UnTrusted



  

 
Prologue


It was no surprise that the world did not end in December
of 2012. All of the hype about Mayan calendars and signs of the end
times turned out to be about as prophetic as the money-making
Y2K scare back in the nineties. Actually, the political events of
the past several years weren’t very surprising at all.

The collapse of democracy in America was actually quite predictable.
Even the founding fathers described it as “The Great
Experiment.” The only surprise was that democracy was not
being destroyed by a foreign power, but from within our own
borders and by our own government…the same government that
was intended to be of the people, by the people, and for the people.
When our nation was formed, the colors of the American
Flag were selected to be symbolic. Red was chosen to represent
hardiness and valor, white was intended to signify purity and
innocence, and blue supposedly represented the chief. Clearly,
our colors have not withstood the test of time.


For the past 245 years, the American people had accepted
compromises in order to achieve practical resolutions to political
issues, but in September of 2021, things changed. The Second
American Revolution began, and it began with a single act of
violence committed by a single man unwilling to tolerate a government
he could no longer trust.


It Begins
1:30 a.m., a North Dallas suburb,
Monday, September 11, 2021

They always came at night, hiding darkness within darkness.
The driver eased the black Humvee through the residential
streets coasting to a silent stop across from the unlit
house. Then, in perfect unison, the seven-man squad flowed out
onto the street, blending into the night behind shrubs and parked
cars. Armed with handguns, rifles, and Tasers, these Homeland
Security agents were here with both malice and forethought, each
more than willing to use his weapons without hesitation or regret.
Their mission—confiscate illegal weapons and make their arrest.
With everyone in position, Sergeant Bill Brusher quietly
waved a series of hand signals, initiating the attack, sending two
troopers storming across the lawn carrying a steel ram; their
hearts pounding and their eyes fixed on the unsuspecting front
door. The wooden jamb gave in without a fight, sending splinters
flying into the entryway and the heavy door slamming against
the inside wall of the house. The eerie thud echoed through the
quiet of the night as the two tossed the ram aside and continued
across the threshold. Once through the door, they were followed
by four of their comrades, mere inches separating the back of one
man from the front of another.


The squad moved throughout the house like lions on the
prowl with fingers on triggers and flashlights swaying from side
to side. The agents pressed forward in their search for tonight’s
objective, but thirty seconds of tension and six shouts of clear
produced nothing.


Sergeant Bill Brusher marched through the front door with
giant strides, flipping on lights as he passed through the entry
way and letting out a continuous string of curse words as he made
his way toward the back of the house. His men performed like
a well-tuned machine, and he took pride in their performance,
but coming up empty handed vaporized any possibility of them
receiving his praise.


The sergeant entered the master bedroom, switched on the
light, and found nothing but an empty bed with a piece of paper
lying on the pillow. Brusher pounded his fist on a chest of drawers
and swept a jewelry box off the top, crashing it against the
wall and raising a ruckus that blended in with another cluster of
curse words. He reached the bed in two clomps, snatched up the
paper from the pillow, and held it up to the light only to find this
simple message: “five, four, three, two…”
“Out!” he yelled. “Everyone—”


The violent explosion obliterated the house and terminated
team #517. The force of the blast broke windows in nearby houses
and also took out the bedroom of the neighbor who ratted on this
night’s elusive target.


The fire began in earnest, accompanied by the sounds of car
alarms and barking dogs. Neighbors began to emerge from their
homes huddled together in fear. As the pajama-clad audience
stood motionless on their porches and lawns, Hunter Benshore
stepped from behind a large tree near the Humvee and stood
watching in quiet solitude.


His home and possessions burned before his eyes. His heart
pounded; his mind was struggling to regain control after the
shock of the explosion. His chest ached, and breathing became a
conscious effort as his mind generated intense images of his family’s
pictures and heirlooms being consumed by the flames. No
one would ever know how much it hurt to see his life going up
in smoke, and no one would ever understand how his love for his
country could be worthy of such a sacrifice.


As the impact of his actions began to sink in, his thoughts
focused on the reality of what he had done. He was the one who
set the trap, but now he stood in disbelief, terrified to see the
results of his actions. He had just killed seven men. The anonymous
tip received earlier that evening had turned the tables. He
was supposed to be tonight’s victim.


Hunter quietly slipped into team #517’s Humvee, started the
engine, and slowly drove away, his head and hands shaking in
disbelief. He drove with the lights off and made his way to the
parking lot of a nearby grocery store. At one-thirty in the morning,
there were no shoppers, there was only his old Chevy pickup
topped with a small camper. Hunter stopped the Humvee, quietly
got into his Chevy, and drove away still trembling, weakkneed
from the sight of the explosion and the image of his home
splintered and burning.


He mechanically turned onto the northbound access road to
I-75, watching his plan unfold as though it was happening to
someone else, carefully entering the freeway and wedging the
Chevy between two big-rigs. He was beginning step two of his
plan: go north and make contact with his rebel allies. His role was
now to help return America to the people by disrupting government
communications and activities through the things he did
on the Internet.


Doing things on the Internet was easy for Hunter. His reputation
for being one of the best hackers on the planet had become a
source of pride for the rebels and a cause for fear in the Homeland
Security Organization.
As he drove through the night, his mind searched for a reason.
Maybe the HSO finally caught up with his invasive programming
tricks, or maybe his jerk-of-a-neighbor turned him in for
having a few guns in the attic. It didn’t really matter now. All
that mattered was his life was being transformed into something
he never expected, and his future was growing darker than he
ever imaged.


His past efforts to aid the rebels had seemed relatively painless.
Like the American bomber pilots in Vietnam, he felt none
of the pain from a distance, but tonight was neither virtual nor
remote. Tonight the death, the fear, and the pain were real.
His hands continued to tremble as he drove through the
night. He was alone now, and making contact with people he
could trust was his only hope.