68 hitmen from the CTA NG tried to take over the regional airport, but they did not know that 20 helicopters would annihilate. 68 hitmen from the Jalisco New Generation cartel had just taken control of the regional airport of Apatzingán in Michoacán at 4:47 in the morning. They had arrived in 12 armored trucks.

They had executed the three private security guards who tried to resist and now fully controlled the two runways, the control tower and the main hangar. They had five Cesna planes ready to take off, loaded with 2.3 tons of fentanyl destined for clandestine airstrips in Arizona. The commander of the operation, a 42-year-old man known as the coyote, thought they had pulled off the perfect operation.

They had cut off communications, blocked all three ground entrances to the airport with stolen vehicles, and had enough weaponry to maintain control for the 6 hours they needed to complete flights. What the coyote didn’t know was that a U.S. military satellite had detected the movement of the armored trucks 40 minutes earlier.

What he didn’t know was that the information had already been shared with the Mexican army’s northern command. What he definitely didn’t know was that 20 helicopter gunships, eight armored tanks, and 340 elite soldiers were already on their way with orders to retake the airport and annihilate any hitmen who resisted.

Let’s go back to that early morning of September 17, when it all began with an encrypted call that sealed the fate of 68 men who thought they had executed the perfect coup. The coyote, whose real name was Armando Villegas Soto, had been born in Apatzingán 42 years ago.

He had grown up in absolute poverty, selling gum at traffic lights at age 8. working in the avocado fields at 12, watching as the narco took his childhood friends one by one. At the age of 19 he made the decision that would change his life forever. He enlisted in the Knights Templar cartel as Halcón, a simple vigilante who earned 3000 pesos a week.

But Armando was intelligent, ruthless when necessary and absolutely loyal to those who paid him. In 15 years he had risen from Hcón to hitman, from hitman to plaza boss and, finally, to regional commander of the CJNG, when this cartel absorbed the remaining cells of the Templars. He was now earning more in a month than his father had earned in his entire life working honestly.

He had three houses, five pickup trucks, two wives and four children who would never know exactly how their father made so much money. That early morning of September 17, the coyote received a direct call from the skinny lieutenant of Nemesio or Ceguera Cervantes, El Mencho, the maximum leader of the CJNG.

The skinny man’s voice sounded urgent, but controlled, the tone of someone transmitting orders that did not admit of discussion or doubt. Coyote, we have a problem and an opportunity at the same time,” said the skinny one, without preamble or greetings. “The gringos are pushing very the border. Three shipments were confiscated from us in walnut trees, last week we lost 800 kg of crystal and 400 of fentanyl.

That’s $15 million thrown away. The pattern is [ __ ] and says we need to move the next load by air, not by land. The coyote sat up in the bed of his safe house on the outskirts of Apatzingán. I knew that when the mencho was [ __ ] people died.

We already have five modified Sesna planes loaded with 2.3 tons of pure fentanyl,” continued the skinny man. “They are hidden in a ranch 40 km from Apatingán. The plan is to fly them tonight to clandestine airstrips in Arizona, where our partners already have buyers waiting.” But there is a problem. Planes need a properly lit runway and control tower to coordinate takeoffs.

The clandestine airstrips that we normally use are being monitored by gringo drones. The coyote was beginning to understand where this was going. The Apatingan regional airport, he asked with a mixture of admiration and fear at the audacity of the plan. Exactly, replied the skinny one.

The skipper says to take it for 6 hours, enough time for the five planes to take off and reach the United States. You have the green light to use as many people as you need. Steal the vehicles that are necessary. Eliminate those who resist. But that airport has to be under our control from 5 a.m. to 11 a.m. You can do it? The coyote thought quickly.

Apatzingán’s regional airport was small, mainly for regional commercial flights and private aviation. It had two runways, a control tower, a hangar, a small terminal, and private security that probably didn’t exceed five or six poorly paid and poorly armed guards. Taking it would be relatively easy.

Keeping it for 6 hours would be the real challenge. “If I can,” replied the coyote with the confidence of someone who has executed dozens of similar operations. I’m going to need about 60 well-armed men, three armored monsters, and vehicles to block ground accesses. If the army tries to enter by land, we stop them.

If they come by air, we have RPGs to shoot down helicopters, as we did in 2015. The skinny guy approved the plan. You have 4 hours to prepare everything. The planes leave the ranch at 4:30 in the morning and arrive at the airport at 5. You have to be there with the airport secured before they arrive. The boss says that if this goes well, he will compensate you with 5 million pesos.

If you fail, you’d better die fighting, because if you don’t, he will kill you personally. The coyote understood perfectly, hung up the phone and began to make calls. In the next 3 hours he gathered 68 of his best hitmen in an abandoned ranch. They were men between 19 and 45 years old.

Some veterans with decades in the business, others barely teenagers, who had been recruited by threats or desperate economic need, all armed with AK47 rifles, AR15s, three RPG7 rocket launchers and fragmentation grenades. He also had three armored monster trucks with 50-caliber machine guns mounted in the beds, capable of firing 500 rounds per minute with a range of 2 km.

They were war machines designed to take on the army if necessary. “Listen well, bastards,” shouted the coyote standing on the bed of a pickup truck for everyone to see. We are going to take the regional airport of Apatzingán. We are going to keep it under control for 6 hours while five small planes take off with the skipper’s merchandise. This operation is direct from El Mencho.

If it goes well, everyone receives a bonus of 50,000 pesos. If it goes wrong, we all die. It’s that simple. The hitmen celebrated with shouts and shots in the air. They had the confidence of someone who has won too many times. In the last 3 years, the CJNG had carried out 47 takeovers of entire towns in Michoacán, Jalisco and Guanajuato. Every time they attacked, the local authorities fled or hid.

They had never faced any real resistance. It never occurred to them that maybe this time would be different. The coyote continued to give specific instructions. We entered into three groups. Group one, take the control tower and eliminate any personnel who are there. Group two, secures the runways and hangar.

Group three, blocks the three land accesses to the airport with stolen vehicles. The three monsters are positioned in a triangle covering all angles. If the army comes by land, we receive them with bullets. If helicopters come, the RPG teams have orders to shoot them down without hesitation, as we did in Jalisco in 2015. We have already shown once that we can.

