Red White & Blue

Red, White & Blue: Introduction

For most of this story, I’ve written as if I was completely alone; facing the Triads, black magic, and relentless digital warfare with only my own instincts, grit, and a handful of spiritual allies. That’s how it felt up until 2017, and that’s how I needed to tell it. But as the dust settled and the years passed, a deeper truth began to surface, one I couldn’t fully see, let alone talk about, until now.

What follows is the part of my story I kept hidden until after 2025. The reason is simple: everything up to that point was lived and written from the perspective of someone in the dark, unsure who (if anyone) was really on his side. Only in hindsight did the patterns become clear, and only with distance could I piece together the reality of the shadow government helpers who moved silently in the background. Their presence didn’t erase the danger or the trauma, but it did explain some of the luck, the near-misses, and the moments when things went just a little too right to be chance.

If you’ve read this far, you know how much I value evidence and credibility. So what you’re about to read isn’t speculation or fantasy, it’s the result of years of piecing together clues, confirmations, and the rare moments when the veil slipped just enough for me to glimpse the truth. This is the story behind the story: the hidden hands, the secret interventions, and the ways my life was shaped by forces I never saw coming.

Red, White & Blue: Shadow Allies

In June 2012, after publishing a blog about what happened to me in Asia between 2009 and 2011, I did something I knew I could never take back: I went to three different 3-letter-agency’s websites and sent a message telling them exactly where to find it. Within ninety days of that contact, the digital harassment around me evolved into something far more sophisticated than anything I had ever seen from the Triads. From late 2012 to the present, the incidents that followed felt less like random criminal mischief and more like a sustained campaign. It has never been easy to separate what came from the Triads and what might have come from government-level actors, because their methods often overlapped, but certain events were so advanced they seemed far beyond the Triads’ pay grade.

In 2014, my power supply in my house itself was effectively turned into a weapon. Someone used UPnP traffic over UDP port 1900 to push signals through the electrical grid, reaching every device I owned once a back door had been established. UPnP, which normally exists to let devices discover each other, suddenly became the artery through which control flowed into my home. Devices I had bought with my own money were no longer mine in any meaningful sense; they were puppets, and I could not see the strings.

Around the same time, my internet connection became another clue that something was deeply wrong. I was using an older cable modem that supported only IPv4, with no IPv6 capability at all. Yet when I escalated to Xfinity’s second-tier support, the technician insisted my connection was running over IPv6, a technical impossibility given the hardware in front of me. When I mentioned that the Triads were hacking me, he paused, then casually suggested that maybe it was not the Triads after all. That single offhand comment landed like a verdict: whoever was in my systems might be playing in a very different league.

Soon, even physical purchases felt compromised. Everything I ordered online arrived late and already tampered with. Routers, laptops, phones, devices were clearly hacked from the moment I powered them on, setting off firewall alarms left and right, as if they had been prepped in advance. This was not the clumsy, opportunistic work of a street-level syndicate. It felt orchestrated, as though there were a file somewhere with my name on it and a standing order attached: intercept, alter, and monitor.

One incident crystallized just how far this reach extended. I bought two of the same tech magazines at a random Barnes & Noble, far from my usual haunts, because each issue came with a Linux LiveDVD. My goal was simple: set up encrypted communications with a friend in California. I checked the DVD’s checksum fingerprint and confirmed they were identical, then mailed one disc to him from a post office I rarely used and kept the other for myself. It took six weeks to arrive. When I later visited California, we ran a checksum on his disc and it did not match mine, even though the disc appeared to be an exact replica. Someone had intercepted the envelope, cloned the DVD, and slipped in a counterfeit that was just different enough to matter. Given how carefully I had tried to avoid patterns; random store, random post office, the precision of that interception felt well beyond what the Triads could plausibly do.

