A Night-Shift 911 Dispatcher Receives a Break-In Call for Her Own Home Address, Uncovering Her Politician Ex-Fiancé's Deadly Cover-Up
👉 Previous decision: You chose to slip away to the tech maintenance bay and ask off-duty technician Darren for help.
I pulled my headset free, the plastic scraping against my ear, and pushed myself away from the locked terminal. The administrative message pulsed a sickly green. Gabe was still furiously typing, avoiding my gaze, caught between his ambition and his conscience.
I moved with purpose, slipping past the empty supervisor’s desk and through the swinging door to the breakroom. The smell of stale coffee and microwave popcorn hung heavy in the air. Beyond it, a narrow corridor led to the maintenance bay, a fluorescent-lit cavern filled with the hum of servers.
Darren O’Connor, an off-duty telecom contractor, was bent over an open server rack, a multi-tool glinting under the harsh lights. He looked up, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
“Rough shift, huh?” he offered, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Heard some weird chatter on the trunk lines.”
“My trunk line,” I stated, my voice tight. “Console 12. Someone’s spoofing 911 calls, playing a loop through the SIP routing. And they’ve locked my terminal remotely.”
Darren’s brow furrowed. He put down his sandwich and pulled a handheld diagnostic device from his belt. He tapped a few keys, listening to the static.
“SIP spoofing, huh?” He walked over to my empty console. “Let’s see here.”
He bent low, shining a flashlight behind the terminal. His head tilted.
“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, pulling at a wire. “There’s a physical hardware tap back here. Hardwired. Professional job. Someone’s been listening, tracking dispatch schedules. They knew when you’d be alone.”
He pulled out a small, unassuming black box, a tangle of wires connected to the back of my console’s data port. It confirmed my darkest fear: this wasn’t random. It was planned, targeted, and deep inside the system.
“I need to access my home’s internal network,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Smart-security feed. Can you do that?”
He nodded, already plugging a small field laptop into the server rack. “If you’ve got the credentials. We can bridge it.”
As the screen flickered to life, displaying a login prompt, a sickening sound echoed through the tiny laptop speakers: a sharp, splintering crack, like old wood giving way. It came from my living room, live.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 5 to continue the story
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