Let’s prove again that the sixth NGte nobody. What the coyote and his 68 hitmen didn’t know was that 200 km above their heads, a U.S. reconnaissance satellite equipped with ultra-high-resolution infrared cameras had detected the movement of the 12 armored trucks leaving the ranch.

The satellite, jointly operated by the DEA and Northern Command, had been tracking CJNG activity in Michoacán for weeks. When analysts saw 12 armored vehicles moving in convoy towards Apatingan, at 3:47 in the morning, they activated the immediate alert protocol.

The information was transmitted in real time to the Mexican Army’s Command and Control Center in Mexico City. Within 8 minutes, Brigadier General Arturo Sandoval, commander of special operations in the western region, was in a secure videoconference with the secretary of national defense and commanders of the Air Force and Navy.

Satellite images clearly showed the CJNG convoy heading to the airport. Intelligence suggested they were planning to use the facility for drug trafficking flights to the United States. The decision was made in less than 5 minutes. Operation Closed Sky was authorized at the highest level.

General Sandoval gave the orders immediately. I want 20 helicopters in the air in 15 minutes. Six heavy assault personnel for troop transport. Six light attack with guided rockets. Four surveillance cameras with thermal cameras. Four medical transport for evacuation. On the ground I want eight Sancat tanks with 30 mm guns and 340 special forces soldiers.

The goal is to retake the airport, rescue any reen civilians and neutralize all hostiles who resist. An absolute priority is to prevent a single plane with drugs from taking off. Rules of engagement. Free fire against any armed individual who does not surrender immediately. This is not an arrest operation, this is annihilation.

At 4:12 a.m., as the coyote and his 68 hitmen approached the airport, at military air base No. 5 in Zapopan, Jalisco, 20 helicopters fired their engines creating a deafening roar that made the night air vibrate. They were not commercial helicopters, they were instruments of war specifically designed to kill.

Colonel Héctor Maldonado, a 29-year veteran fighting organized crime, boarded the command helicopter. Through his helmet with integrated communications he spoke to all pilots and unit commanders. All the teams here Águila 1. Operation Sky Closed is underway.

Intelligence confirms that the CJNG is taking over the regional airport of Apatzingán. for drug trafficking operations. Estimated targets: 60 to 70 armed hostiles. Armored vehicles with heavy weapons. Possible anti-aircraft systems. Maintain attack formation. Flight time, 28 minutes. We arrived at 50:02 in the morning. At that moment the recovery operation begins.

The 20 helicopters rose in perfect formation and turned east, towards Apatzingán, towards the destination of 68 men who had less than an hour to live. By land, eight Sancat armored tanks had already left their bases 20 minutes earlier, approaching by alternate roads from three different directions.

His 40 elite soldiers were distributed in assault helicopters and ground transport vehicles. All with clear orders. Retake the airport, capture or eliminate hostiles. Prevent drug flights. Meanwhile, the coyote and his hitmen arrived at the regional airport of Apatzingán at exactly 4:47 in the morning.

The 12 vans entered through the main entrance, knocking down the security barrier as if it were made of paper. The three private security guards who tried to resist were executed within the first 30 seconds. One of them, Ramiro Sánchez. 54 years old, father of four children, former municipal police officer who had taken that job because it paid better than his pension.

He was shot seven times by AK47s when he tried to draw his regulation pistol. He fell dead before he could fire a single shot. The other two guards, seeing Ramiro die, threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. The hitmen executed them anyway on their knees with shots in the back of the head. They could not leave witnesses alive to call the authorities.

Group one, 20 hitmen led by a man known as the Jackal, ran up the stairs of the control tower. Inside were three airport employees, the night shift air traffic controller, a receptionist and a maintenance technician. The three were taken out at gunpoint and forced to kneel on the floor while the jackal yelled at them, “You’re going to do exactly what we tell you or die like the guards outside.

We’re going to use this tower to coordinate five takeoffs. They are going to guide the planes. They are going to do everything normally, as if they were commercial flights. If they try to do something stupid, if they try to send signals for help, I kill all three of them and then I kill their families. Understood? The three employees nodded in terror.

The air traffic controller, a 47-year-old man named Eduardo Flores. He had been working at that airport for 18 years. He had seen many things in his career, irregular flights that were clearly drug trafficking, but he had always looked the other way because he knew that asking questions could cost you your life. He was now at the center of something much bigger and knew that his chances of surviving the night were very low.

Group two, 28 hitmen, secured the two runways and the main hangar. They searched every corner of the airport looking for more employees or any threat. They found two mechanics who were working in a private cesna in the hangar. They were forced to lie on the ground with their hands on the back of their necks while they decided what to do with them.

One of the mechanics, Jorge Palacios, 39, a father of three girls, begged for his life. “Please don’t kill me. I have a family. Do what you have to do. I didn’t see anything, I don’t know anything. I’m not going to say anything.” The hitmen let him live, but tied him and his coworker up with duct tape in a corner of the hangar.

They would serve as hostages if things got tough. Group Three blocked the three land access points to the airport with stolen vans, tractor-trailers, and buses they had hijacked along the way. They positioned the vehicles across the entrances, creating physical barriers that would be difficult to remove quickly.

Behind each barricade, groups of gunmen armed with rifles and grenades were positioned. The three armored vehicles took up positions in a triangular formation, covering the three corners of the airport perimeter. .50 caliber machine guns were pointed skyward and toward the ground access points, ready to open fire on any approaching threat.

At 4:58 a.m., the coyote walked along the runways, overseeing his men’s positions. Everything was going according to plan. They had taken the airport in less than 11 minutes. They had executed the security guards who resisted. They were holding five employees hostage. They had blocked all land access points.

The five Cessna planes loaded with fentanyl were due to arrive any moment. The coyote pulled out his satellite phone and called the skinny guy to report that the airport was secured. But when he tried to make the call, there was no signal. He tried his regular cell phone; there was no signal either. He tried the tactical radio he was carrying; only static.

A cold sensation began to run down his spine. Something wasn’t right. “Hey, Jackal,” he yelled toward the control tower. “The phones and radios are working up there.” Jackal checked the tower’s communication equipment. The airport’s internal systems were working, but all external communication was blocked. “No, boss,” he yelled back. “There’s no sign of anything.”

No cell phone, no radio, no satellite. It was as if someone were blocking all frequencies. The coyote felt the first pang of real fear. In his 15 years in the drug trade, he had only seen electronic warfare once, when the navy captured a leader of the Setas using jamming systems that blocked all communications within a 20-kilometer radius.

