Predator (Copper Mesa Eagles Book 1) by Roxie Noir, Amelie Hunt Page A
Authors: Roxie Noir, Amelie Hunt
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here for a hundred years without being certain that we own it.
“Where’s the letter from Quarcom?” Jules said the moment they were inside.
Zach grabbed it off the table and handed it to her. Jules read the whole thing over, then read the attachment.
“We have to fax this in,” she said incredulously. Then she looked up, from Seth to Zach and back. “Is there a fax machine in Obsidian?”
Neither of them had any idea. Within minutes, they had the very slim Obsidian phone book out and were calling everywhere that they thought might own a fax machine.
“It’s two thousand fifteen,” Jules muttered. “I can’t believe they need a fax . There’s not a copy shop, somewhere you can go to pay for copies, that sort of thing?”
The brothers looked at each other.
“That gas station outside Blanding has a copy machine,” said Zach. “It might have a fax?”
Jules was already grabbing her purse from the floor, getting out her keys, and striding purposefully toward the door.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They bickered a bit in the parking lot over who would drive, and Zach won, since his fifteen-year-old sedan at least had a real backseat. Seth gave the front seat up to Jules, and they rode in almost complete silence for an hour and a half.
“You guys really live in the middle of nowhere,” she said at last.
“We like it,” said Seth.
“It’s beautiful,” said Zach. “Kind of inconvenient, though.”
True , thought Seth. Right now, for example, when we’re going on an expedition to find the nearest fax machine.
A gas station came into view, and Zach slowed down. The three of them watched it anxiously, craning their necks to see the window. It looked deserted, and for a moment, Seth thought it was closed.
It’s okay, he thought. Blanding will have something else.
Then they pulled into the parking lot, and he could see the car parked in the back, and the signs in the window came to life. They were mostly junk food and soda advertisements, but in one corner, in LED lights, there was a small sign that said:
COPIES, 15¢
FAX
Seth whooped. Zach parked diagonally across two spots in his hurry, and the three of them got out of the car, the wind tousling their hair. Jules’s fiery curls practically exploded around her head and she made a face tugging at it. She glanced at the road and spotted a large black car slowing down.
Jules frowned, and cast Seth and Zach a look.
“Go fax that,” she said. “I’ll be right in.”
Seth and Zach just did as she said, opening the door to a faded chime. The clerk barely looked up from whatever he was doing, and Seth spied the copier in one corner, heading toward it.
“Make a copy first,” Zach said. “I think you have to feed the paper through the fax machine, and I don’t want to risk tearing it.”
The copier had to be from the 1990s, if not before, a positively ancient piece of office machinery. Seth put the deed face-down on the glass plate, then stared at the buttons. The text had worn off of them long ago, so he hit the green one.
PLEASE INSERT CHANGE, the machine flashed at him.
Seth looked around for a coin slot on the machine, feeling the edges and sides with his fingers.
“Excuse me,” Zach said behind him, to the clerk. “How do you pay for copies?”
“The coin slot,” the clerk said, sounding bored. “It’s on the left.”
Practically hidden behind the machine was the same kind of coin slot that washers and dryers in laundromats had, and Seth dug through his pockets for change.
Outside the gas station’s plate glass windows, the black car had pulled into the gas station and was idling a couple of spots away, like it was waiting. No one got out, though Jules was still watching it, one hand over her eyes. Something in the way she was standing, waiting, gave him pause.
“Here,” said Zach. “I got a quarter.” He slotted it into the machine and it fell down the metal tube. The copier sprang to life, just once, the paper
“Where’s the letter from Quarcom?” Jules said the moment they were inside.
Zach grabbed it off the table and handed it to her. Jules read the whole thing over, then read the attachment.
“We have to fax this in,” she said incredulously. Then she looked up, from Seth to Zach and back. “Is there a fax machine in Obsidian?”
Neither of them had any idea. Within minutes, they had the very slim Obsidian phone book out and were calling everywhere that they thought might own a fax machine.
“It’s two thousand fifteen,” Jules muttered. “I can’t believe they need a fax . There’s not a copy shop, somewhere you can go to pay for copies, that sort of thing?”
The brothers looked at each other.
“That gas station outside Blanding has a copy machine,” said Zach. “It might have a fax?”
Jules was already grabbing her purse from the floor, getting out her keys, and striding purposefully toward the door.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They bickered a bit in the parking lot over who would drive, and Zach won, since his fifteen-year-old sedan at least had a real backseat. Seth gave the front seat up to Jules, and they rode in almost complete silence for an hour and a half.
“You guys really live in the middle of nowhere,” she said at last.
“We like it,” said Seth.
“It’s beautiful,” said Zach. “Kind of inconvenient, though.”
True , thought Seth. Right now, for example, when we’re going on an expedition to find the nearest fax machine.
A gas station came into view, and Zach slowed down. The three of them watched it anxiously, craning their necks to see the window. It looked deserted, and for a moment, Seth thought it was closed.
It’s okay, he thought. Blanding will have something else.
Then they pulled into the parking lot, and he could see the car parked in the back, and the signs in the window came to life. They were mostly junk food and soda advertisements, but in one corner, in LED lights, there was a small sign that said:
COPIES, 15¢
FAX
Seth whooped. Zach parked diagonally across two spots in his hurry, and the three of them got out of the car, the wind tousling their hair. Jules’s fiery curls practically exploded around her head and she made a face tugging at it. She glanced at the road and spotted a large black car slowing down.
Jules frowned, and cast Seth and Zach a look.
“Go fax that,” she said. “I’ll be right in.”
Seth and Zach just did as she said, opening the door to a faded chime. The clerk barely looked up from whatever he was doing, and Seth spied the copier in one corner, heading toward it.
“Make a copy first,” Zach said. “I think you have to feed the paper through the fax machine, and I don’t want to risk tearing it.”
The copier had to be from the 1990s, if not before, a positively ancient piece of office machinery. Seth put the deed face-down on the glass plate, then stared at the buttons. The text had worn off of them long ago, so he hit the green one.
PLEASE INSERT CHANGE, the machine flashed at him.
Seth looked around for a coin slot on the machine, feeling the edges and sides with his fingers.
“Excuse me,” Zach said behind him, to the clerk. “How do you pay for copies?”
“The coin slot,” the clerk said, sounding bored. “It’s on the left.”
Practically hidden behind the machine was the same kind of coin slot that washers and dryers in laundromats had, and Seth dug through his pockets for change.
Outside the gas station’s plate glass windows, the black car had pulled into the gas station and was idling a couple of spots away, like it was waiting. No one got out, though Jules was still watching it, one hand over her eyes. Something in the way she was standing, waiting, gave him pause.
“Here,” said Zach. “I got a quarter.” He slotted it into the machine and it fell down the metal tube. The copier sprang to life, just once, the paper
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