The CJNG burst into a wake. They never imagined that the deceased was Mencho’s brother. It is 8:10 p.m. when six Ram Negras trucks stop abruptly in front of the La Paz Eterna funeral home in Tlaquepaque, Jalisco. 12 CJNG hitmen come down armed with assault rifles led by El Toro, a 29-year-old local commander with a reputation for brutality.

they violently enter the wake room, where 35 people cry silently in front of the coffin of Armando Oseguera López, a humble 63-year-old corn vendor. What the bull does not imagine is that eight of those mourners dressed in black are not ordinary relatives. They are elite hitmen of Nemesio or Ceguera Cervantes, El Mencho, maximum leader of the CJNG, and the deceased they are about to desecrate is his younger brother.

In the next 40 minutes, that funeral home will become the place where loyalty, family respect and the hierarchy of Mexico’s most powerful cartel will be tested in the bloodiest way. The air smells of incense, withered flowers and fear, and no one, absolutely no one, will leave without consequences.

Armando Seguera López lived 63 years as an invisible man. He was born in 1962 in La Tuna, Michoacán, a dusty ranch where his family grew corn with bare hands and sweat as their only inheritance. He was the youngest of four siblings: Nemesio, Antonio, María and him.

While Nemesio grew up hungry for power and eyes cold as steel, Armando only wanted dirt under his fingernails and warm tortillas on the table. At age 19, when Nemesio began working with the region’s first drug traffickers, Armando took the opposite path, marrying Lucia, an elementary school teacher, and moving to Tlaquepaque to work in other people’s corn fields. He never wanted to know anything about his brother’s business.

He never asked where the money that Nemesio offered him every December came from. For 15 years, Armando sold corn from a rusty cart in front of the San Martín market. He knew his customers by name, Don Esteban, who bought two corn with chili and lemon every Tuesday. Doña Rosa, who always asked for one with extra mayonnaise for her grandson.

Armando smiled with teeth stained with cheap tobacco, wore faded plaid shirts and green plastic flip-flops. No one in that humble neighborhood knew that his brother controlled a methamphetamine empire that moved millions of dollars a month. No one would have believed it. Armando was so ordinary, so inconsequential, that the same CNG NG hitmen bought them in their cart without ever recognizing him.

That invisibility kept him alive for 30 years while his brother Nemesio became the most wanted man in Mexico. On Wednesday, March 20 at 5:40 p.m., Armando felt a sharp pain in his chest as he pushed his cart down Hidalgo Street. He fell to his knees, his wrinkled hands seeking support on the hot pavement. With Esteban he ran to help him screaming for help.

An ambulance arrived 17 minutes later. By then, Armando’s heart had already stopped beating. He died without identification in his pocket, with only 40 pesos in coins, and an old photograph of Lucia, who had died of cancer 6 years earlier. Paramedics did not find any contact telephone number. A neighbor gave the name Armando Ceguera.

No one mentioned the full last name. No one connected the dots yet. On Thursday morning, a distant niece, Patricia, identified the body at the morgue of the civil hospital. He wept silently. He signed papers with trembling hands. It was difficult for him to raise the money to pay for the most modest funeral home in Tlaquepaque, eternal peace.

A one-story construction with peeling beige walls and a flashing neon sign. The cheapest coffin cost 8,500es. Patricia sold her old television and borrowed the rest from neighbors. No one in the family had resources. No one called Nemesio because they hadn’t heard from him for 12 years, or so they thought. What Patricia didn’t know is that Armando’s every move had been discreetly monitored for three decades on the direct orders of his older brother.

Nemesio always knew where he lived, what he sold, who he talked to. When the report reached Nemesio’s ears on Thursday at 3 p.m., he was in a safe house in the mountains of Jalisco. He was informed that his younger brother had died of a heart attack. Nemesio didn’t cry, he didn’t scream, he just closed his eyes for 30 seconds, gritting his teeth, until his jaw hurt. Then he spoke in a cold voice.

I want eight men at that wake, dressed as family, armed but discreet. No one touches my brother, no one disrespects him. His trusted hitmen nodded. They knew that Armando was untouchable, even if he lived as a beggar. It was Nemesio’s blood. And in the dry TNG world that meant it was more valuable than any shipment of cocaine.

On Friday, March 22, the funeral home La Paz eterna opened its doors at 6 p.m. The wake room smelled musty, formaldehyde disguised with cheap vanilla air freshener and white flowers that were already beginning to wither. The varnished wooden coffin was open. Armando rested with his hands folded on his chest, dressed in a borrowed dark blue suit that was too big for his shoulders.

His face looked serene. The deep wrinkles around his closed eyes told the story of a hard but honest life. 35 people arrived, cousins I hadn’t seen for years, neighbors of the market, Doña Rosa with her grandson, Don Esteban with a bouquet of red carnations. They were all dressed in black, praying the rosary in low voices, wiping tears with flawed handkerchiefs.

Among the mourners were eight men who didn’t quite fit in. They wore dark suits that were too new. Her shoes shone with a luster that did not belong to that humble colony. They kept their hands in their pockets, their eyes alert, constantly sweeping the entrance, the windows, the movements of each person.