Only the government had that technology, and they only used it in top-level operations. “Shit,” the coyote whispered. “This isn’t right. Does anyone know we’re here?” It was 5:02 a.m. when the coyote heard the sound he would never forget in the final minutes of his life. A distant hum that quickly grew into a thunderous roar of multiple engines.

He looked up at the western sky, and what he saw chilled him to the bone. Twenty black helicopters appeared above the mountains in perfect combat formation, flying straight toward the airport like birds of prey that had spotted vulnerable meat. The coyote’s heart stopped for a second.

In his entire career, he had never seen so many military helicopters together. “Helicopters, helicopters!” the coyote shouted, a mixture of adrenaline and absolute terror unlike anything he had ever felt before. Everyone to your positions. RPG teams, get your .50s ready. Open fire when you’re in range. This is serious, motherfuckers. It’s fight or die. The hitmen who had been dozing in their positions woke with a start.

Those checking their weapons looked up. Everyone rushed to their fighting positions, while the roar of the 20 helicopters grew louder, closer, more menacing. The three .50 caliber machine guns turned toward the sky.

The three RPG teams readied their rocket launchers with trembling hands. Sixty-eight men pointed their weapons upward, waiting for the moment to fire, knowing deep down that they were about to face something far greater than they had ever imagined. The helicopters split into coordinated attack formation.

The six assault squads remained at 150 meters, out of effective small arms range. The six attack squads descended to 600 meters, but remained at a distance of 2.5 kilometers, exactly at the limit of the .50 caliber machine guns’ range, but out of accurate range. The four reconnaissance squads climbed to 3,500 meters, where they were virtually invisible against the dark dawn sky.

The four medical transport vehicles remained behind, waiting. It was a formation designed to maximize firepower while minimizing exposure. It was the formation of a professional army that had learned from past mistakes and wasn’t going to repeat them.

“Fire, fire now!” the coyote yelled, his voice cracking with fear. The three Browning M2 machine guns opened fire with a roar that shook the ground. Thousands of .50 caliber bullets streaked through the air, tracing bright red lines toward the sky. But the helicopters were too far away. The bullets slowed down and fell before reaching them. It was like trying to extinguish the sun by spitting at it.

The three RPG teams fired their rockets almost simultaneously. Three trails of white smoke shot out toward the nearest helicopters. But these weren’t the slow, overconfident helicopters of years past. The pilots had been specifically trained to evade RPGs.

The moment they detected the launches, they executed violent evasive maneuvers that caused their aircraft to bank almost 60 degrees. Two rockets missed their target, exploding in mid-air without causing any damage. The third rocket came dangerously close to an attack helicopter, but the electronic countermeasures system deflected it, and it exploded 80 meters away.

creating an orange fireball that lit up the sky, but didn’t touch the helicopter. The coyote watched in growing horror. His best anti-aircraft guns had just failed completely. The helicopters were maintaining the perfect distance, too far away to be hit, but close enough to strike with lethal precision. And then the annihilation began.

The six attack helicopters launched 12 laser-guided rockets in a matter of 8 seconds. These weren’t just any rockets flying in a straight line; they were smart missiles with guidance systems that adjusted their trajectory mid-flight, following the heat signatures of the engines and the laser markings that designated them.

The first pair of rockets struck the armored behemoth on the north side of the airport. The explosion was so violent that the 3-ton truck was launched 3 meters into the air before crashing down in flames. The four gunmen operating it were instantly vaporized. They didn’t even have time to scream.

The second pair of rockets destroyed the monster on the east side. The .50 caliber machine gun flew in one direction, the bodies of the operators in another, three more hitmen dead in less than two seconds. The third pair hit a concentration of hitmen entrenched behind a bus blocking the southern access.

The explosion killed seven men and left five others critically wounded, screaming in agony with limbs torn off and third-degree burns covering their bodies. The fourth pair destroyed the last armored monster along with its three crew members. In less than 45 seconds, Cota NG had lost all three of its heavy combat vehicles and 17 men.

The coyote shouted orders, but no one could hear him over the roar of explosions and the drone of helicopters. Panic began to grip his men. Some fired frantically into the air without aiming. Others desperately sought cover.

Others simply ran in any direction that seemed to lead them away from the hell that was falling from the sky. Now, let me ask you something. What would you do if you were one of those hitmen and you saw 20 military helicopters attacking with guided rockets while your comrades died all around you? Would you fight to the end knowing you were probably going to die, or would you throw down your weapon and surrender, hoping to survive?

Leave me your comment because I really want to know what you think. And then the tanks appeared, eight armored vehicles, Israeli Sancats, modified for the Mexican army, advancing along the three access roads to the airport at 65 km/h. Each one weighed 9 tons, had armor capable of withstanding landmines and RPGs, and was mounted with a 30mm Bushmaster automatic cannon, which could fire 200 explosive rounds per minute.

They were unstoppable killing machines, specifically designed to annihilate enemy resistance in urban and open spaces. “Tanks, they’re coming, tanks at all the entrances!” a terrified hitman shouted from his position at the western approach. The remaining hitmen with rifles tried to fire at the tanks. The bullets ricocheted off the armor without causing a scratch, creating bright sparks, but completely useless.

It was like throwing stones at armored rhinos. The Sancat tanks opened fire with their 30mm cannons. Each shell they fired was a small explosive that detonated on impact, creating lethal shrapnel within a 5-meter radius. The first tank fired a burst of 25 rounds at the bus blocking the southern access.

The projectiles sliced ​​through the vehicle as if it were made of paper and exploded, killing the six hitmen hiding behind it. The second tank destroyed two pickup trucks from which hitmen were trying to escape. The vehicles exploded in orange fireballs, killing their occupants instantly. The coyote saw that all was lost. He saw more than half of his men dead or wounded. He saw the three monsters destroyed.

He saw the tanks advancing relentlessly from three directions. He saw the helicopters in the sky, ready to launch more rockets. And finally, he understood the horrifying truth: they had been detected before they even reached the airport. Everything had been monitored from the moment they left the ranch.

They had been allowed to take the airport to have legal justification for annihilating them with total force. They had fallen into a perfect trap. “Retreat, retreat!” the coyote shouted, his voice cracking. “Everyone to the vehicles. Dispersal, every man for himself.” But it was already too late to retreat in an orderly fashion. It was absolute chaos.