The devices themselves began to betray their secrets in strange ways. In 2014, I ordered an iPhone 5 from Walmart.com. While downloading at least 15 GB of video on my Chromebook, I opened an app called Net Analyzer on the iPhone, which had been rebooted six hours earlier and had not been used since. Net Analyzer reported that the phone had transferred 16 GB of data since boot; more than my monthly 5 GB mobile data allowance and far more than anything I had consciously done with it. In that moment, the only explanation that fit was that my iPhone had somehow been turned into a covert router. My home router must have been hacked to pass traffic through the phone or to stop advertising my Wi‑Fi network so that the iPhone acting as my router appeared as the only viable hotspot. There was no obvious hotspot running on the iPhone, no unexpected network configuration, and no normal technical explanation that made sense. The architecture of that setup felt elite; something out of a lab, not a back alley.

Packages began arriving that I had never ordered. In 2016, a 256 GB microSD card showed up in my mailbox with no return address and addressed to a random name. I immediately assumed it was compromised. When I discovered that Best Buy carried the same model, I went there, bought the only one on the shelf, and returned the mystery card in its place. It felt like chess, not shopping. Once I used the “clean” card I had bought, my firewall started flagging suspicious UPnP connections. It was as if someone had predicted that I would try to outmaneuver them and had placed another compromised unit precisely where I would go next.

The pattern repeated with an Amazon Alexa device that same year. After casually telling a friend I might buy one, I walked into Best Buy the next day and found there was only one unit left. I bought it and immediately ran into network issues once it was connected. When I returned weeks later, the shelf was suddenly full; dozens of units, as though scarcity had been staged specifically for me. I picked one from the middle of the stack, took it home, and quietly swapped it for the first one. Needless to say, there were no network anomalies this time around. To survive, I had to think a move ahead of an adversary I could not see, improvising countermeasures against opponents who seemed to anticipate my every step.

The most chilling moment came when I tried to outwit everyone by going analog in my own way. In 2014, without announcing it, I drove to Walmart and bought a shrink‑wrapped laptop off the shelf; a spur‑of‑the‑moment purchase with cash. I told no one. I then took it to a coffee shop I had never visited before, disabled the Wi‑Fi, and began configuring the machine offline. Within thirty-minutes, Norton Firewall started exploding with alerts about a UPnP connection trying to reach UDP port 1900. I kept hitting “Deny” until the machine suddenly blue‑screened and refused to boot again. No one had entered the café after me. I was not connected to the internet even once and didn’t even charge the computer yet. The only logical suspect left was my iPhone 5 sitting 12 inches away from the laptop, which must have been running an extraordinarily sensitive “side channel” operation, using its microphones or sensors to infer enough about what I was doing to attack a machine that was supposedly air‑gapped. After that day, I never ordered a phone online again. If I needed a new device, I bought it in person, in a place I had never visited, and I told no one in advance.

The digital siege bled into my financial life next. In 2016, I launched a company called Identity Theft Solutions, offering identity‑theft‑related services to car dealerships. In Las Vegas, I partnered with seasoned auto‑industry veterans and we quickly landed our first client, generating about $3,000 a month. Then we did something bigger: we met with the decision‑maker at Findlay Automotive, which oversaw 27 dealerships. He loved the product. He wanted to implement immediately. On the low end, the deal was worth $1.6 million a year, not counting upsells that could easily have matched or exceeded that number. Four days after the agreement, he emailed me to say they were going to pass—no explanation, no clarification, nothing. Days before, my life had been on the verge of transforming. Overnight, the future evaporated.

The timing felt less like bad luck and more like intervention. Someone, somewhere, had decided I could not be wealthy while the Triads, or whoever else, hunted me. The smaller $3,000‑per‑month client soon backed out as well, claiming their lender refused to allow the service to be financed into deals. One by one, any business deal that gained traction died mid‑stride. Marketing campaigns vanished into a void: clicks disappeared, responses never came, as though my ads had never run. The resistance I hit felt systemic, as if an invisible firewall had been placed not just around my network, but around my life.