One of them, nicknamed the ghost, wore a silver crucifix hanging from his neck and a rosary in his left hand. Under his black jacket he hid a Glock 19 with a silencer. The other seven were armed the same. They were Nemesio’s elite hitmen, veterans with more than 100 executions behind them.

they were there to fulfill a sacred order, to protect Armando’s last goodbye, no matter who stood in the way. At 8:09 p.m., as Father Ignacio led the rosary in a tired voice, three black RAM trucks parked in front of the funeral home. The doors slammed open. Six hitmen with bulletproof vests, AK47 rifles hanging from their straps, skull tattoos on their bare arms came down.

They were commanded by the bull, a corpulent 29-year-old man with a scar on his right eyebrow and a reputation for not forgiving debts. They entered without knocking, without asking. they simply invaded the wake room like a wave of contained violence. The rosary stopped, the women screamed, the children hid behind their mothers.

The bull advanced in military boots that echoed against the floor of the cheap linoleum, looking at each face with contempt until he stopped in front of the coffin. He spat on the ground. And then he asked in a voice of thunder, “Where is Jesus or blindness? If you are liking this story, leave me in the comments from which city you are watching us and what your name is.

I want to know who is following this story from the beginning. Jesús Oseguera Ramírez, Armando’s second cousin, owes 200,000 pesos to the CJNG for a shipment of methamphetamine that disappeared 3 weeks ago at a fake checkpoint near Guadalajara. Jesus worked as a transporter. he moved drugs in hidden compartments of his Ford F150 truck from Colima to Jalisco.

It was a small link in the gigantic chain of the poster, invisible, but necessary. On the day of the incident, Thursday, March 1, Jesus was driving on Highway 44 when he saw patrol lights blocking the road. He went downstairs thinking they were federal police, but they were thieves dressed in fake uniforms. They pointed guns at him, knocked him down, searched the vehicle and found the 15 kg hidden under the back seat. They took everything.

Jesus escaped with his life. But the CJNG does not forgive losses. The bull was ordered to collect the debt 10 days ago. He visited Jesus’ house in tonala, but it was empty. Broken windows, abandoned clothes, signs of hasty flight. He asked neighbors, who said that Jesus left without warning. The bull tracked down relatives, brothers, uncles, cousins.

Nobody knew anything or they didn’t want to talk. Then, two days ago, one of his informants told him that Armando Oseguera López, the debtor’s cousin, had died. The wake would be in eternal peace. The bull smiled. Wakes are places where families inevitably gather.

If Jesus had any decency, he would show up to say goodbye. And if he did not appear, the bull would leave an unforgettable message. He would desecrate the corpse until Jesus paid. It was a brutal strategy, but effective. Fear is more valuable currency than money in the world of narcos. When the bull enters the wake room, the air changes.

The women instinctively recoil hugging the children against their bodies. Older men look down knowing they can’t do anything. The bull advances with slow, deliberate steps. Enjoying the power that emanates from his weapons and his five companions. He stops in front of the coffin. Look at Armando’s calm face for 5 long seconds.

Then he looks up at the frightened crowd and shouts, “Where is Jesus or blind Ramirez? I know that it is the family of this dead man. I know I should be here.” His voice bounces against the cheap walls of the funeral home. No one answers, only the contained crying of Doña Rosa and the ragged breath of Patricia can be heard, who trembles with fear in the corner.

A 72-year-old woman, Armando’s older sister named Estela, steps forward. She wears a threadbare black dress, tight-fitting stockings, worn orthopedic shoes. His face is furrowed by deep wrinkles that speak of decades of working in the sun. harvesting tomatoes, but his black eyes burn with a dignity that is neither bought nor sold.

Estela looks directly at the bull without blinking and speaks in a firm voice. Jesus did not come. We don’t know where it is. My brother Armando was a humble and decent man all his life. Let us watch over him in peace. The bull laughs, a raspy laugh that sounds like broken glass. He walks towards Estela, leaning over until their faces almost touch. It smells like cheap beer and old sweat. Peace.

There is no peace here until I am paid what I am owed. The bull turns around and violently kicks a crown of white flowers that rests next to the coffin. Carnations and roses are scattered on the dirty floor. The women shout, “Patricia Solloyoza louder!” The bull points to the coffin and says, “If Jesus doesn’t show up in 24 hours, I’ll take this corpse, leave it rotting in a trash can until I get paid. I don’t care who he was, I don’t care if he was holy.

Here only the debt matters.” Hitmen laugh, banging the barrels of their rifles on the floor as if marking a rhythm of condemnation. Father Ignacio, a 68-year-old man in a threadbare cassock, tries to intervene. Son, this is a sacred place. These people are in mourning. Please. The bull pushes him hard.

The father falls sitting against a folding chair that breaks under his weight. What the bull does not see is the almost imperceptible movement among the mourners. The ghost, Nemesio’s elite hitman dressed in an impeccable black suit, moves his right hand slowly into his jacket. He doesn’t pull out the gun yet, just touching it feeling the cold metal against his fingers. At his side, two other men from Nemesio do the same.

