Page 16 of The Deeper Game
Odin was the first to spot the package on the stoop. “What the hell is that?” he said, stretching out an arm to the side as if to sayno further.
We all just stood there, some twenty feet away, staring at the package.
It was definitely weird for there to be a package waiting for us. The mailbox was way down at the end of the drive, and we only ever got junk mail anyway. Not like any of us would ever whip out a credit card and order something online, and all of our bank accounts were offshore, if not offshore of offshore. The only people who knew where we crashed were our closest comrades. And they would know not to leave a package.
Thor squinted at it, eyes brilliant blue in the sunshine. “There is no way this is good,” he said.
It was about the size of a shoebox and wrapped in white paper.
“Get back behind the Nav,” Odin commanded. We all went back behind the SUV. Odin grabbed a stone and threw it at the package with impressive accuracy.Bop. The package rolled and slid.
“Bomb test?” I asked.
Thor, not to be outdone, threw his own damn rock. Thor’s rock was larger and he threw it harder. The package rolled.
I gasped.
There was one word written on it in huge, childish block letters: Isis.
It wasn’t the cute kind of block letters, either. More like scary-dude-in-a-basement-bent-on-vengeance kind of lettering.
Trust me, crazed-dude-in-a-basement-bent-on-vengeance is not a font you ever want to see your name written in.
“Ice?” Odin asked. “Any ideas…?”
“None.”
“What the hell,” Thor muttered under his breath. He’d already pulled out his silver Sig. Were they going to shoot it, now?
“Written with the left hand,” Odin observed. “To make the writing untraceable. I need gloves.”
Thor yanked open the door and pulled what looked like a tissue box from the glove compartment, except it was full of latex gloves. He handed a pair to Odin.
Odin snapped them on. “Stay there.”
I held my breath as he headed around and up to the stoop. He picked up the box and held it, simply contemplating it, one hand on either side, like a basketball player about to make a free-throw. Then he lifted it and sniffed it. After that, he put it to hisear and listened, and turned it to examine the paper wrapper folds on one end. For his final act, he licked those folds.
“Yuck,” I said.
Thor put a quieting hand on my arm. Odin just stood there, brows drawn low in a scowl at the package, as if, having exhausted all five senses, he now hoped to receive an ESP communication from it, a feat that wouldn’t entirely shock me, I suppose. Odin was the most brilliant of us—a kind of artist who sailed through the highest stratospheres of techie-ness and psychological understanding.
I held my breath as he shook it. Then he turned to us. “I’mgoing-gto open this fucker up. You mind?”
“Go for it,” I said.
“Do it,” Thor said, strolling up.
“No, stay back.” Odin said.
“You better be downwind,” Thor grumbled.
“I am.” Odin set it back down on the stoop and undid the white paper, careful not to rip anything, pulling it off in a large piece. One of the sides was kind of shiny.
It turns out it was the size of a shoebox because it was a shoebox, with the Nike swoosh on the side. Somehow I doubted it contained shoes. I held my breath as Odin flipped off the lid and bent over the contents.
“What is it?” Thor asked.
“Come see,” Odin said.
