Last night, a lot of people thought it was finally happening.

American jets were spotted moving over eastern Iraq in the dark hours—right around 2:00 a.m. local time, which lines up to roughly 6:00 p.m. Eastern back home. The timing, the routing, the sudden tension in the air—everything about it looked like the opening chapter of a strike package headed toward Iran.

And then… it stopped.

At the last minute, it appears President Trump pulled the plug. The attack that seemed imminent never materialized. No explosions. No confirmation. Just silence—followed by a wave of confusion, frustration, and, inside Iran, something worse: despair.

So today, let’s break down what likely happened, what it says about the administration’s thinking, and why oil—yes, oil—may be the hidden hinge this entire decision swung on.

Before We Talk Strategy, Let’s Talk Reality

Iran’s regime wants the world to believe the killing has stopped.

It hasn’t.

The government did what authoritarian governments always do when they feel heat: they ran a charm offensive. They went on TV, smiled for the cameras, and tried to rebrand the slaughter.

“We’re not shooting protesters,” they say. “We’re only shooting terrorists.”

But “terrorist,” in their vocabulary, has become a synonym for “anyone who wants freedom.”

The truth is ugly, and it’s everywhere—if you know where to look. Security forces moving through streets on motorcycles. Automatic gunfire echoing through neighborhoods. People being detained, beaten, disappeared. Executions delayed in public—while violence continues behind a blackout.

The regime’s message is simple: We’re in control.
The reality is also simple: They’re staying in control by murdering civilians.

The Trump Briefing That Raised Eyebrows

Earlier in the day, President Trump was asked about reports of killings and executions. His response—paraphrased—suggested he’d been told the violence was “stopping,” and that planned executions weren’t going forward.

Here’s the problem: there’s ample evidence it wasn’t stopping.

That leaves two possibilities:

1. He’s being lied to, and nobody around him is willing to put real truth on his desk.

2. He’s playing political theater, saying one thing publicly while keeping Iran guessing privately.

If you’ve watched Trump over the years, you know he has a pattern: he’ll often sound like he’s easing off right before applying pressure. It’s why a lot of people expected strikes that night. The posture looked like a feint—until it looked like more than a feint.

Because everything lined up.

Airspace restrictions. Civilian flight maps going dark over Iran. Shelters being opened. Reports of Iranian aircraft scrambling.

And then nothing.

The “Ghost Fleet” Seizure That Shouldn’t Be Ignored

While everyone was staring at Iran, the U.S. made another major move elsewhere: another very large crude carrier was seized in the Caribbean—the sixth tanker taken in this campaign.

I’m coming to you tonight from Panama, and that probably sounds like a long way from Tehran. But in a world where missiles can cross borders in minutes and regimes can fall in days, geography doesn’t always determine relevance. The story unfolding in Iran right now is one of those moments that demands attention, because it isn’t merely a protest movement or a political quarrel inside a faraway country. It is a government turning its weapons inward, and it is a population pleading—openly, desperately—for outside help before the slaughter becomes irreversible.

For nearly three weeks, protests have continued inside Iran. The problem is not that people have stopped resisting; it’s that they are being crushed with a level of violence that would stagger even seasoned war reporters. What we are hearing from reputable sources, including the Institute for the Study of War, is that protest activity has dropped sharply in recent days. That decline is not a sign that the people have lost their will. It is a sign that the regime has decided to make an example out of dissent, and it is doing so through mass killings and terror tactics designed to empty the streets.

There are estimates circulating that suggest somewhere between ten and twenty thousand protesters have already been killed. Those numbers are difficult to confirm in real time—because the regime has aggressively restricted information leaving the country—but the pattern is consistent across multiple sources and across what we can see and hear in the footage that does emerge. In one clip, gunfire crackles in the background as young people stand their ground, unarmed, refusing to be scattered. In another, a man who escaped into Turkey breaks down, crying, and says plainly that the regime is “killing everyone,” and that nothing will change unless help comes from outside Iran. His words are not rhetorical. They are survival math.