They communicate with glances, wait for the signal, wait for orders. The ghost has a wireless earbud hidden in his left ear, concealed by his slicked-back black hair. Through it he hears the voice of an operator in Nemesio’s safe house. Wait, I repeat, wait. The boss wants to know what they say. The ghost breathes slowly, controlled.

They have executed 20 armed men in similar situations. These six hitmen of the bull do not represent a real threat. The bull pulls out his cell phone, a cheap Samsung with a broken screen. Take a photograph of Armando’s face inside the casket, then photograph the terrified mourners. I’m going to send these photos to the entire organization.

Everyone will know that the Oceguera family does not pay its debts. I’m going to make Jesus come out of hiding out of shame. He puts his phone in the back pocket of his dirty jeans. Then he does something that seals his fate. Spit inside the casket. Saliva falls on Armando’s chest, staining the borrowed blue suit.

Patricia screams as if she’d been stabbed. Estela closes her eyes, clenching her fists until her nails dig into her palms. Don Esteban mutters a prayer under his breath. At that moment, the ghost’s earpiece comes to life. The voice he hears isn’t the operator’s; it’s Nemesio or Ceguera Cervantes, El Mencho, the most dangerous man in Mexico.

His tone is cold, calculated, lethal. Eliminate them all outside, without any civilian witnesses. Take them to the vacant lot on Morelos Street. I want them to suffer. I want them to understand whom they disrespected before they die. The ghost closes his eyes for two seconds. It’s not the first time he’s received that order. It won’t be the last.

He opens his eyes and looks at his seven companions. They nod almost imperceptibly. They are ready. The bull and his henchmen continue laughing, oblivious to the fate that has just been sealed in fewer than 10 words. They don’t know that the men standing beside them, weeping like humble mourners, are actually executioners trained to kill without hesitation.

The Ghost is a 34-year-old man whose real name no one remembers anymore. He was born in Apatzingán, Michoacán, into a family of farmers who grew avocados. At 16, he witnessed hitmen from the Mushrooms execute his father for refusing to pay extortion. From that day on, he swore allegiance to the CJNG, the only cartel that confronted the Mushrooms with the same brutality.

Nemesio personally recruited him 17 years ago after seeing him disarm an enemy with just a rusty knife in a confrontation near Tepalcatepec. The ghost is silent, efficient, and lethal. He has killed 143 people in his career as a hitman. None were for pleasure; all were on orders. That distinction allows him to sleep four hours a night without nightmares. The plan is activated silently.

The ghost takes three steps toward the bull, keeping his hands visible. Relaxed posture, his face contrite like any other mourner. He speaks in a trembling voice, a perfect performance. “Excuse me, sir, may I speak for a moment? I know Jesus. I know where he might be hiding.” The bull turns, intrigued.

His small eyes gleam with greed. Seriously, he speaks. The ghost moves closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. I can’t say it here. There are too many people, relatives of Jesus who might warn him. Come with me outside, I’ll give you the exact address. The bull hesitates for three seconds, then nods. Okay, let’s go. He signals to his five henchmen.

They all follow him toward the funeral home exit. Nemesio’s eight hitmen move like shadows. Four emerge first, strategically positioning themselves on the street: two beside El Toro’s black Ram pickup trucks, and two on opposite corners of the block. The ghost guides El Toro and his group toward the side alley of the funeral home, a narrow space about 3 meters wide piled with garbage bags and wet cardboard boxes.

The streetlights are dim, a single bulb hanging from a pole that flickers every five seconds. It’s the perfect place: isolated, dark, with no witnesses. The bull walks confidently. His boots echo against the cracked pavement; he suspects nothing. Neither do his henchmen. They’re used to intimidating, not being hunted. When they reach the end of the alley, the ghost stops.

The bull asks impatiently, “Well, where is Jesus?” The ghost doesn’t answer with words. In a fluid movement, practiced a thousand times, he pulls his silenced Glock 19 from his jacket and fires twice. The bullets strike the bull’s chest with muffled sounds. The bull opens his eyes in surprise, glances down at the red stains blooming on his white shirt, falls to his knees, gasping like a fish out of water.

The other five hitmen try to react, to raise their rifles, but it’s too late. The Ghost’s seven companions emerge, aiming. Twenty-one shots silenced in less than four seconds. The bodies fall one after another, heavy as sandbags. The Ghost crouches beside the bull, who is still breathing with difficulty. Bubbles of blood rise from his mouth.

The ghost speaks in a calm, almost soft voice. The man in that coffin was Armando Seguera López, brother of Nemesio Seguera Cervantes, El Mencho, your boss, your supreme leader. You disrespected him, you spat on his brother. Now you will die knowing that you destroyed your own life for 200,000 pesos that weren’t even yours.

The bull tries to speak, but only gurgles come out. Its eyes show pure terror, belated understanding. The ghost fires once more, straight into the forehead. The bull’s body collapses completely. Silence returns to the alley, broken only by the whir of the flickering spotlight and the slow trickle of blood seeping into the drain. Nemesio’s hitmen work with mechanical efficiency.