The gunmen, who were still able to move, ran in all directions like ants swarming after their anthill is destroyed. Some tried to jump into vehicles to escape, others ran into airport buildings, and still others threw down their weapons and raised their hands in desperate surrender. The six assault helicopters landed, and special forces soldiers began rappelling down from their side doors.

They were men dressed entirely in black, wearing state-of-the-art tactical gear, night-vision goggles, level 4 ballistic vests, and helmets with integrated communications. They descended with a speed and precision that demonstrated years of intensive training. Within 40 seconds, 80 soldiers were on the ground, forming a tactical perimeter around the control tower and runways.

“Drop your weapons!” And on the ground, hands behind your heads, the soldiers shouted through megaphones. Last chance. Surrender or die, choose now. Twenty-three hitmen, seeing the situation as completely hopeless, threw down their weapons and lay on the ground. The soldiers quickly handcuffed them with heavy-duty zip ties while yelling at them to stay still and quiet. But there were others who decided to fight to the end.

A group of 15 gunmen barricaded themselves inside the main hangar, holding the two mechanics hostage. They had fragmentation grenades, rifles, and the desperate determination of men who knew there was no escape. They fired through the windows and doors at the soldiers who tried to approach.

They knew there was no way out, they knew they were going to die, but they decided to take as many soldiers as they could with them. They were men who had lived amidst violence for so long that death no longer frightened them. They only wanted to inflict as much damage as possible before the inevitable end. Captain Alberto Ruiz, 36 years old, father of three children aged 8, 11, and 13.

Sandra Ruiz’s husband, a 13-year veteran of the special forces with 22 high-risk operations on his record, led the first assault team with orders to rescue the hostages and neutralize the gunmen in the hangar. He was an exceptional soldier. He was born in Guadalajara.

He had enlisted at 23 after witnessing drug traffickers murder his cousin, a municipal police officer. He swore to dedicate his life to fighting organized crime. He had fulfilled that oath with absolute honor for 13 years. Captain Ruiz was leading his 10-man team in a move to surround the hangar where 15 gunmen had barricaded themselves inside with the hostages.

The plan was coordinated and precise: flank the building from both sides, throw stun grenades to disorient the enemy without killing the hostages, and then assault from multiple angles simultaneously. It was a tactic they had practiced hundreds of times in training and had successfully executed in previous real combat engagements.

Ruis was a natural leader who always went first, never asking his men to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He advanced crouching low, using abandoned vehicles for cover. His HK416 rifle, raised and focused on the hangar windows 40 meters away, allowed him to see shadows moving inside through its scope.

I could hear the hitmen shouting instructions to each other in absolute panic. I was about to give the order to throw the stun grenades when one of the hangar’s side doors burst open. Four hitmen came out firing bursts of AK-47 fire on automatic, directly toward the soldiers.

They weren’t aiming precisely, just firing in the general direction where they thought their enemies were. It was desperate suppressive fire from terrified men. Most of the bullets either missed their target or became embedded in abandoned vehicles, creating sparks but causing no real damage. But the blind luck of desperation is unpredictable and deadly. Five bullets found their mark.

Three bullets struck Captain Ruiz’s bulletproof vest in the chest. The level 4 ceramic vest absorbed the impacts. Ruiz felt as if he had been hit with a hammer in the chest. It knocked the wind out of his lungs and made him stagger backward. But the vest did its job, saving his life. Those three bullets didn’t kill him.

The fourth bullet struck him in the left arm, just above the elbow, piercing muscle and grazing bone. It hurt horribly, but it wasn’t fatal. Ruiz could keep fighting, but the fifth bullet was different. It was a shot of pure luck, impossible to intentionally replicate. The bullet. Caliber 7. The 62 mm, fired from 35 meters, entered below the edge of his helmet, precisely at his left temple. It pierced his skull, penetrated his brain, and exited on the other side.

Captain Alberto Ruiz felt an impact, and then nothing. His legs instantly lost all strength. His rifle fell from his hands. He collapsed backward onto the pavement, staring at the sky beginning to lighten with the first rays of dawn. There was no pain, no coherent thought, only darkness rapidly approaching.

Sergeant Miguel Flores, the team’s second-in-command and a close friend of Ruiz’s for nine years, saw his captain fall and his heart stopped for a second. “The captain is wounded. Medic, we need a medic right now!” he yelled as he ran toward Ruiz under enemy fire. Three other soldiers covered him, firing precise bursts toward the hangar, while Flores dragged Ruiz behind an overturned vehicle.

When Flores saw the head wound, he knew immediately it was fatal. He had seen enough gunshot wounds to the brain to recognize one that was beyond saving. “Alberto, look at me, Alberto!” Flores shouted, holding his face as tears began to stream down his cheeks. “Hang on, brother, the doctor is coming.”

Think of Sandra, think of your children. Don’t leave me, don’t leave.” But Ruiz couldn’t hear him. Her eyes, which had been focused on flowers for a second, began to lose focus, staring into nothingness. Her breathing became ragged and shallow. Her skin turned pale rapidly.

The combat medic, Corporal First Class Jesús Ramírez, 28, came running with his medical kit. He pulled the girl’s bloodied hands away from the flowers and assessed the wound in three seconds. His medical training told him this was impossible to save, even in a hospital with neurosurgeons waiting. A bullet that pierces the brain causes irreversible damage.

The destroyed brain tissue doesn’t regenerate, but Ramírez didn’t give up. He applied pressure to the entry and exit wounds with hemostatic gauze. He opened the airway. He checked the pulse, which was weak and irregular. He shouted for urgent medical evacuation, but he knew it was too late.

He knew Captain Ruiz was dying in his hands and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Less than three minutes after being hit, Captain Alberto Ruiz, 36, a father of three, a husband, and an elite soldier, went into respiratory arrest due to massive brain damage. His heart beat frantically for a few more seconds, trying to pump blood to a brain that was no longer responding.

His organs were beginning to shut down. Corporal Ramírez attempted CPR, compressing Ruiz’s chest with a desperate rhythm while counting aloud. One, two, three, four. Come on, Alberto, come on, breathe. But there was no response. Captain Alberto Ruiz died at 5:17 a.m. on the pavement of the Apatzingán regional airport, his brothers in arms holding him.