Broke and exhausted, I moved to Florida in 2017 and launched LawyerFixed.com, a product that automatically generated personalized credit‑advice letters on my letterhead based on clients’ uploaded credit reports. Technically and commercially, it was one of the most powerful tools I had ever built. I promoted the launch using the same email list that had once reliably delivered, without fail, over two-hundred attendees to my CreditCRM webinars, and I added a new list on top of that of more than 100,000 scrubbed addresses. By any normal metric, I was set up for a strong turnout well into the hundreds. Thirteen people showed up. Money was draining out of my accounts, and hope drained with it.

I started borrowing from my mother just to pay rent. Over two years in Florida, I would eventually borrow close to $70,000 from her. Even so, I had one last strategic play left. I approached IdentityIQ and secured an in‑person meeting at their office in San Diego. I spent a full day there demonstrating how LawyerFixed could integrate directly into their credit reports. The team loved it. The COO and I ended the day over drinks, laughing like old friends. The integration was worth between $1 and $1.5 million a year. I flew back to Florida elated, ready to build.

Then silence descended again. Calls went unanswered. Emails disappeared into the ether. Text messages might as well have been sent into deep space. After nearly two months, the COO finally replied to one email, asking what had happened to me because, according to him, he had tried to reach out multiple times with no response. Whatever blockade stood between me and the outside world had worked both ways: it cut me off from opportunity and made me look unreliable to the people who wanted to work with me. At that point, I did not even attempt to resurrect the deal. How could I explain that either a three‑letter agency or an international crime syndicate I had written a book about had likely sabotaged our communication? It would have sounded insane, even if it was true.

Defeated, I scaled back my ambitions and returned to basic credit repair work. That is when LinkedIn, an account that had sat dormant for a decade, suddenly came alive. Out of nowhere, a man I will call Dane contacted me and offered to help me succeed. He was, by far, the most connected person I had ever spoken with. In days, he was arranging Zoom meetings with powerful CEOs in banking and insurance. These were people with real influence, and they listened to him as if he were a trusted insider. They said yes to practically everything he suggested. For once, my life felt like a fairy tale. All he asked for was 20 percent.

One day, Dane asked if I was in front of my computer. When I said yes, a disappearing Telegram message flashed on my screen, gone in seconds, as though the app itself was conspiring to erase the evidence. The message read: “THE RED, WHITE and BLUE GOT YOUR BACK.” Telegram’s disappearing messages in secret chats are designed for exactly this kind of ephemeral communication: there one moment, scrubbed from both devices the next. It felt like a promise from someone on the inside that, after everything, my days of suffering were over.

Then Dane vanished. Emails stopped. Calls went unanswered. Every connection he had made for me dissolved as though someone had hit a master “delete” key on my future. The pattern was now undeniable: every time I got close to real stability or success, an invisible hand reached in and reset the board.

By early 2019, Florida’s high rent and two years of unrelenting financial damage had forced my hand. I moved back to Pennsylvania, about forty‑five minutes from where I grew up, to be closer to my mother and sister. It felt like retreating to my hometown after a war; a soldier returning without a victory, but still alive.

In late 2019, searching for community and clients, I joined the local Rotary Club. A few months in, a visitor named Jack showed up at a meeting. He spoke with a polish and worldliness that felt out of place in the small town where I now lived. He made a point of approaching me, took my business card, and later invited me out for drinks. He never joined the Rotary. After our meeting, he even emailed the club with a strange story claiming that I believed in aliens, as if he were both observing me and planting a narrative about me at the same time.

At first, I tried to fit Jack into my existing framework: perhaps he was a new kind of Triad asset, or perhaps just an eccentric. But he was white, and up to that point, every Triad‑connected operative I had dealt with had been Asian. The Triads did not start using white intermediaries, in my experience, until 2020 aside from a random Swiss guy that was on my airplane in 2011. For a while, I filed Jack away under “anomalies.” Then, months later, he called to say he had been living in my building for the past year, something I had never realized, and asked if I could help him load his U‑Haul because he was moving out.