They remove cell phones, IDs, and all personal belongings from the corpses. They douse the bodies with gasoline from a jerrycan one of them brought in a black backpack. They won’t leave any forensic evidence. They won’t allow authorities to easily identify the dead.

In the world of the CNG, disappearing completely is a more effective punishment than displaying corpses. The families of these hitmen will never know what happened. They will only know that one day they ceased to exist. The ghost lights a match, drops it onto the bull’s body. The flames spread rapidly, illuminating the alley with a dancing orange light.

The eight men walk away unhurriedly, holstering their weapons and adjusting their black suits. Two minutes later, they are back in the funeral home. No one among the mourners noticed their absence. The rosary continues. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.

Father Ignacio got up with Don Esteban’s help, brushing the dust off his trousers. Patricia was still crying, but now with relief. The hitmen were gone. The danger had passed. Estela gathered the carnations that had fallen to the floor, arranging them again beside the coffin, trembling but determined. The ghost stood beside the coffin, gazing at Armando’s serene face. He wiped the saliva stain from the blue suit with a white handkerchief he took from his pocket.

He does it respectfully, carefully, as if he were cleaning his own father. Then he crosses himself and returns to his place among the mourners. No one in that room knows what just happened 20 meters away. No one heard gunshots because the silencers worked perfectly. No one saw the flames because the alley is hidden by the building.

Only Nemesio’s eight hitmen know the truth, and they never talk. That night, Armando Seguera López’s wake ends at 11 p.m. The mourners say their goodbyes in silence, kissing the deceased’s cold forehead, promising to pray for his soul. Patricia, a bald, fifty-year-old man from the funeral home who smells of cigarettes, closes the coffin. Tomorrow will be the burial in the municipal cemetery.

Tomorrow Armando will finally rest in peace. But his death has already unleashed consequences that will forever change the structure of sex. Now I want to know your opinion. Do you think the bull deserved that end for disrespecting an innocent dead man? Or do you think the revenge was too brutal? Leave your answer in the comments.

Sunday, March 23, 9 a.m. The municipal cemetery of Tlaquepaque is a labyrinth of gray concrete tombs, rusted crosses, and plastic flowers faded by the relentless Jalisco sun. The air smells of dry earth, burnt grass, and the cloying aroma of incense that someone burned on a nearby grave.

Armando López will be buried in the common grave section, plot 47, where those who couldn’t afford private crypts rest. Patricia barely scraped together enough money to pay Father Ignacio 100 pesos for a brief mass and the gravedigger 200 pesos to dig the 1.8-meter-deep grave. The coffin looks even more humble in the harsh daylight.

Twenty-eight fewer people attended the burial than the wake. Some relatives had to work today, Sunday, to make up for lost time yesterday. Estela was there, dressed in the same worn black dress, holding a rosary of wooden beads between her arthritic fingers. Don Esteban brought a bouquet of fresh carnations he bought at the market with his last fifty pesos.

Doña Rosa weeps silently, wiping her tears with a hand-embroidered handkerchief. Patricia embraces her 11-year-old son, who watches the scene without fully grasping the meaning of death. Father Ignacio reads from the Gospel of John, his voice hoarse with age. “I am the resurrection and the life.” Nemesio’s eight hitmen are still present.

They now wear more casual clothes: dark jeans, black long-sleeved shirts, and sunglasses that conceal their constant glances around the perimeter. The ghost stands in the shade of a twisted cypress tree, watching every vehicle that passes on the street adjacent to the cemetery.

They don’t expect any more trouble, but caution is second nature. They’ve lived long enough in this world because they never let their guard down. While Father Ignacio prays, one of them receives an encrypted text message on his cell phone. He reads it quickly. His expression doesn’t change, but he tilts his head slightly toward the ghost.

The message is clear. Mission accomplished. Bodies eliminated. No trace. Two gravediggers lower the coffin with thick ropes that creak under the weight. It descends slowly into the rectangular pit dug in reddish earth. When it hits the bottom with a dull thud, Patricia sobs louder.

Estela stands firm, her lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to weep publicly. She has buried four brothers already, two from illness, one from a farming accident, now one from a broken heart, which simply gave out. She is weary of death, but accepts it as an inevitable companion.

The gravediggers begin shoveling dirt. Each shovelful against the wood sounds like an irregular funeral drumbeat. Thump, thump, thump. The mourners cross themselves. Some murmur Hail Marys. No one notices the black Suburban SUV that parks 100 meters away next to the concrete perimeter wall of the cemetery. The windows are tinted.

Inside are three men. The one in the back seat is burly, 58 years old, with short gray hair, stubble, and hazel eyes that have witnessed too much violence. He wears simple clothes: a white cotton shirt, jeans, and worn work boots.

From the outside, he looks like an ordinary rancher, but he is Nemesio Ceguera Cervantes, El Mencho, the man with a $10 million reward offered by the U.S. government. The leader of Mexico’s most violent and expansive cartel. He observes his brother’s burial through long-range binoculars. Nemesio hasn’t seen Armando in person for 13 years.