His last conscious thoughts, before darkness consumed him, were of his wife Sandra and their three children. In his pocket, he carried a photograph of the four of them taken three weeks earlier, on his eldest daughter’s birthday. He would never see his children graduate from school.

He would never embrace his wife again. He would never meet his future grandchildren. All of that was snatched away by a bullet fired at random by a terrified hitman who wasn’t even aiming. Sergeant Flores closed his friend and captain’s eyes with a trembling hand. Tears streamed down his face, leaving clean traces in the dust and blood. But there was no time for mourning.

Not yet. The battle raged on, and there were hostages to rescue. Flores stood, wiped his face, raised his rifle, and, his voice breaking with emotion but firm in command, shouted to his team, “Captain Ruiz has fallen. Now let’s avenge our brother, rescue those hostages, and finish off these sons of bitches! For the captain, forward!”

Ruiz’s team, enraged by their leader’s death, threw eight fragmentation grenades into the hangar through windows and doors. The simultaneous explosions killed 11 of the 15 gunmen inside. The remaining four, seriously wounded, staggered out with their hands up, surrendering.

The soldiers brutally handcuffed them and threw them to the ground as they entered the hangar to rescue the two hostage mechanics who had miraculously survived the explosions, because the gunmen had put them in a remote corner. It was brutal justice, but justice nonetheless. Another group of gunmen, seeing that the airport was completely surrounded, decided to try to escape into the nearby mountains.

Eight men ran from the east side of the airport, carrying rifles and grenades, hoping to disappear into the thick vegetation before the soldiers could reach them. It was a desperate move, but their only chance. But surveillance helicopters flying at 3,500 meters, equipped with state-of-the-art thermal cameras, detected the movement immediately.

Infrared cameras showed the eight gunmen as bright figures running against the cold background of the terrain. The tactical coordinator in the command helicopter transmitted the exact coordinates to the attack helicopters. Eagle 3. Command here. I have eight targets fleeing toward Sierra Este. Coordinates marked. Cleared to neutralize. One of the attack helicopters turned toward the marked position and descended to 400 meters.

The gunner, with a six-barreled rotary M134 Minigon machine gun capable of firing 3,000 rounds per minute, opened fire. The sound was like that of a giant chainsaw. 1,000 tracer rounds lit up the night sky, creating a bright red line connecting the helicopter to the ground.

The eight hitmen were hit in a matter of four seconds. They fell like puppets with their strings cut. None survived. None had a chance to surrender. It was an aerial execution: swift, efficient, and decisive. Soldier David Montes, 24, from Monterrey, the second of four brothers, had been engaged for five months to his college sweetheart, Ana María. He was part of the third assault team. Montes had joined the army at 20 after graduating with honors from [unclear – possibly “the military academy”].

He had attended a technical high school where he had studied automotive mechanics. His parents had wanted him to go to college, but David felt a calling to military service. He wanted to serve his country, he wanted to be part of something bigger than himself. He was a dedicated, courageous soldier, always the first to volunteer for the most dangerous missions.

His team was advancing along the southern flank of the airport when the team commander detected movement in one of the administrative buildings. “Halt!” he signaled with a closed fist. Everyone stopped immediately, assuming defensive positions. The commander used hand signals: “Possible hostiles in Building 2, second floor. Proceed with caution. Prepare stun grenades.”

The team began to move slowly in assault formation, with Montes leading the charge thanks to his youth and excellent reflexes. Six hitmen hidden on the second floor of the administration building watched the soldiers approach through the broken windows. They waited until they were 15 meters from the main entrance.

Then one of them, in a suicidal act of utter desperation, leaned out of a window and threw three fragmentation grenades toward the soldiers while shouting something unintelligible. The grenades flew in a high arc toward the team. The commander yelled, “Grenade! Cover!” All the soldiers threw themselves to the ground, seeking any available cover.

Montes saw the three grenades falling directly toward three of his comrades, soldiers who had shared barracks with him for months, who were his friends, who had families waiting for them at home. In a fraction of a second that seemed to stretch into eternity, Montes made a decision that would define his final moments.

Instead of seeking cover, he ran toward the grenades, desperately trying to kick them away from his comrades before they exploded. He managed to kick two grenades, which flew into an open area where they detonated without injuring anyone, creating craters in the pavement and sending up clouds of debris. But the third grenade exploded when Montes was only five feet away from it.

The explosion lifted him off the ground like a rag doll and threw him 4 meters backward. Hundreds of metal fragments from the grenade pierced his body. The ballistic vest stopped the fragments that hit his front torso, saving his heart and lungs, but his abdomen, arms, legs, neck, and face were completely exposed.

A particularly large fragment, about the size of a ten-peso coin, pierced his abdomen, perforating his small intestine and partially severing the superior mesenteric artery, which supplies blood to much of the digestive system. Another, smaller fragment entered through his neck, grazing the carotid artery without completely severing it, but causing severe bleeding.

Montes fell to the ground, feeling a pain so intense his brain couldn’t fully process it. He knew he was seriously injured. He could feel warm blood soaking his uniform. He tried to shout for help, but could only manage a weak whimper. His team commander rushed toward him, yelling, “Montes is injured. We need urgent medical evacuation.”

Two soldiers dragged him behind an armored vehicle, while four others neutralized the six gunmen in the administrative building with precise rifle fire and a fragmentation grenade that eliminated them all. The combat medic, Corporal Ramirez, the same one who had tried to save Captain Ruiz minutes earlier, came running to attend to Montes.

Her uniform was still stained with Ruiz’s blood, her hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline and the trauma of having seen a patient die just eight minutes before. She knelt beside the man and began to assess the wounds. When she opened the uniform and saw the abdomen, she knew the situation was critical.

There was too much blood coming from too many places. The abdominal puncture was leaking blood mixed with intestinal contents. The neck wound was bleeding profusely, soaking the bandages as quickly as Ramírez applied them. Ramírez worked with the speed and efficiency of years of training. He applied pressure bandages to the larger wounds.

He injected combat hemostatics directly into the abdominal punctures. He started two IV lines for fluid replacement. He yelled for immediate medical evacuation while continuing to work tirelessly. A medical transport helicopter began its descent 60 meters away, but Montes was losing blood faster than Ramirez could replace it.