When I saw his apartment, the strangeness intensified. He owned almost nothing: a bed, a table, three or four boxes. It looked less like a home and more like a surveillance post. While we worked, he warned me about the dangers of certain Asians living in America who still had family overseas. He described syndicates that blackmailed relatives abroad to force cooperation here. His warning cut uncomfortably close to my own life at that moment. My Thai girlfriend, Luna, worked at a Thai restaurant and had become a bit too close to the Thai owner. Soon after Jack’s cautionary monologue, Luna told me that the owner was furious because a hospital in Thailand had allegedly defrauded her father, charging ten times the proper amount. Not long after that, I got sick from food I had taken home from that restaurant.

Jack’s warning suddenly felt less theoretical and more prophetic. A Cambodian woman had recently moved into the apartment below mine, and she constantly appeared outside to smoke at the exact moment we pulled up, as if my movements were being tracked down to the second. Jack’s apartment shared a wall with hers. Looking back, it is hard to shake the feeling that Jack had been placed there not to spy on me, but to spy on her, and by extension, to shield me from whatever she had been sent to do.

Luna, however, believed in people, sometimes to the point of self‑endangerment. When I told her that I suspected the restaurant owner had poisoned me, she refused to accept it. Then, a few weeks later, Luna told me law enforcement had swarmed the restaurant; six police cars, some marked Homeland Security, others ICE. They arrested the sixty‑year‑old cook for being in the country illegally. This was 2022, a time when federal deportation enforcement had become far more selective, yet here was a multi‑agency show of force for a single older woman working in a strip‑mall restaurant; and she was only one of four illegals working there!

The missing piece clicked into place when Luna revealed she had opened a bank account for that same woman, putting it solely in Luna’s name so the woman could send money back to Thailand. The account was being misused, and the Triads, it seemed, had put the woman on their payroll for one purpose: to entangle Luna in a financial crime that would lead to her arrest. I had tried to warn Luna months earlier, when she told me that she and the woman had gotten into a huge fight at work, then hugged it out the next day. The woman soon bought her a $400 Coach gift card, despite earning around $12 an hour. That gesture reeked of manipulation, a deliberate attempt to buy loyalty and blind trust. Luna saw generosity where I saw preparation.

The day the restaurant was raided, Luna’s bank account was abruptly closed by the bank, yet no authorities ever contacted her. Under any normal investigative model, she would have been the first person questioned, given that the account was in her name alone. Instead, someone with far‑reaching authority seems to have stepped in, shut down the account before it could be used as a weapon against her, and arranged for the older woman to be removed from the country under the simplest pretext available: her immigration status. Instead of the bank account being the basis for charges, it became a detail quietly swept aside.

Local police do not possess that kind of speed, subtlety, or discretion. Whoever engineered that outcome did more than just neutralize a low‑level operative; they protected Luna without ever showing their face. It was the same pattern that had haunted my life since 2013: forces with extraordinary reach playing on both sides of the board, sometimes hunting me, sometimes saving me, always just out of view.

Recently, I ended up finding out much more detail about exactly how and who helped me escape Vietnam in 2015. 

Unbeknownst to me, I had serious help from the Red, White & Blue the entire time I was in Vietnam in both 2014 and 2015.  I wasn’t given full details, but I’ll tell you what I was told regarding my time there in 2015. 

While at the hotel in 2015 in District 1, HCMC, the Triads kept shutting off the internet, but my hidden friends made sure to turn it back on every time.  The time I chased the guy into the restaurant, and he grabbed a butcher knife, there just so happened to be a westerner there only seconds after this occurred to quickly diffuse the situation and make sure I got out of there without it escalating further.  That westerner was there to protect me and was one of several people that would follow me when I left the hotel.  The time I called Delta on Skype, it wasn’t a bad internet connection that dropped the call, it was my protectors that knew I was in serious trouble and going down any day, so once they saw I was ready to leave, they took the opportunity to drop that call and have one of their people intercept the next call I made which is why the availability changed from one week away to the very next day.  I was told that there weren’t even any seats available but they somehow were able to cancel 2 people’s reservation and replace it with my son and I.  Not only that, once I checked in, they were able to change the seating to look as though I wasn’t even on the flight. 

