into.”

If he’d played that game, though, there was no doubt Gunnar would have gone soft and shacked up with a cute little surf bunny, smoking weed on the beach and watching the sun go down.

The end of that road didn’t lead to Vegas to rescue Ray from a mob scene or hunting down jötnar to save the world from chaos. Gunnar pushed aside the would-haves, could-haves, and might-have-beens and focused on the mission he’d accepted. He had the Valknut. That was a good start.

The rest he’d figure out.

When the elevator door slid open, Gunnar realized his plan to hide from the women he’d rescued was dead on arrival. They were both waiting just outside the lift with anxious expressions on their faces. When they caught sight of his injuries, Bridget made a surprised little gasp and covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers.

Ray scowled at him.

“What happened?” she asked Mimi. “I thought you went to talk.”

“It went a little sideways,” Mimi explained with a shrug. “His face looks worse than it is. He’ll be fine, but he needs rest.”

Gunnar was thankful for Mimi running interference with the other women, but the looks on their faces told him they didn’t buy her story. He couldn’t blame them. Ray had cleaned him up after more than one bar fight. “It’s okay, Mimi,” the bodyguard said. “I’ll take a shower, then we’ll figure out what to do with the Valknut.”

He held it together long enough to reach the guesthouse, though it was hard to walk with the world shifting around him with every other step he took. One moment he was in the pastel-lit bunker. The next he ducked his head to get through the low door of a wooden lodge wreathed in smoke from the massive cooking fire burning in its hearth.

“Watch your step,” Ray said. She’d stepped in front of him to keep Gunnar from walking into a wall. The other women followed along with him, offering kind hands of support and putting their bodies between Gunnar and the side of the house. If he fell, at least he’d land on something soft rather than the hard edge of a brick wall.

The bodyguard finally ran out of gas when he reached the guesthouse’s bathroom. He sat down on the toilet, flung his feet out in front of him to unlace his boots, and found he couldn’t bear to bend over to reach the bloodied cords.

“Little help,” he said to the trio who watched him from the bathroom door. “If I bend over, my brains’ll slosh out.”

To Gunnar’s surprise, Bridget beat Ray to the floor. She knelt in front of him and deftly unknotted and loosened the laces. “Don’t talk like that,” she gently chided Gunnar as she slipped his left boot off his foot. “You’ll be fine.”

Bridget’s last three words comforted the bodyguard to a surprising degree. He knew his eye socket was fractured and was sure his skull was cracked in a few places. But Bridget seemed so sure he’d recover from this mess that Gunnar couldn’t help but believe her. He reached out with one big hand and gently stroked her platinum ponytail. “Thanks,” he said. “Sorry we dragged you into this mess. I was trying to help.”

At least, that’s what Gunnar tried to say. His words sounded strange, even to himself. Maybe he’d gotten his bell rung harder than he’d thought. He decided talking wasn’t worth the effort anymore. His head felt like it was stuffed with gauze and broken glass, and it hurt like hell to open and close his jaw. He’d try again after a shower.

Bridget shucked his other boot off. She reached out a hand to steady Gunnar as he stood. When he teetered toward the shower’s glass door, Bridget put herself in the way and righted the big man. She was strong and didn’t even grunt when Gunnar put his full weight on her to unbuckle his belt and shove his pants down around his ankles. Her eyes flicked down, lingered, then lifted to meet Gunnar’s. “No wonder you’re off-balance with that swinging around,” Bridget said, sparks of mischief dancing in her eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you laugh. Let me help you into the shower.”

Gunnar chuckled, then winced again. The thought of cleaning himself up seemed like more trouble than he could manage on his own. “You’ve already seen the goods,” Gunnar said. “I wouldn’t mind some help getting cleaned up.”

“I’ll get some food going,” Mimi said. “Get him cleaned up and put him to bed. Don’t let that big idiot fall down. You’ll never get him back on his feet.”

“We’ll make sure he doesn’t keel over,” Ray said with a mischievous glint. “Here, let me get the water started while you hold him up, Bridget.”

It was a tight squeeze in the bathroom, but the trio made it work. Bridget kept Gunnar propped up against the sink, her hands on his naked chest to support his weight when he tipped forward. Ray fussed with the shower, testing the water with her fingertips until she finally hit on the right temperature. Then she gathered the boots, jeans, dirty shirt, and jacket off the floor and carried them out of the bathroom. “I’ll get these in the wash,” she called over her shoulder. “If they can be saved. Some big lug bled all over them.”

“Wait,” Gunnar said. “Jacket pocket. Inside.”

Ray stopped and juggled the clothes to reach her hand into the pocket Gunnar had mentioned. She found the Valknut and held it up. “This is what you want?”

“Yes,” Gunnar replied. “Counter.”

“Me, Jane,” Ray teased. “You, head injury Tarzan. I’ll