The perforation of the mesenteric artery meant that blood was filling his abdominal cavity. His body was going into hypovolemic shock from the massive blood loss. “David, look at me,” Ramírez said, holding his face with one hand while continuing to apply pressure to his neck with the other. “You’re going to be okay. The helicopter is here. We’re going to take you to the hospital. Just hang on a little longer.”

Think of Ana María. Think of your family. Think of your wedding. Hang in there, David. Montes tried to answer, but only coughed up blood that spurted from his mouth, staining his face. His eyes, which had been focused on Ramírez with fear and pain, were beginning to glaze over, losing their sparkle of life.

His skin was turning pale gray, the unmistakable signs that his body was shutting down from lack of oxygenated blood. Six soldiers carried Montes on a stretcher, running toward the helicopter, while Ramírez continued applying pressure to the wounds and keeping the IV lines open.

They loaded him into the helicopter, where a larger medical team, including two paramedics and a military doctor, was waiting with transfusion and mechanical ventilation equipment. The helicopter took off immediately, heading for the regional military hospital in Morelia, a 45-minute flight away. The doctors worked tirelessly throughout the flight. They opened more IV lines and administered massive transfusions of type O negative blood, which they had brought in special coolers.

They injected vasopressor drugs to maintain his blood pressure. They intubated Montes and put him on a ventilator when he stopped breathing on his own. They applied advanced hemostatic dressings to all his wounds. But Montes had lost too much blood. His organs were beginning to fail one by one. His heart beat weaker and weaker. His kidneys stopped producing urine.

His liver stopped functioning. At 5:51 a.m., 15 minutes after arriving at the hospital, David Montes’ heart stopped beating. Doctors attempted CPR for 18 minutes, applying chest compressions, defibrillator shocks, and injecting epinephrine directly into his heart, but the damage was too severe.

There wasn’t enough blood in his system for his heart to pump. In fact, there wasn’t enough oxygen reaching his vital organs. At 6:09 a.m., he was pronounced dead. Soldier David Montes, 24, who had been enlisted for five months, the one who always smiled even during the toughest training sessions, the one who had saved three of his comrades by sacrificing his own life, was gone.

His fiancée, Ana María, received the news that very afternoon when two army officers knocked on the door of the apartment she shared with her mother in Monterrey. She knew before they said a single word; the fact that two officers in full dress uniform had arrived meant only one thing. She collapsed to the floor, weeping uncontrollably, before they could even say David’s name.

All her dreams of marrying David in December, of building a family together, of growing old by his side, were shattered in an instant by a grenade thrown by a desperate hitman. The officers presented her with a ceremonially folded Mexican flag and told her that David had died a hero, saving the lives of three comrades.

They told her she would receive a posthumous medal for valor, but no flag, no honor, no medal could fill the void David left in her life. The all-out battle lasted 23 minutes, but those 23 minutes of absolute violence were etched into the memory of every survivor like a nightmare they could never forget.

Bullets flew in all directions, creating a constant buzzing that filled the air like a swarm of metallic bees. Explosions shook the airport floor every few seconds, raising clouds of dirt, debris, and fire; cries from the wounded begged for help that would never arrive in time.

Military orders shouted through radios amidst the chaos. The pungent smell of gunpowder mingled with the metallic odor of fresh blood and the charred flesh of bodies near the explosions. The deafening roar of machine guns, firing thousands of rounds per minute, tank cannons roaring with each shot, helicopter rockets whistling through the air before impacting with explosions that illuminated everything like orange flashes.

It was hell on Earth concentrated in the facilities of a regional airport that normally saw only quiet commercial flights. Special forces soldiers moved with surgical precision through the absolute chaos. Five-man teams advanced, covering angles, communicating with hand signals when the noise was too loud, even for tactical radios.

Their absolute first priority was rescuing the five civilian employees who had been taken hostage. Air traffic controller Eduardo Flores and his two colleagues in the control tower were rescued when an assault team went up the stairs. They neutralized the four gunmen guarding them and brought them out of the building unharmed, though traumatized.

The two mechanics in the hangar were rescued after soldiers eliminated the 15 gunmen who were using them as human shields. The five civilians received immediate medical attention for psychological shock and minor injuries. All would physically survive, but would carry the emotional scars of that night for the rest of their lives.

On CJ’s side, the outcome was devastating, beyond anything imaginable. Forty-two hitmen were scattered throughout the airport. Some were vaporized by rockets, leaving no recognizable bodies. Others were riddled with dozens of bullets from helicopter machine guns, while still others were torn apart by grenades or tank fire.

Eighteen hitmen were arrested, handcuffed, and lined up face down on the pavement with soldiers pointing rifles at their heads. Eight more hitmen initially escaped but were tracked down and captured in follow-up operations over the next 72 hours. The coyote was among the dead.

His body was found near the control tower with 11 bullet wounds, 5.56 mm caliber. He had tried to escape by running toward a vehicle, but a military sniper positioned in one of the helicopters had neutralized him with lethal precision. The regional commander of COTA TNG, who had thought he could seize a federal airport and use it for drug trafficking, was dead.

His death would leave a power vacuum in Michoacán that would unleash an internal war within the cartel in the following months. On the military side, the bullets killed two soldiers, Captain Alberto Ruiz and Private David Montes, and wounded four others. Private Juan Ríos suffered shrapnel from a grenade in his left leg that shattered muscle but did not reach the bone.

Private Carlos Méndez was shot in the right shoulder, the bullet passing through soft tissue without hitting an artery. Lieutenant Marcos Sánchez suffered second-degree burns on his left arm from a nearby explosion. Private Roberto Vega was hit in the abdomen by shrapnel and required surgery, but he survived.

The six were immediately evacuated by medical transport helicopters. The wounded would recover, although with many months of physical and psychological therapy ahead. Army forensic investigation teams arrived at dawn to document the combat scene. They found 89 high-caliber weapons, including AK-47 and AR-15 rifles, three destroyed Browning M2 machine guns, three RPG-7 rocket launchers, 27 unused fragmentation grenades, and thousands of rounds of ammunition.

In the five Cessna airplanes, which were hidden in a secondary hangar, authorities found exactly 2.3 tons of pure fentanyl packaged in bricks bearing the CJNG logo. Its street value in the United States exceeded $180 million. It was the largest fentanyl seizure in Michoacán’s history.