It was in December 2012 at a secret ranch near Outlán. Nemesio offered him money, protection, a better house, and education for his nonexistent children. Armando rejected everything, saying calmly, “Brother, I respect your path, but it’s not mine. I just want to live simply, sell corn, and watch the sunset without fear. I don’t want your money.”

“I just want you to know that I still love you, even though I don’t share your life.” Nemesio didn’t insist. He respected the decision, but from that day on, he kept a discreet watch. Armando never knew that four of his regular customers at the market were informants paid by his brother to make sure no one hurt him.

Now, watching them throw the last shovelful of dirt onto the coffin, Nemesios feels something he hasn’t felt in 20 years. Pure, unfiltered pain, devoid of pragmatism. His younger brother, the only one in his family who chose honesty over power, is dead. And although he died of natural causes, the final moments of his wake were desecrated by stupid hitmen who didn’t know whom they were disrespecting.

This cannot go unpunished. He lowers his binoculars, takes out his satellite phone, and dials an encrypted number. When someone answers, he speaks in a voice that brooks no argument. “I want a full investigation. I want to know how the bull obtained that information.”

Who told you that Armando was related to Jesús or that he was blind? Someone talked. Did someone leak information? Find the informant. I want their name within 24 hours. The funeral ends at 10:15 a.m. The mourners slowly disperse, walking among the graves toward the cemetery exit. Patricia places a small wooden cross with Armando’s name hand-painted in black.

Don Esteban and Doña Rosa promise to return every Sunday to clean the grave and leave fresh flowers. Estela is the last to leave. She stands before the freshly turned earth for a full five minutes, motionless, silent. Finally, she murmurs, “Rest, little brother, you were better than all of us.”

Then he turns and walks slowly toward the exit, leaning on a makeshift cane fashioned from a tree branch. Nemesio’s eight hitmen leave the cemetery in three different vehicles, splitting up in opposite directions to avoid attracting attention. The ghost is the last to leave. Before departing, he walks to Armando’s grave.

He takes a medal of Saint Jude Thaddeus, patron saint of difficult and desperate causes, from his pocket. He places it on the loose soil. He doesn’t pray, he just bows his head for 30 seconds as a sign of respect. Then he walks away without looking back. His phone vibrates. New message. Operation Clean-Up activated. Code Red throughout Jalisco. All local commanders must report the location of their cells within 6 hours. Anyone who fails to do so is a suspect.

The internal purge has begun. Monday, March 24, 2 p.m., safe house in the mountains of Tapalpa, Jalisco. A two-story building surrounded by pine trees, accessible only by an unmarked dirt road. Six armored trucks guard the perimeter. Twenty hitmen armed with Barrett rifles. Fifty patrol in four-hour shifts.

Inside, in a windowless concrete-walled room, Nemesio Ceguera calls an emergency meeting with his five most trusted commanders, all veterans with more than 15 years in the cartel, men who have survived wars against the Zetas, the Sinaloa cartel, and the National Guard.

The tension is palpable, like electricity before a storm. The first to speak is the accountant, a thin, 46-year-old man with metal-framed glasses and the appearance of an office worker. He manages the CJNG’s finances: money laundering, legal investments, bribes to officials. He presents his report, tablet in hand. “Boss, we’ve been tracking El Toro’s communications for the last 30 days.”

He made 17 calls to an unregistered number. We triangulated it. It belongs to Miguel Ángel Ortiz, also known as El Mosco, an informant who worked for us in Tlaquepaque, gathering information on rival cartel movements. It was El Mosco who told El Toro that Armando López was Jesús’s cousin, the debtor.

The man had access to family databases because he worked in the civil registry office. Nemesio clenches his fists on the rustic wooden table. His voice is dangerously calm. Where is the man now? The accountant swipes his finger across the tablet. We located him this morning. He lives in Tlaquepaque, at 234 Juárez Street, apartment 3. He is married with two young children.

He works from eight to four at the Civil Registry. Nemesio nods. Bring him here. I’ll live without harming his family. I want him to talk. I want to know if anyone else has information about my brother. The ghost, who is standing in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, nods. We’ll bring him here before midnight.

The second to speak is the engineer, a 42-year-old former soldier and logistics specialist for the cartel. His voice is raspy. “Boss, the problem is bigger. El Toro didn’t act alone. He had a cell of 30 hitmen under his command in Tlaquepaque and Tonalá. They all operated with partial autonomy. They collected debts, carried out extortion, and moved local drugs. If we eliminate only El Toro and his five companions at the wake, the other 24 will become suspicious.”

They can become problematic, they can try to get revenge without knowing against whom, or worse, they can talk to authorities to negotiate protection. Nemesio looks him straight in the eye. What do you propose? The engineer doesn’t hesitate. Complete dismantling of that cell, 30 arrests coordinated with federal authorities. We’ll hand them over as a show of cooperation. They’ll be arrested.

We clean up our territory. The proposal is strategic. The CJNG occasionally sacrifices small cells to maintain good relations with certain sectors of the Attorney General’s office. It’s a business. They hand over low-level hitmen. The authorities boast about arrest figures, and the cartel continues to operate the main routes without interference.