The police from Hong’s hometown were trying to text Hong the arrest warrant to stop me from taking off, but my protectors kept blocking Hong’s internet so she couldn’t receive it.  There wasn’t even a record that I passed through immigration that day even though my Passport was stamped.  Whatever digital evidence there was that I left the country was erased almost immediately after I passed through customs at the HCMC airport.  Even after the plane took off, there still wasn’t a record that I was on the plane so the confusion at the counter was intense as Hong insisted, I was on the airplane.  The two people’s seats that I was given without their knowledge were angry because they were told they didn’t have a reservation.  I was also given different seats than the ones they were assigned to assure that two random passengers, and not me and my son, would be in those seats to add to the confusion.  There was also a third passenger that lost their seat that day to afford the ability to have one of my protectors follow me all the way back to the safety of the United States.  Hong finally convinced the police to let her go to the gate and find me, but my plane was just taking off 10-minutes ahead of schedule the moment they arrived at the gate, and they told Hong it was too late.  Hong was adamant that I was on the airplane and was able to convince the police to call Japan and detain me for kidnapping once I arrived, but my protectors intervened yet again and convinced the Japanese Authorities to let me pass.  Two years later, when I moved to Florida, someone supposedly came into my house to take only my passport to assure I didn’t leave the country anytime soon.  I kept my passport in the same spot and noticed it was gone whenever I came back from visiting my mother on Thanksgiving.  I tried to order a replacement three times since, but my application always disappeared and I have yet been able to renew my passport or replace it to this day.

I asked why my protectors didn’t just intervene in 2015 and tell me to leave once things looked bad.  I was told that they were forbidden to and were only allowed to protect me from the shadows.  I was also told that they were making bets as to whether I would be able to escape in 2015 with most of them thinking there was no way. 

Luna went to the local casino on Christmas Eve of 2023, where she ran into the Thai coworkers Jack had warned me about before he moved away. Two days later, I finally learned what had happened that night. I hadn’t gone with her; instead, I went to bed and was jolted awake by a lucid dream so intense it tore me out of sleep. As I came to, I heard Luna struggling to breathe beside me, choking on her own vomit.

I scooped her up and rushed her to the bathroom so she could continue throwing up, since she had already covered the bed. I left her there for a while, only to return and find her sprawled on the floor, as if she were far beyond simple drunkenness. At the time, anger burned hotter than concern. I assumed she had gone overboard, drinking far more than the single can of Vizzy she usually had when she went to the casino. The place was only a mile from our home, and I was furious that she had driven in that condition. 

The next day, Luna was so sick she couldn’t get out of bed. I punished her with silence, stewing in my resentment over her supposed recklessness. The following day, on my way back from visiting a friend, I called her to finally talk about it. That was when she told me she had only drunk a single Miller Lite, the one her former Thai coworkers insisted she share with them before she left the casino. The last thing she remembered was raising that Miller Lite to her lips. She didn’t remember leaving, didn’t remember driving home, didn’t remember anything at all. Everything after that beer was a void.

In that moment, the truth hit me with sickening clarity: the Thai people she used to work with had poisoned her. She had come terrifyingly close to dying, and all the while I had blamed her, convinced she had simply overindulged. I hadn’t even known she’d seen them there that night.

Two months later, I saw the Thai restaurant owner at the local Aldi grocery store. Rage took over. I marched up to her, got right in her face, and said, “Fuck you, bitch. You tried to kill Luna.” She lowered her head and walked away without a word; no denial, no protest, just silence.