The 18 arrested hitmen were loaded onto armored military trucks with their hands cuffed with heavy-duty plastic zip ties and black hoods over their heads. They were to be transferred to the Altiplano maximum-security federal prison, where they would face charges of terrorism, attacking federal facilities, kidnapping, possession of weapons restricted to the military, drug trafficking, and criminal conspiracy.

Several of them faced sentences of 50 years or more with no possibility of reduction. The bodies of the 42 slain hitmen were placed in black body bags and loaded into refrigerated trucks from the morgue. They would be identified through fingerprints and DNA, photographed for forensic records, and eventually released to their families for burial.

Among them was the coyote, whose family would never know exactly what he had done that night, nor why he had been gunned down at an airport. Four days later, the Secretary of Security and Citizen Protection, Omar García Jarfuch, held a press conference at the National Intelligence Center in Mexico City.

Behind him were aerial photographs of the airport taken by drones during the firefight. Images of confiscated weapons neatly arranged in rows, bricks of fentanyl stacked into a wall, and the 18 arrested hitmen with identification numbers. His message was clear, direct, and designed to send a warning to all cartels operating in Mexico.

On September 17, members of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel stormed the Apatzingán regional airport in Michoacán. They executed three security guards and kidnapped five civilian employees. They planned to use the federal facility to transport 2.3 tons of fentanyl to the United States.

These types of actions constitute terrorism of the highest gravity and will not be tolerated under any circumstances. The Mexican armed forces executed Operation Closed Sky with decisive and definitive results. 42 criminals were killed in combat, 18 were arrested and face charges that will keep them in prison for decades.

Eighty-nine weapons of war, 2.3 tons of fentanyl valued at $180 million, and five aircraft were seized. Tragically, two brave soldiers, Captain Alberto Ruiz and Private David Montes, gave their lives in the line of duty. Their names will be remembered as heroes who defended national sovereignty and protected innocent citizens.

García Harfuch paused, looking directly at the television cameras broadcasting live across the country. “I want to send an absolutely clear message to all organized crime groups operating in Mexican territory: the days when they could attack federal facilities with impunity are over forever.”

If they attack an airport, if they attack critical infrastructure, if they endanger innocent civilians, they will face the full and lethal force of the Mexican state. We will not negotiate, we will not back down, we will not allow them to turn our country into a narco-state. We will respond with the full power of our armed forces, and if they choose to fight, they will die. This is the new reality of Mexico.

The impact of Operation Closed Sky was immediate, profound, and lasting. In the following four weeks, attempts to seize airports and federal facilities throughout Mexico decreased by 91%. [Music] CJNG cells in Jalisco, Guanajuato, and Colima received direct orders from their leaders not to attack federal infrastructure under any circumstances without Mencho’s personal authorization.

The cost of 42 dead hitmen and $180 million in confiscated assets was too high to justify such risky operations. DEA intelligence agents intercepted an encrypted phone call from Nemesio or Ceguera Cervantes three hours after the attack. His normally calm and controlled voice sounded absolutely furious and with a hint of something his subordinates rarely heard. Fear.

They killed 42 of my men like they were stray dogs. They destroyed the biggest operation we had planned in months. They seized 2.3 tons of fentanyl worth $180 million. They captured 18 of my hitmen who will spill everything they know when they are tortured in the highlands.

And all because that [ __ ] Coyote thought he could take over a federal airport like it was a corner store. Listen up, everyone. Nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody, attacks federal installations, airports, ports, anything belonging to the government again without my direct and personal authorization. Is that clear? Because if you fall into a trap like that again, I’ll kill you myself before the army even has a chance.

In the following months, the Mexican army used Operation Cielo Cerrado as a model and template for similar operations in other states. The doctrine was simple, clear, and absolutely lethal. If a cartel attacks federal infrastructure, the response will be immediate, overwhelming, and designed to completely annihilate the threat.

No more negotiations, no more tactical withdrawals. Only massive military force deployed with the intention of killing or capturing everyone involved. There was criticism, as there always is. Human rights organizations, both national and international, questioned the proportionality of the military response. Some academics and activists argued that 42 deaths was excessive, that negotiation should have been attempted first, that the use of attack helicopters and tanks against poorly trained gunmen was disproportionate. But the government responded with data.

The facts are stark and irrefutable. In the three years prior to Operation Closed Sky, the CEO NGO had carried out 89 attacks against government, police, and military installations in six states. They had burned 147 official vehicles. They had murdered 23 public officials.

They had caused economic losses estimated at over 2 billion pesos. They had terrorized millions of citizens living in areas controlled by the cartel. In the four months following Operation Closed Sky, attacks against federal facilities decreased by 89% nationwide. The figures spoke for themselves with an indisputable clarity.

For the families of Captain Alberto Ruiz and Private David Montes, no statistic, no data, no percentage of violence reduction could compensate for the loss of their loved ones. Ruiz left behind a wife, Sandra, and three children, ages 8, 11, and 13, who would now grow up without a father, without the presence of the man who had loved them more than his own life.

Montes left behind a fiancée, Ana María, who had been planning their wedding for December and who now, instead of a wedding dress, would have to choose mourning clothes. He left behind devastated parents who had warned him about the dangers of military service but had supported his decision because they knew it was his calling.

But both men had died doing exactly what they had sworn to do: protect their country against criminal threats, defend innocent citizens, and uphold the rule of law, even at the cost of their own lives. Their names were inscribed in gold on the memorial to the fallen at the Ministry of National Defense. Their families received full lifetime pensions, educational support for their children, and the eternal gratitude of a nation that recognized their sacrifice.

For the 18 hitmen arrested, the future held decades of solitary confinement in Mexico’s toughest maximum-security federal prison. They faced federal trials where the evidence against them was so overwhelming that no lawyer, however skilled, could mount a credible defense.

They were caught red-handed, attacking a federal airport, kidnapping civilians, and protecting 2.3 tons of fentanyl. The law was absolutely clear. Participating in a terrorist attack against federal facilities carried a minimum sentence of 40 years with no possibility of parole. Several of them would receive sentences of 60 years or more, considering the multiple charges they faced.

For the eight hitmen who initially escaped, a life of constant flight and absolute terror began. They knew the army would pursue them with the full resources of the state. They knew the CJNG would hold them responsible for the catastrophic failure and would likely execute them to prevent them from talking if captured.

Some tried to cross into the United States hiding in cargo trucks. Others hid on remote ranches in the mountains of Michoacán. Three were captured in follow-up operations during the first week. Two more were found executed with narco-messages from CJ himself, accusing them of being cowards and traitors.

