Pad stopped typing, looked
up from his machine and listened. He wondered if his brother, reading
in their bedroom upstairs, or his parents, watching telly in the back
lounge room, could hear the creaking.
The sound became more pronounced and Pad swung around and looked
toward the hallway. In a matter of seconds, the front door frame had
been cracked open, prising the door away from its lock. The wood had
been torn apart by some sort of car jack, pumped up until the door
gave way.
Suddenly, a group of men burst through from the front doorstep, dashed
down the long hallway and shot up the carpeted stairs to Pad's
bedroom.
Still sitting at his computer downstairs, Pad swiftly flicked his
modem, and then his computer, off--instantly killing his connection
and everything on his screen. He turned back toward the door leading
to the sitting room and strained to hear what was happening upstairs.
If he wasn't so utterly surprised, he would almost have laughed. He
realised that when the police had dashed up to his bedroom, they had
been chasing every stereotype about hackers they had probably ever
read. The boy. In his bedroom. Hunched over his computer.
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