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

submachine guns as if it were the most natural thing in the world to perform paramilitary maneuvers in the middle of a crowded Vegas hotel. Gunnar knew those punks were YmirRe, hunting for him and Ray.

“Just one break,” he muttered, then ducked his head. The security team from his old company was off to his right, and he was sure they hadn’t seen him yet. All he had to do was get to the garage, and they’d be home free. But that meant crossing the casino floor. If the goons spotted him, there’d be a bloodbath in seconds. Even if they didn’t see him, Gunnar and Ray could easily be sucked into the vortex of violence raging across the gaming floor.

But standing around wouldn’t do him any good, either. He pulled Ray along behind him and forged a path through the crowd. He kept his chin tucked tight to his chest, hunched his shoulders to hide his face, and ducked lower to reduce his height. That move made it harder for him to see threats, but it also camouflaged him from the assholes on his tail. That was a trade Gunnar was more than willing to make.

To Gunnar’s surprise, the fighting mobs scattered around the casino’s floor were so intent on tearing each other to pieces they didn’t notice the walking wounded staggering around them in shock. Men and women with grisly injuries leaned against one another as they sought refuge, more than a few of them coughing or sneezing. The urge to grab some of them and usher them to safety was almost overwhelming. If he’d been alone, the bodyguard would have done something, anything, to help these people find safety.

But Rayleigh needed him. He had to get her out of this madhouse.

Halfway to the parking garage, something slammed into Gunnar’s right arm. His gun hand went numb, and he nearly lost his grip on the pistol. Gunnar willed his hand to clamp tighter around the weapon, then turned his head to the side just in time to see a skinny dude with wire-rimmed glasses and a pawn shop’s worth of gold chains around his neck swing a golf club into his shoulder. A lightning bolt raced down Gunnar’s arm, leaving numbness in its wake. The impact and the sudden jolt knocked the wind out of the bodyguard’s lungs, and red spots danced in his vision.

Instinct drove Gunnar’s elbow into his attacker, shattering the skinny lunatic’s face and blackening both his eyes. A swift kick to the chest propelled the dazed and bleeding man back into the crowd where he was promptly torn down by more of the bloodthirsty freaks. Gunnar looped his arm around Ray’s shoulders and bulldozed a path toward the garage, praying that the explosion of violence hadn’t attracted attention from Arthur’s hitters. Gunnar tore a path through the crowd and headed for the garage. He liked his odds out there better than here in the crowded confines of the casino with crazies on every side.

Someone had smashed through the garage exit, leaving behind an empty steel frame and a floor littered with square chunks of glossy safety glass. Gunnar bulled through the door, shoulder first, and Ray followed.

The bodyguard swung his gun arm to the right, swiveling his head to track for threats. He heard wailing car alarms and excited hoots and hollers in the distance but didn’t see anything that needed immediate shooting. He scanned the vehicles neatly slotted into the spaces in front of him, cursed, then headed deeper into the garage with Ray clinging to his free hand.

“What are you looking for?” Ray asked.

“Something old,” Gunnar answered. “That won’t attract a lot of attention.”

A bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the low-ceilinged garage. Gunnar ignored the distraction and hurried past the much newer vehicles close to the entrance and toward the rust-pocked carcass he’d spotted. The scabs of peeling paint and spiderweb of cracks across the junker’s back window were a welcome sign for any would-be car thief. “Here we go.”

“This?” Ray asked in disbelief. “It’ll fall apart in five blocks.”

“It’s a Honda with California plates,” Gunnar said. A tickle at the back of his throat made him cough. “This hunk of junk’s gonna get us a lot farther than you think.”

He tried the door and found it locked. Without hesitation, he drove his elbow through the glass, popped the lock, and yanked the door open. It was a tight squeeze into the driver’s seat for his long legs, but that was all right. This wasn’t the time to be choosy. Gunnar reached across to unlock the passenger door, then turned his attention to the ignition. He put his H&K on the dash, fished his Leatherman Surge multi-tool out of the inside breast pocket of his motorcycle jacket, and unfolded the long file blade. He then rammed the makeshift key into the Accord’s starter slot and folded the Leatherman’s body at a ninety-degree angle to the blade to give himself more leverage. When he gave the tool a hard clockwise twist, the engine coughed and sputtered, then grumbled to life as Ray dropped into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind her.

“This thing is disgusting,” Ray groaned. She pulled the grease-stained safety belt across her shoulder and fastened it. Old In-N-Out wrappers, desiccated fries, and deflated ketchup packets covered the floorboards in a greasy snowbank. Ray held her feet off the floor, unwilling to dirty her boots in the fast-food garbage dump.

“Yep,” Gunnar agreed. “But it’s a car that no one will look at twice, and that’s what we need.”

He threw the vehicle into reverse, then slammed on the brakes when something thumped against the Accord’s trunk hard enough to shake the vehicle on its shoddy suspension.

“Help!” a woman screamed and pounded her hands against the trunk. “Please!”

Before Gunnar could react, five men with bloodshot eyes grabbed the woman and dragged her away from the car. She screamed again, her hands straining toward the car. One of the men threw back his head