Read Online Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) by Ian Sutherland - Free Book Online
Authors: Ian Sutherland
Ads: Link
which turned out meant off-white to dark-brown. Huge prints of French art-house movies dominated the walls. A reconditioned Adams Family pinball machine sat next to classic Asteroids arcade machine. He enjoyed playing those. But the American-style pool table in the centre was purely for show.
The main bedroom had a huge circular bed, with masculine covers and cushions. It had seen plenty of action over the last few months. The second bedroom, however, was hidden behind a false wall. None of his guests even knew the room was there. He’d had the doors ripped out and replaced with a fake, modern looking bookcase. The interior designer hadn’t even asked why. She’d taken it as a challenge and had delivered a neat solution. When he keyed the code into an app on his iPhone or pressed the button on his key fob, the bookcases swung outwards to reveal a state of the art home office.
Here he observed and controlled every aspect of SWY via thirty-three LCD computer displays mounted floor-to-ceiling on the wall opposite his glass desk. He’d arranged it like a CCTV control room. The screen in the centre was a massive sixty inches. It was surrounded with smaller thirty-six-inch screens in a six-by-six grid. The displays slowly cycled through the hundreds of video feeds from the website, allowing Crooner42 the opportunity to freely survey what his customers paid for.
Most of the webcam locations held little personal appeal. His attention was generally focused on ensuring the feeds kept on working. But there was one location that held his interest. It was the one that had given him the idea for SWY in the first place and he retained a soft spot for it. For this location, he reserved the four top centre screens of the grid to permanently display its webcam feeds. On the public website, he’d assigned the moniker Student Heaven to it.
The log display on the large screen in the centre scrolled upwards. New lines of text appeared at the bottom.
A new account had been created.
Just as Crooner42 was about to congratulate himself, more log entries appeared. Within two minutes there were eight new user accounts. Damn, which one belonged to Fingal? Or was Fingal being extra clever? Perhaps all eight were his.
Crooner42 rolled up his shirtsleeves. He had some work to do to check out the email addresses, payment details and IP addresses of all eight accounts to see if he could narrow down which of them belonged to everyday users, and which belonged to Fingal. Any typical Internet user should be relatively easy to trace back to the real world. Fingal's user account would be the one that was absolutely impossible to trace.
Crooner42 raised his hands in the air, as if conducting an orchestra.
One or more of the eight was Fingal, he was sure of it.
* * *
You slowly cycle down the affluent residential street as if you’re one of them. No one gives you a second look. You pass within inches of a woman pushing a baby stroller. She is under an umbrella and is plugged into some white earphones. You catch the tinny sound of music. You look back as you pass. Naturally, you want to see if the swivel of her hips has returned following childbirth. You want to see if she’s back on the market, asking for it already, but the music — and the baby, if you’re really honest with yourself — puts you off. You ignore her. You choose not to take an interest.
Yes, you choose. You are the one who decides. You’re like a Roman Emperor selecting who lives and who dies. Thumbs up or thumbs down? Regardless, you’ve already chosen your next one. She’s been really begging for it. She might even be The One. You can’t wait. The anticipation is a pleasure. You can feel it forming between your legs. You try to push it away, back down through your black cycle-shorts but, as usual, it seems to have a life of its own.
You spot a residential green on the corner opposite your destination. You dismount and sit on the bench under a tree. The tree
The main bedroom had a huge circular bed, with masculine covers and cushions. It had seen plenty of action over the last few months. The second bedroom, however, was hidden behind a false wall. None of his guests even knew the room was there. He’d had the doors ripped out and replaced with a fake, modern looking bookcase. The interior designer hadn’t even asked why. She’d taken it as a challenge and had delivered a neat solution. When he keyed the code into an app on his iPhone or pressed the button on his key fob, the bookcases swung outwards to reveal a state of the art home office.
Here he observed and controlled every aspect of SWY via thirty-three LCD computer displays mounted floor-to-ceiling on the wall opposite his glass desk. He’d arranged it like a CCTV control room. The screen in the centre was a massive sixty inches. It was surrounded with smaller thirty-six-inch screens in a six-by-six grid. The displays slowly cycled through the hundreds of video feeds from the website, allowing Crooner42 the opportunity to freely survey what his customers paid for.
Most of the webcam locations held little personal appeal. His attention was generally focused on ensuring the feeds kept on working. But there was one location that held his interest. It was the one that had given him the idea for SWY in the first place and he retained a soft spot for it. For this location, he reserved the four top centre screens of the grid to permanently display its webcam feeds. On the public website, he’d assigned the moniker Student Heaven to it.
The log display on the large screen in the centre scrolled upwards. New lines of text appeared at the bottom.
A new account had been created.
Just as Crooner42 was about to congratulate himself, more log entries appeared. Within two minutes there were eight new user accounts. Damn, which one belonged to Fingal? Or was Fingal being extra clever? Perhaps all eight were his.
Crooner42 rolled up his shirtsleeves. He had some work to do to check out the email addresses, payment details and IP addresses of all eight accounts to see if he could narrow down which of them belonged to everyday users, and which belonged to Fingal. Any typical Internet user should be relatively easy to trace back to the real world. Fingal's user account would be the one that was absolutely impossible to trace.
Crooner42 raised his hands in the air, as if conducting an orchestra.
One or more of the eight was Fingal, he was sure of it.
* * *
You slowly cycle down the affluent residential street as if you’re one of them. No one gives you a second look. You pass within inches of a woman pushing a baby stroller. She is under an umbrella and is plugged into some white earphones. You catch the tinny sound of music. You look back as you pass. Naturally, you want to see if the swivel of her hips has returned following childbirth. You want to see if she’s back on the market, asking for it already, but the music — and the baby, if you’re really honest with yourself — puts you off. You ignore her. You choose not to take an interest.
Yes, you choose. You are the one who decides. You’re like a Roman Emperor selecting who lives and who dies. Thumbs up or thumbs down? Regardless, you’ve already chosen your next one. She’s been really begging for it. She might even be The One. You can’t wait. The anticipation is a pleasure. You can feel it forming between your legs. You try to push it away, back down through your black cycle-shorts but, as usual, it seems to have a life of its own.
You spot a residential green on the corner opposite your destination. You dismount and sit on the bench under a tree. The tree
Similar Books