That is the part many outsiders still fail to grasp: the people do not have weapons. The regime does. When you hear sustained gunfire in Tehran, you are not hearing a revolution fighting back. You are hearing state forces firing into crowds, and you are hearing a government that believes it can solve political weakness with kinetic force. It is the kind of violence that makes every claim of “reform” or “moderation” sound absurd, because a regime that shoots its own civilians as policy is not a regime that can be negotiated into decency.

And then there is the silence—the strange, selective silence—from the very institutions and personalities that claim to exist for moments like this. Where is the UN? Where is the International Criminal Court? Where are the activists who have made careers out of accusing others of genocide? Where are the street protests in Western capitals when Iranian teenagers are reportedly being murdered in their homes? You don’t have to like my tone to understand my point: the outrage appears whenever it is politically convenient, and it disappears whenever the victims do not serve the right narrative.

I’ve been traveling up and down the border between Venezuela and Colombia, stopping at different crossings to see what the situation looks like after the operation that removed Nicolás Maduro. At one crossing we got close enough to see Venezuelan soldiers checking cars under a big sign that reads “Welcome to Venezuela.” It was quiet—almost deceptively so.

But the crossing I’m at now? It’s chaos.

There are streams of vehicles and motorcycles pouring out of Venezuela… and, just as importantly, streams going back in. That’s the detail you have to notice. Because if this were a mass exodus, you’d see one-way traffic—people fleeing. Instead, you’re seeing something else:

This is commerce.

People crossing to Colombia to shop, to work, to take their kids to school—and then returning home. In many places along this border, it’s so open and routine that families live one way and function the other. Venezuelans send their kids to Colombian schools. They buy Colombian groceries. They haul back supplies—like the girl I saw riding on the back of a motorcycle carrying two 20-foot PVC pipes into Venezuela like it was the most normal thing in the world.

That’s the border in 2026: not a wall, not a line, but a living artery.

And right now, it’s carrying a lot more than backpacks and building supplies.

Trump vs. Petro: A Brewing Fight on the Wrong Border

While I’m standing here, you can see M117 armored personnel carriers behind me—vehicles the United States gave to Colombia. That matters because it ties directly into the developing political fight between President Trump and Colombian President Gustavo Petro.

Trump recently called Petro a “sick man,” accused him of being tied to the drug trade, and let’s be honest—Colombia has shipped more cocaine into the United States than most Americans realize.

Petro’s history doesn’t help him. He was a guerrilla in his youth. He claims he hasn’t touched a gun since the 1970s, but now he’s posturing publicly—saying he’s ready to pick one up again if that’s what it takes to defend Colombia from Donald Trump.

And here’s the thing: I’ve heard this movie before.

Just weeks ago, Maduro was taunting Trump—calling him a coward, daring him to come get him. And then… Trump did. Maduro dared the wrong man at the wrong time.

You’d think Petro might have learned something from that.

Instead, Petro is talking like a high-school junior in the schoolyard, puffing his chest out and saying, essentially: “Come on then.”

Which would be funny—if it weren’t so dangerous—because a lot of the Colombian military’s equipment, training, aviation support, and maintenance systems have historically been U.S.-supplied or U.S.-supported. The irony of threatening to fight America with America’s equipment isn’t lost on anyone here.

Petro has now called for nationwide protests tomorrow across Colombia—demonstrations aimed at Trump and the U.S. posture toward Petro’s government.

So tonight, we’re getting on a plane to Bogotá to attend what’s expected to be the biggest rally in the main downtown square.

If you want to know where the story is going next—it’s going there.

Caracas Was “Calm”… Until It Wasn’t

Now let’s talk about what happened in Caracas last night, because it reveals how fragile—and paranoid—the remaining regime really is.

There was confusion in the city. A drone was reportedly flying near sensitive areas. Some people insisted it was just a commercial drone—some kid with a DJI Mavic. But the response from Venezuelan forces was immediate and extreme:

They unleashed air defense fire into the sky—tracer rounds everywhere—and then armored vehicles flooded the area around the presidential palace.

That tells you two things: