That source and another on the ground in Sinaloa reported that over the next several days, two military helicopters were shot down and Mexican marine ground troops laid siege to several ranch properties.
There were additional reports that 13 Sinaloa communities had been ravaged with gunfire during simultaneous raids.
By the time news agencies broadcast the story in the United States, the mayhem throughout Sinaloa in those days had been essentially reduced to a nearly successful raid that had surgically targeted only Chapo and his men, and claimed he had been injured in flight with face and leg wounds.
El Chapo's own account would later be shared with me, through a BBM exchange he had with Kate. Two helicopters and 6 Black Hawks began a confrontation upon their arrival. The families had to escape and abandon their homes with the fear of being killed.
It is not he who necessitated weeks of clandestine planning.
Instead, it's a man of about my age, though absent any human calculus that may provide us a sense of anchored commonality. And reminded myself over and over of the incredible life loss, the devastation existing in all corners of the narco world. "I don't usually drink," he says, "but I want to drink with you." After a raise of the glass, I take a polite sip.
At four years old, in '64, I was digging for imaginary treasures, unneeded, in my parents' middleclass American backyard while he was hand-drawing fantasy pesos that, if real, might be the only path for he and his family to dream beyond peasant farming. Soullessness...wasn't it that that my moral conditioning was obliged to recognize in him? "I don't want to be portrayed as a nun," El Chapo says. This simple man from a simple place, surrounded by the simple affections of his sons to their father, and his toward them, does not initially strike me as the big bad wolf of lore. He asks me if many people in the United States know about him. He seems to delight in the absurdity of this, and as he and his cohorts share a chuckle, I look to the sky and wonder how funny it would be if there were a weaponized drone above us. When we return to the picnic table, it seems to me that we accomplished what we came to do.
His bald head demands your attention to his twinkling eyes. We sit within quietude of fortified walls that are old New York hotel construction, when walls were walls, and telephones were usable without a Ph. We quietly make our plans, sensitive to the paradox that also in our hotel is President Enrique Peña Nieto of Mexico.Disclosure: Some names have had to be changed, locations not named, and an understanding was brokered with the subject that this piece would be submitted for the subject’s approval before publication. Espinoza and I leave the room to get outside the hotel, breathe in the fall air and walk the five blocks to a Japanese restaurant, where we'll meet up with our colleague El Alto Garcia.The subject did not ask for any changes.t's September 28th, 2015. The streets are abuzz with the lights and sirens of diplomatic movement, heads of state, U. As we exit onto 55th Street, the sidewalk is lined with the armored SUVs that will transport the president of Mexico to the General Assembly.My head is swimming, labeling Trac Phones (burners), one per contact, one per day, destroy, burn, buy, balancing levels of encryption, mirroring through Blackphones, anonymous e-mail addresses, unsent messages accessed in draft form. Paradoxical indeed, as one among his detail asks if I will take a selfie with him.It's a clandestine horror show for the single most technologically illiterate man left standing. Flash frame: myself and a six-foot, ear-pieced Mexican security operator. It's paradoxical because today's Mexico has, in effect, two presidents.