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A Fictional Scenario
A well-concealed alliance between ANTIFA leaders and Hamas terrorist sleeper cells — all funded by Iran — in Colorado was a match made in Marxist heaven. Both were committed to creating chaos and destroying America, albeit for their own reasons. ANTIFA was Leftist elites’ go-to organizer, supplying hundreds of trained agitators for nationwide protests purportedly triggered by deportations of illegal alien criminals and America’s stunning attack on Iran’s nuclear infrastructure. Antifa’s shadowy handlers and underwriters claimed innocent “immigrants” were being targeted for deportation, ignoring the hard-core criminals that had killed and terrorized Colorado citizens.
The Iran-backed Hamas cell brought money, sophisticated communications networks and the cold-hearted psychoses necessary to carry out mass shootings and bombings in high-density urban areas. The June 2025 strike on Iran by U.S. bombers, fighters and Tomahawk missiles provided a perfect excuse to activate cells of killers that Iran had quietly inserted, during the Biden Administration’s open-border fiasco. Now, these trained Islamic terrorists were poised to launch well-planned attacks under the cover of radical “protests” across the nation.
ANTIFA and Hamas operatives had infiltrated anti-Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) protests in Los Angeles, New York and other large cities controlled by progressive mayors and city councils. Those politician-sanctioned protests provided perfect cover for paid Marxists to create mayhem. Once-peaceful “social justice for immigrants” protests easily metastasized into violent riots, with ANTIFA-led operatives torching commercial buildings and terrorizing citizens left on their own, abandoned by police officers restrained by their elitist political masters.
While TV pundits expounded on potential impacts of a Supreme Court decision clearing the way for massive deportations, Leftists’ army of paid ANTIFA goons unleashed a sweeping campaign of violence via “protests.” Within days, Los Angeles was grabbing headlines as agitators blocked freeways and downtown arteries.
But those were sham protests, mere diversions to keep the news media focused on police and National Guard troop actions on the Left Coast. Mid-America was about to explode into something far more sinister. Plans Hamas operators failed to share with their ANTIFA and Marxist-led anti-deportation brothers and sisters would never have been condoned by radical Left-wing sponsors: vicious, indiscriminate shootings and bombings that would yield staggering body counts.
The first joint ANTIFA-Hamas operation would be an organized protest in an upscale residential suburb of Denver. No longer focused on razing and burning only businesses and corporate headquarters in the heart of metropolitan cities, a self-appointed ANTIFA bully, “Gator”, was ordered to take the fight to “whitey’s” suburban homes. Cops were scarce in the ‘burbs and homes were easy targets. Police chiefs expecting passionate anti-ICE and -deportation activists to congregate and raise Hell in city centers — like they had done in Los Angeles, Portland, Seattle, New York City — had deployed their forces accordingly.
Now, wealthy and upper-middle-class “white racists” living in suburban neighborhoods could dial 911 all day and night, but no badged officers were going to show up and defend those unlucky taxpayers. Flag-waving, Constitution-loving ‘burb-dwellers were on their own, easy pickings for “The People” and “poor immigrants”, those who had suffered at the hands of deplorables — those ignorant Middle Americans clinging to their guns and Bibles, who dared object to an orchestrated flood of 20+ million illegal aliens invading their towns and cities.
A few calls, text messages and Twitter/X announcements were sufficient to attract more than a hundred excited, very “woke” 20-30-year-olds to a Safeway parking lot. With handheld bullhorns, a half-dozen ANTIFA agitators and hardened Hamas warriors had no trouble whipping naive “useful idiots” into a frenzy of virtue-signaling.
“You want social justice? You want the right to live in America? It don’t just happen. You make it happen! Now!” the tall ANTIFA leader roared. As the ragtag group’s commander, he ordered the gang of self-righteous zealots to march on a nearby residential area and “Take those racists’ shee-it! And make ‘em bleed!” True to form, the small cadre of black-clad, hooded ANTIFA and Hamas agitators was well-protected, embedded in the midst of fired-up protestors surging toward the gated residential community, chanting aggressive catch-phrases.
“Heads-up, Ranger. They’re on the move, coming your way.” The voice in Win Steele’s earpiece came from a sophisticated control room miles away, relayed by a secure-communications package on a Gremlin unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) orbiting slowly 1,000 feet overhead.