The last three remained fugitives, but knew it was only a matter of time before they were found. The message that Operation Closed Sky sent to the Mexican criminal underworld was unequivocal, brutal, and designed to change the risk calculations of any cartel considering attacking federal facilities.

The government had demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that it possessed the technological capacity, the political will, and the military power to respond to terrorist attacks with lethal force. It had shown that satellites, drones, attack helicopters, tanks, and hundreds of elite soldiers could be deployed in less than an hour against any criminal group that crossed certain red lines.

He had demonstrated that the arrogance built on years of easy victories against poorly equipped municipal police was worthless when facing the full might of a modern national army. Months after the operation, Colonel Héctor Maldonado was promoted to Brigadier General in a full military ceremony in recognition of the meticulous planning and flawless execution of Operation Cielo Cerrado.

In his acceptance speech, he said something that was reproduced in newspapers and news programs across the country and resonated deeply in communities affected by drug trafficking. For too many years, the cartels thought they could defy the Mexican state with total impunity. They thought they could seize airports, burn cities, assassinate officials, and face no real consequences.

Operation Closed Skies taught them they were completely wrong. It taught them that when they attack federal infrastructure, when they threaten national security, when they endanger innocent lives, the response will not be negotiation, it will not be withdrawal, it will be total annihilation.

And we will continue operating under that doctrine until every cartel in Mexico understands three fundamental truths: that crime doesn’t pay, that violence has definitive consequences, and that the Mexican state will never kneel before narco-terrorists. A year after the attack, an investigative journalist visited Patzingán to report on how the area had changed after the military operation.

She spoke with local residents who had lived for years under the constant shadow of the CJNG. A 52-year-old woman, who asked to remain anonymous for fear of reprisals, told her, “Before, we lived in terror. The cartel did whatever it wanted, took whatever it wanted, and forcibly recruited our children.”

Nobody could say anything because you knew they’d kill you and your family. Since the army carried out that operation at the airport, since we saw that the government can and does want to use real force against the drug cartels, things have changed. I’m not going to say there’s no more violence because there is, but they don’t feel so invincible anymore.

They no longer act as if they own everything. That’s changed. A shopkeeper in downtown Apatzingán, who had paid extortion money to the CSG for seven years, said, “Look, I don’t celebrate people dying, but those guys took over an airport with weapons of war, killed innocent guards, and were going to fly two tons of drugs that kill thousands of people.” What did they expect? That the government would tell them, “Please, don’t do it.”

“Once again, they messed with federal infrastructure, played with fire knowing full well what could happen, and got burned. Perhaps now other hitmen will think twice before accepting suicidal orders from their bosses. Not everyone agreed with the military response. There were academic and activist voices that argued that violence only begets more violence.”

That killing 42 people without first attempting to arrest them peacefully was excessive, that the state should not respond with the same brutality as the criminals. But even the harshest critics acknowledged that CJ attacks on federal facilities had decreased dramatically. The divisive question was whether the ends justified the means, whether it was acceptable for a democratic state to use lethal force to combat organized crime.

It was a question Mexico had been asking itself for decades without finding an answer that satisfied everyone. What absolutely no one could deny was that Operation Closed Sky had marked a historic turning point in the war on drugs in Mexico. It had unequivocally demonstrated that the federal government had the technological capacity, the human resources, and the political will to use overwhelming lethal force against cartels that attacked critical infrastructure. It had demonstrated that modern military technology, when used appropriately, can be a powerful tool for combating drug trafficking.

Coordinated and precise, it could be devastatingly effective against criminal organizations operating as insurgent armies. It had demonstrated that US satellites, sharing real-time intelligence with Mexican forces, created an insurmountable tactical advantage for hitmen armed with rifles and rocket launchers.

And above all, it had shown that the arrogance built on years of victories against corrupt or poorly equipped police became absolute ruin when you faced professional soldiers with elite training, state-of-the-art equipment, and orders not to take prisoners unless they surrendered immediately.

For the CJNG, Operation Cielo Cerrado was a devastating blow that resonated at every level of the organization, not only in terms of the 42 hitmen killed, the 18 arrested, the 89 weapons seized, and the $180 million worth of fentanyl lost. The real blow was to their credibility, to the image of invincibility they had carefully cultivated over years.

For years, the SET NgNG had presented itself as the cartel that could confront the Mexican government on equal terms. The cartel that controlled clandestine airstrips, the cartel that moved tons of drugs with impunity. But in 23 minutes of brutal combat at the Apatzingán regional airport, that image shattered along with the bodies of 42 of its gunmen and its dreams of dominating air routes to the United States.

The story of Operation Closed Sky became a case study in military academies in Mexico and the United States. It was discussed in strategy seminars as a perfect example of coordinated planning, effective use of shared satellite intelligence, rapid deployment of air and ground forces, and application of overwhelming force to neutralize asymmetric threats.

It became a legend in the barracks where young soldiers listened to the story of Captain Ruiz and Private Montes, who had given their lives. protecting his brothers in arms and fulfilling his duty. It became a whispered warning on the streets controlled by cartels. Don’t attack federal airports or you’ll end up like the Coyote and his 68 men. Only 42 survived to go to prison.

The other 26 died within 23 minutes. And on calm nights in Apatzingán, when the wind blew across the runways of the regional airport, workers who returned months later could still see the dark spots on the pavement, where 42 men had bled to death. They could see the bullet holes in the walls of the control tower.

They could see the craters left behind by rockets and grenades that no one had bothered to fully repair because they served as a silent reminder. They were permanent reminders that the day the CJNG decided to take over that airport thinking they could get away with it, was the day they learned the most expensive lesson of their lives. They learned that some battles simply cannot be won, that some red lines should never be crossed, that some decisions cost everything, that attacking federal infrastructure in Mexico was no longer a viable option if you wanted to stay alive. If this story is for you,

It made you feel something, if it made you think about the brutal war on drugs in Mexico and the terrible price paid by both honest soldiers and desperate criminals, subscribe to the channel because every week we bring real stories from the world, from organized crime, told with absolute respect for all the victims, for the innocent civilians caught in crossfire, who never ever asked to be there for the soldiers who give their lives defending the country, fulfilling an oath they took seriously, even

by the young hitmen recruited by threats or poverty who deserved better options in life.