Nemesio considers the option for 20 seconds. Finally, he nods. Do it. Coordinate with the contact at the special prosecutor’s office. Give them the exact locations of the 30 hitmen so they can be arrested in a simultaneous operation this Wednesday at 5 a.m. I want it to look like a government victory, and I don’t want anyone to connect this to my brother’s wake.

The third commander is a shadowy figure, a 38-year-old woman in charge of intelligence and counterintelligence. She has infiltrated government agencies, rival cartels, and even self-defense groups. Her network of informants is the most extensive in the CJNG. She speaks with a firm voice. “Boss, there’s a complication. Jesús or Seguera Ramírez, the original debtor, is still missing.”

If we don’t find him, others will think he can escape his debts. That sets a dangerous precedent. Nemesio exhales slowly. Jesús is a distant cousin of Armando’s. He has nothing to do with me, but he’s right. We must find him. Offer a reward of 100,000 pesos to anyone who provides verifiable information about his whereabouts without resorting to violence.

I just want to get back the 200,000 he owes, and then we’ll let him go with a warning. The shadow nods. He makes a note in a small notebook. Then he adds, “There’s another matter. Doña Estela, Armando’s sister, who confronted El Toro at the wake, is at risk. If anyone investigates what happened that night, they can trace it back to her, they can threaten her for information.” Nemesio raises his hand, cutting off the conversation.

Estela and Armando’s entire family are under permanent protection. Since yesterday, I’ve assigned four men to discreetly guard them; no one is to touch them. Furthermore, I want Patricia, the niece who organized the funeral, to receive an envelope containing 50,000 pesos in cash. Anonymous, leave it at her door with a simple note for funeral expenses. Rest in peace, Armando, that’s all.

The fourth commander, the Russian in charge of weapons and elite hitmen, intervenes. “Chief, Saturday’s operation was clean, no witnesses, no evidence, but there are security cameras in businesses near the funeral home. We reviewed the recordings. Three cameras captured our men going in and out.”

The images aren’t clear, but they exist. Nemesio rubs his beard. How identifiable are they? The Russian shakes his head, faces blurred, but someone with facial recognition technology could eventually identify them. Nemesio decides quickly. Hack the cameras. Delete the recordings from 8 to 11 p.m. on Saturday.

Today. The meeting lasts three more hours. Operational details are discussed. How to deliver the list of hitmen to the prosecutor’s office without leaving any trace of the CCOTNG as a source? How to handle the families of those arrested to avoid resentment? How to reorganize the Tlaquepaque and Tonalá territories under new leadership? Nemesio listens to each proposal, approves some, rejects others, and adjusts strategies.

He’s a leader because he combines brutality with cold intelligence. He doesn’t make emotional decisions, except when it comes to family. And Armando was family, the only one who chose to live out of the shadows, the only one who deserved absolute respect. His natural death couldn’t be prevented, but the desecration of his wake will be avenged with surgical precision.

At the end of the meeting, Nemesio is left alone in the room. He takes a faded photograph from his wallet. It shows him and Armando as children, standing in front of a cornfield in Michoacán, smiling with crooked teeth, their bare feet caked in mud. They were nine and seven years old. The world was simpler then. Nemesio stares at the photo for a full five minutes.

Then he puts it away again, gets up, and leaves the room. There will be no more tears, only action, only justice in his own way. Monday, March 24, 9 p.m., Miguel Ángel Ortiz, nicknamed “El Mosco,” arrives at his apartment in Tlaquepaque after an exhausting day at the Civil Registry. He is 33 years old, with a slim build, curly hair, and a sparse mustache. He works as an administrator, registering births, deaths, and marriages, earning 7,500 pesos a month.

It’s not enough to support his wife Fernanda and their two daughters, ages 8 and 5. That’s why, three years ago, he took on extra work. An informant for the CJNG cartel, he’s paid 5,000 pesos a month for reporting useful information from civil registries. Until now, it seemed like easy work, risk-free, just paperwork. Little does he know he’s made a fatal mistake.

When the bull asked him two weeks ago if there was anyone with blindness registered in Tlaquepaque, he searched the system and found Armando Ceguera López. He checked his birth certificate, which had been on file since 1962. The names of his parents and siblings appeared there, including Nemesio or Ceguera Cervantes. The mosquito thought it was a coincidence.

How could a humble corn vendor be the brother of the leader of the cartel? Impossible. He reported the information to El Toro without further verification. He didn’t investigate. He didn’t ask questions. He assumed that Nemesio or Seguera Cervantes in that document was someone else with the same name. A mistake that will cost him everything. When El Mosco opens the door to his apartment, three men are waiting for him, seated in his living room.

Fernanda and the girls aren’t alone. The fly instinctively backs away, but someone closes the door behind him. He turns around. It’s the ghost, who looks at him with a neutral expression. The fly recognizes the danger immediately and begins to tremble. What? What are you doing here? Where’s my family? The ghost replies in a calm voice. Your wife and daughters are at your mother-in-law’s house. They’re fine.