“Copy. Ready here,” Steele confirmed. “Is PSNYPER hot?”
“Rog. Locked and loaded. Fire on your command….”
Sure hope this brain-fart system works, Steele worried. Today’s operation was the first real-world deployment of PSNYPER, an advanced psycho-electronic counterterrorism weapon. If it failed, Win Steele might be forced to “go lethal” or be battered to death by the angry crowd now tearing down a metal gate guarding his middle-class neighborhood.
Win unshouldered a Daniel Defense M4 semi-automatic rifle and double-checked that it was in SAFE mode. A Sig Sauer P226 was strapped to his right leg as a backup, should the M4 jam. Hopefully, he’d never have to resort to either firearm.
Dozens of bearded, long-haired young men scrambled over the broken gate, followed by a covey of young girls in stretch tops and tight skinny-jeans.
Ooookay, Win mused. Where are you, ANTIFA and Hamas killers?
He finally spotted five or six black-clad figures picking their way through the gate’s mangled metal, then huddling behind a cluster of young women. These were the hard-core bad guys, the trained, well-paid Marxists and Iran-backed terrorist agitators urging their riled-up rabble to unleash havoc.
“Not in our neighborhood,” Steele muttered.
“Hold it right there!” he yelled. “Just turn around and scoot on outta here, and nobody gets hurt!”
The front rank of protesters slowed, startled by a lone figure standing in the middle of the street. Slightly over six feet, the slim, graying man wore faded Levi’s, a checked shirt with sleeves partially rolled up, and a blue ball cap with U.S. Air Force stitched across its crown. He held an M4 rifle with one hand, muzzle pointed skyward.
“Yo! Like…you better get da hell outta here, Gray Dawg! Or we gonna kill you!” The loudmouth was a scruffy big guy sporting a black bandanna around his neck. His hooded comrades goaded and shoved young men and girls into the front ranks, urging them forward—and providing cover for the instigators.
Calm and cool, Steele extended an open palm, the universal signal to HALT! The herd stutter-stepped and milled, none willing to close on the crazy dude with that mean-looking assault weapon! And a black pistol!
“Look, I don’t want to hurt any of you so-called ‘peaceful protestors.’ But you will not deface, damage, destroy, pillage or loot a single one of these homes. And you will not harm the good people who live here! Understand?” Not shouting, but loud enough for the increasingly nervous crowd to hear. None of the “wokes” had expected to be confronted, let alone endangered, by an old, gun-wielding white guy!
The metallic voice in Steele’s ear: “Prelim ID on the bad guys, Ranger. Loudmouth is ‘Gator’. Big-time ANTIFA organizer. Raised Hell in Portland this Spring The other ANTIFA creeps go by RedDelta, Snake and Dragon. Two seriously bad-guy Hamas operatives are code-named Condor and StudCat. They’re humpin’ mighty big backpacks. Over…”
Gotta be the high-powered armament, Win mused. Checkmate* intel had briefed his team that Hamas sleeper-cell operators would be joining this particular “protest”, toting some heavy-duty firepower.
Imagery captured by Gremlin’s multispectral sensors was being scrutinized by an artificial intelligence system that compared each face, body shape and gait with dozens of massive databases—Border Patrol records, social media profiles, video clips, police files, driver license photos, medical records, and even college and high school yearbooks. In seconds, the AI system had confirmed the IDs of Gator and his flunkies, automatically passing the information to PSNYPER’s aquisition-and-tracking unit.
“Pos ID on all of ‘em. Locked-on and actively tracking, Ranger,” the voice added.
“Copy all. Stand by,” Win said, scanning the crowd. Lot of milling about, but nobody was getting closer.
Gator shoved his way to the front, bullhorn held high. Aggressive, confident and visibly hopped up on drugs, Steele noted. And gawdawful wooly. His long, bushy hair and a matted beard hadn’t seen soap and water for who knows how long. Win noted Gator’s subservient ANTIFA and hard-eyed Hamas minions remained clustered at crowd-center, protected by excited, animated young men and women who, until a few minutes ago, were anxious to prove their social-justice superiority. Now…maybe not so much. Many were clearly frightened.
