James Lovegrove - The Age Of Odin Read Online Free PDF Page A

about the money, I knew that.
    It was about a second chance. To do what I did best. To do the only thing I really knew how to do.
    When I got home I did a web search for "Valhalla Mission" to see if anything came up. Not one worthwhile hit other than the blog entry Abortion had talked about. Same with "Asgard Hall," the name of the castle the blogger mentioned. Nothing of any use. I assumed, if it even existed, it was some old crumbling pile that used to be called something else and new owners had taken it over and rechristened it.
    Of course I had huge doubts and misgivings about the whole enterprise. It all seemed unspeakably dodgy. A hoax, even. We'd rock up at this place and either there'd be no one there or a camera crew would be waiting and it'd turn out to be some reality TV stunt or a game show or what-have-you. I had no desire to be an ordinary person bumped up overnight to celebrity class and be made a public laughing-stock and whipping boy, however much dosh was being dangled in front of me. I didn't want to be famous for fifteen minutes or even fifteen fifteen seconds. Those stories never ended well.
    But if it was legit...
    Well, obviously it wasn't legit. This was someone recruiting for a private army. This sounded like mercenary or private security work, and very much at the iffy end of that particular scale. Proper "risk management" agencies operated out of swanky offices in Mayfair and were run by ex-Sandhurst Ruperts with tight haircuts and tailored suits. They advertised properly; they didn't wait for word of mouth to bring in employees. They also didn't hire blokes like me who were technically disabled, who'd been invalided out. They liked their meat to be in tiptop condition, ace fighting machines with a thirst for blood and a barrel-scraping of scruples.
    Whereas for the Valhalla Mission, the blogger wrote, "clean history and health are not a priority." In other words, we don't care, we'll take anyone. Like Abortion had said, not too fussy.
    So the alarm bells were well and truly ding-a-linging in the back of my head, but it was surprisingly easy to ignore them. There was more involved here than me just clearing my debts with Gen and removing that rather large bone of contention from our relationship (if it could even be called a relationship any more). No doubt about it, if I paid that money off there was every chance I'd get my visitation rights to Cody restored. I'd be able to see my son again, take him out, go to the park and the pictures with him, re-establish myself in his life as his dad, actually get to know him and allow him to get to know me so's he could learn that I was more than just a voice on the phone he was obliged to talk to every now and then.
    That was one hell of an incentive.
    But to be a soldier once more - that was the really big , shiny, orange carrot.
    So I phoned up Abortion and I said, "Let's do it."
    And he said, "I knew I could count on you, Gid."
    And I said, "This could be the biggest mistake I've ever made."
    And he said, "Mistakes are just opportunities in disguise."
    And I said, "What fortune cookie did you get that from?"
    And he said, "It's not wisdom to mock the wise."
    And I said, "But clocking smartarses round the earhole is."
    And he said, "Wednesday. We'll go next Wednesday."
    And I said, "I think I can sort my affairs out by Wednesday," knowing that my affairs wouldn't take much sorting out beyond asking for time off at Tony's Totally Toner and getting a neighbour to go in and water my spider plant while I was away. And I didn't even care if Tony said no or my spider plant died. I'd still go.
    And Wednesday came around, and it was Wednesday now, and recalling Abortion's remark - "Mistakes are just opportunities in disguise" - as we trudged through the snow storm, I couldn't help but think, You couldn't be much wronger, mate .
     
    Two miles? Three miles?
    Distances were hard to judge. So was speed. So was time. In the midst of that whirling whiteness you couldn't