Nothing will happen to them if you cooperate. The mosquito feels his legs give way. He leans against the wall. What do they want? One of the three men sitting down, a burly hitman with an eagle tattoo on his neck, replies, “We want you to come with us. The boss wants to talk. The trip takes 45 minutes.”

They take the blindfolded Mosquito in the back of a pickup truck. They don’t hit him, they don’t threaten him, they just transport him in silence. When they remove the blindfold, he’s standing in the concrete room of the safe house in Tapalpa. In front of him, sitting in a simple metal chair, is Nemesio, or Blindness. The Mosquito recognizes him from news photos. He feels like he’s going to vomit.

His knees tremble so much he can barely stand. Nemesio watches him for a full 30 seconds without speaking. Then he asks, “Do you know who I am?” The mosquito nods, unable to utter a word. “Do you know why you’re here?” The mosquito shakes his head. Nemesio leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

You gave El Toro information about my brother Armando. You told him he was related to Jesús or Ceguera, the debtor. That information led El Toro to disrupt my brother’s wake, to disrespect him, to spit on his coffin. El Mosco feels like the world is crumbling. He starts to cry. No, I didn’t know. I thought Nemesio Ceguera Cervantes on the record was someone else.

There are many with that name. I didn’t imagine, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t know. Her voice breaks into sobs, she falls to her knees. I have two daughters, please. I didn’t know. Nemesio shows no emotion. Does anyone else know that my brother Armando was registered in your system? The mosquito denies it desperately. Not just me.

I only reported it to El Toro because he specifically asked me for my last name or if I was blind. I never told anyone else. I swear on my daughters’ lives. Nemesio studies him silently, calculating whether he’s lying. He decides he’s telling the truth. The fear in his eyes is genuine. You kept copies of that document, you shared it digitally. El Mosco denies it again. It wasn’t a verbal consultation. I didn’t print anything. I didn’t send any files.

I only gave the name and address. Nemesio nods slowly. Then he makes a decision that surprises everyone in the room. I’m going to let you live, not because you deserve it, but because your daughters don’t deserve to grow up without a father because of your stupidity. The mosquito cries louder, this time with relief mixed with disbelief.

Nemesio continues, but there are conditions. One, you resign from the civil registry tomorrow, you leave Tlaquepaque, you move to another state with your family, and you never return to Jalisco. Two, you never, ever work for us or any cartel again. Three. If you mention this conversation to anyone, if you speak to authorities, if you try to negotiate protection, your daughters will turn up dead.

Understood? The mosquito nods frantically. Yes, yes, whatever you say. I’m leaving. I’m not coming back, I’m not talking. Nemesio signals to the ghost. Give him 50,000 pesos in cash to relocate. Make sure he really resigns and leaves. If he’s still in Jalisco next Monday, execute him.

The mosquito is escorted out of the room, still crying, still trembling. The ghost returns 10 minutes later. Surely leaving him alive is a good idea, boss. Nemesio rubs his eyes wearily. It wasn’t malice, it was ignorance. I already lost my brother this week. I don’t need any more unnecessary bloodshed. Besides, he has two daughters.

Armando would have liked him to give them a chance. The ghost doesn’t argue. He’s known Nemesio for 17 years. He knows when his decisions are final. That night, Nemesio doesn’t sleep. He stays on the terrace of the safe house, gazing at the dark mountains of Jalisco under the crescent moon. He thinks about Armando selling corn, about his humble smile, about his decision to live with nothing, but in peace.

He thinks about how he chose power while his brother chose dignity, and for the first time in 30 years, he wonders if he made the right choice. The question has no answer, or perhaps it does, but it’s too late to change. The only consolation is knowing that Armando died true to himself, uncompromised, untainted. At least no one could take that away from him. Tell me, what’s captivating you most about this story? The tension, the characters, or the way everything is connected? I want to read your answer in the comments.

Wednesday, March 26, 4:50 a.m. Twenty-three homes in Tlaquepaque and Tonalá are surrounded simultaneously by units from the Special Prosecutor’s Office against Organized Crime and members of the National Guard. Fifty agents participate in Operation Code Clean Jalisco. They wear bulletproof vests with the yellow letters FECO on the back, black balaclavas, and carry Heckler and Ancoch rifles.

A helicopter flies over the area with a powerful spotlight illuminating rooftops and streets. The commanders carry precise lists with names, addresses, and photographs. There is no error. Each location has been verified three times. At precisely 5 o’clock, the doors are broken down with steel battering rams.

At the home of “El Venado,” a 28-year-old hitman who worked for “El Toro,” they found him sleeping next to his 23-year-old girlfriend. They handcuffed him in his underwear. They dragged him barefoot into the street while he shouted that he hadn’t done anything. At the apartment of “El Chiquis,” a 32-year-old hitman, they found two AR-15 rifles, three 9mm pistols, 12 magazines, and 2 kg of packaged methamphetamine. They arrested him without resistance.

At the home of “La Negra,” a 35-year-old woman who worked as an accountant for El Toro’s cell, they found notebooks with detailed records of payments, extortions, and collected debts—invaluable evidence. She was arrested along with her laptop and three USB drives containing the entire financial structure of the operation. The operation was clean, professional, and coordinated like a military ballet.