“Or what?” Gator sneered. “Like, yo gonna shoot us all?”
Win half-smiled. “No, I won’t shoot you-all,” he assured, pausing a long beat. “But I will blow your manhood off…Gator. Then I’ll take out your chicken-liver flunkies hiding behind the girls—RedDelta, Snake, Dragon and those two nasty Hamas dudes, Condor and StudCat.” Corny, yes, but “chicken” reinforced the fact that he, Win Steele, was merely an old guy. But maybe not harmless.…
A startled look flashed across the mouthy leader’s features. The crowd instinctively shrank back, melting around Gator’s black-hooded cadre.
Didn’t expect that, did ya?
Gator pivoted, glaring at his horde of frightened stooges. Pointing at his black-clad henchmen, he roared, “That racist sumbitch goin’ down! Now!” His muscle-squad shuffled forward and flanked Gator, who wheeled about and marched confidently toward Win.
Steele raised the M4 rifle, but held it horizontally above his head. A backup signal.
“Control, hit the black hoodies. Take ‘em out!” he ordered, barely audible.
From the Gremlin orbiting high above, beams of invisible, quantum-entangled pulses fired by a sophisticated PSNYPER system plowed into the craniums of Gator and his toadies. The beams’ tailored-waveform energy interacted with gray-matter memory repositories, instantly deleting their contents.
Gator and his stooges staggered a few steps, stumbled, then face-planted on the pavement. Arms and legs flailed, as if the beings were trying to crawl, but were stuck in place, going nowhere. One bootlicker started blubbering, joined quickly by his howling brethren. Gator managed to roll onto his back, wailing and waving his arms and legs, emulating a baby’s tantrum.
The throng of youthful protestors gaped, simultaneously awed and terrified. They involuntarily retreated en masse, as Steele slowly approached Gator and his squirming, black-clad crybabies. Again holding the rifle one-handed, muzzle up, Win raised his voice to be heard over the bawling ANTIFA thugs.
“Listen up and you won’t join ol’ Gator and his boys,” Win shouted. “You say you’re protesting against the Supreme Court’s deportation rulings, which you claim were ‘systemic racism’ in action. I get that. But you’re actually naive pawns being used to undermine America, the nation that gave you the freedom to protest.”
Win pointed to the sniveling bodies flopping on the asphalt. “These cretins don’t share your sympathies and commitment to justice. Their only devotion is to violence and destruction. If they were successful in reducing America to rubble, then they’d turn on you. In fact, two of these monsters are Hamas terrorists, who massacred Jewish men, women and children on October Seventh. And they plan to kill every one of you. Today! Here!”
He paused, letting that truth sink in.
“What da hell’d you do to dem?” a tattooed, husky woman blurted, voice trembling. A chrome stud through the lower lip and a swarm of bangles and rings adorning her nose, cheeks and ears suggested that she had tripped and fallen face-first into a fishing tackle box.
“Nothing!” Win barked. He waited, until the protestors’ muttering ceased. “Gator and his lieutenants were struck down by a higher power,” Win continued, pointing skyward. “None of them were physically harmed. However, their memories have been erased. Or mostly erased. They can no longer walk, talk or feed themselves. They’ll be wearing diapers again—at least until they’re potty trained. Or, in their case, house-broken.”
A stunned hush fell over the frozen protestors. Frightened glances were exchanged. A few of the more astute craned their necks, searching the sky.
Slowly orbiting, Checkmate’s Gremlin UAV was virtually invisible, its hull coated with a metamaterial that bent light around its flying-wing planform.
The voice: “Ranger, Control. PSNYPER’s recycled and hot. Need another burst?”
“Doubt it. Standby,” Steele muttered. “Is Stinker airborne?”
“Rog. At your three o’clock, just above the trees, about a hundred feet from your position. Good for about another twenty minutes of flight.”
Win raised his voice and yelled, “You, you and you!” he pointed. “Yeah, you big dudes. Get over here and pick up Gator and his boys.”
Nobody moved. Win waited, calmly cradling the M4 across his chest. No threat.
“Well… If you don’t want ‘em, I’ll take real good care of these goons. Gator’s wanted for rioting, destruction of property and inciting violence in Los Angeles. Cops will be happy to cuff him and haul his tail downtown.”
“Yeah, you do dat, ol’ white-priv’leged geezer!” Tackle Box yelled. “But we be back! You and yo’ racist neighbors gonna burn!” She raised a fist and started chanting, “Burn ‘em! Kill ‘em! Burn ‘em! Kill ‘em!” Others picked up the chant, albeit half-heartedly.
“Well, damn,” Win muttered. “Thought they’d gotten the message.”
The voice: “‘Protestor’ arrogance and ignorance know no bounds, Ranger. Told ya…”
“Yeah, you did.” Win surveyed the increasingly agitated crowd, shook his head in disgust and reluctantly made the call. “Alright, Control. Stinker’s cleared in hot. Two passes. My three-to-nine o’clock. Reverse course, nine-to-three, then bug out. Do not fly that critter over me, though! Confirm?”
The voice chuckled. “Confirm, Ranger. Wind’s fairly calm, but you’d better put some distance between you and Stinker’s targets.”
Steele backed away from the sea of protestors, rifle pointed to the side. He heard the small, quad-rotor drone, before he saw it swooping down from his right, aimed at the crowd. “Stinker” released a barely visible mist, as the drone flew over the closest ranks of protestors. It climbed, banked steeply and reversed direction, leveled off and again released a broad mist a few feet above the now-retreating, screaming mob. In a steep climb, it cleared the treetops and vanished.
Howls and screams emanated from the gaggle of protestors. A dozen or so took off, frantically scrambling and stumbling over the mangled steel gate. Panicked, the remainder broke and ran, gagging, swearing and wailing. An unmistakable stench of concentrated skunk spray settled onto the fleeing demonstrators, now in high-velocity retreat.
The voice: “Well, whadaya know. ANTIFA’s useful fools don’t much care for Skunk Water, do they?”
Win glanced over his shoulder to avoid tripping over Gator and his writhing cronies. “Roger that! Stinker transforms the brave and brash into sniveling cowards! …Alright, Control, call the county sheriff. The Gator Gang’s all his.”
A few hours later, Gator and a trio of hoodie hangers-on were arrested and jailed. The other two were turned over to the FBI for prosecution as Hamas terrorists.
Within days, Gator and his ANTIFA “soldiers” were dumped in front of a federal building in Los Angeles, where yet another crowd of protestors was gathering. All four of the black-clad, bedraggled and malodorous ANTIFA toughs remained sprawled on the concrete, staring blankly, waving their arms and babbling incoherently.
Word traveled swiftly among the Marxist leaders of ANTIFA and a bevy of anarchist operatives, complete with cell phone video of Gator and his mind-blanked brethren. Those video clips, accompanied by several of a brief confrontation with a solitary, gun-toting white guy in a middle-class Colorado neighborhood, went viral across social media channels, racking up millions of views. Their impact was immediate and profound. Marxists, die-hard social justice warriors, progressives of all stripes—and dozens of Iran’s sleeper cells—saw their throngs of useful idiots in cities and on college campuses rapidly disappear.
No amount of haranguing or indignant, bizarre YouTube videos created by Far Left politicos could counter the shocked, petrifying accounts from those who had witnessed “a higher power” wipe out the memories of six violent “revolutionaries”. As one ANTIFA hired-gun admitted to a CNN talking head, “That mind-erasing s***’s worse than death!”
The PSNYPER team and its psycho-cyber Gremlin have been redeployed to the Washington, D.C., region to fly “combat air patrols” over the homes of six Supreme Court justices and key congressional leaders. Other Checkmate operatives remain on “hot standby” for short-notice, pop-up anti-terrorist missions across the nation.
During a D.C.-area in-briefing, the teams’ commander, a retired U.S. Marine Corps Major General, said, “Washington is a target-rich environment, a veritable quagmire of anti-American news and entertainment media, corrupt politicians and dangerous Deep State bureaucrats. With the Administration’s full-court press on deportation of criminal illegals, it’s imperative that the enemies of liberty and freedom be neutralized, if they break the law. You are the Minutemen of 2025. Stand fast, stand ready.”
Checkmate is a covert, black-ops counterterrorism team charged with quietly taking out sleeper cells in the U.S. The unit was first introduced in The Permit, a thriller based on actual events. (With permission of North Slope Publications.)
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