In 90 minutes, 30 hitmen from El Toro’s cell are arrested. Some try to escape across rooftops, but are stopped by snipers firing rubber bullets. Others try to bribe the officers with wads of cash pulled from under mattresses. It doesn’t work. This operation comes from the top, with clear orders not to accept bribes.

The press is alerted 30 minutes after the last arrest. Vans arrive bearing the logos of Televisa, TV Azteca, and local media outlets. Cameras record as the detainees are loaded into prisoner transport trucks. Handcuffed, heads bowed, some crying.

At 9:00 a.m., the special prosecutor against organized crime holds a press conference at the Guadalajara headquarters. He is a 52-year-old man, impeccably dressed in a gray suit and navy tie, his hair styled with gel. He speaks in front of 15 microphones and 20 cameras. Today, in a coordinated operation between the Special Prosecutor’s Office and the National Guard, a criminal cell of the CJ (Cartel Juárez) operating in the Guadalajara metropolitan area was dismantled.

Thirty people were arrested in connection with extortion, drug dealing, kidnapping, and homicide. Seventeen firearms, 42 kg of methamphetamine, 180,000 pesos in cash, six vehicles, and incriminating documents were seized. The cameras zoom in on the table where the confiscated weapons are displayed. AK-47 and AR-15 rifles.

Pistols, a handgun, fragmentation grenades, bulletproof vests with embroidered CJNG logos. They also show white packages of drugs stacked like bricks, bundles of counted and organized banknotes, and cell phones in evidence bags. The prosecutor continues, this bust represents a significant advance in our fight against organized crime.

These people operated with impunity, terrorizing working-class neighborhoods, extorting honest shopkeepers, and recruiting minors. Today, justice prevails. Journalists frantically take notes. Camera flashes illuminate the room like lightning.

What the prosecutor doesn’t mention, what no journalist suspects, is that the list of those arrested was provided by the CJNG itself, that this operation is a calculated sacrifice, eliminating a troublesome cell that desecrated Armando’s wake while generating positive publicity for the government and diverting attention from the cartel’s real operations. The 30 arrested are expendable pieces on the giant chessboard. They will be prosecuted, convicted, and sent to federal prison.

They will serve between 10 and 20 years. Their families will be left destitute, and the CJNG will continue operating with its routes intact, its leaders untouched, and profits flowing as always. It’s the cost of doing business in this world where loyalty to a dead boss is worth more than 30 live hitmen. In the safe house in Tapalpa, Nemesio watches the press conference being broadcast live on a flat-screen television.

He is alone in his room, sitting in a wooden chair, drinking black coffee from a pewter cup. When the prosecutor finishes his speech, Nemesio turns off the television with the remote control. He stares at the dark screen for a full two minutes.

Then he murmurs to himself, “Barely audible, Armando, this doesn’t bring you back, nothing brings you back, but at least your wake now rests avenged. Those who disrespected you are dead or in prison. No one will ever touch you again.” He finishes his coffee in one long gulp. It’s bitter, cold, like his life. That afternoon Patricia finds a white note under the door of her apartment.

She opens it with trembling hands. Inside are 50 one-thousand-peso bills and a handwritten note in block letters for funeral expenses. Rest in peace, Armando. There is no signature, no return address. Patricia sits on the floor of her living room, hugs the envelope to her chest, and cries for 20 minutes straight.

She doesn’t know where the money came from, and she won’t ask. In Jalisco, there are questions it’s safer not to ask. She just gives thanks silently, staring at the cracked ceiling of her apartment, hoping that Armando, wherever he is, knows he hasn’t been forgotten. Estela receives a strange visit two days later. It’s Friday afternoon. She’s watering the plants in her small patio when the doorbell rings.

Abre la puerta. Frente a ella está hombre de 34 años con traje negro, rostro serio pero respetuoso. Es el fantasma, aunque ella no lo reconoce. Él habla con voz suave. Doña Estela, vengo a decirle que usted y su familia están protegidas. Nadie las va a molestar. Nadie las va a amenazar. Su hermano Armando fue hombre digno. Merece que su familia viva en paz.

Estela lo mira con ojos entrecerrados, calculando, comprendiendo sin necesidad de palabras quién envía este mensaje. Asiente lentamente. Dígale a quien lo manda que mi hermano habría preferido que nadie muriera por él. El fantasma inclina la cabeza. Ya es tarde para eso, señora.

Luego se va desapareciendo en la calle polvorienta, como si nunca hubiera estado ahí. Dos meses después, mayo de 2025, la tumba de Armando Seguera López en el panteón municipal de Tlaquepaque luce diferente. La cruz de madera improvisada fue reemplazada por lápida de mármol gris con letras doradas grabadas. Armando López. 1962-2025. Hombre honesto, hermano amado, descansa en paz. Nadie sabe quién pagó por ella.

Apareció una mañana instalada por trabajadores anónimos que llegaron, hicieron su trabajo y se fueron sin hablar con nadie. Alrededor de la tumba crecen flores frescas, claveles rojos, rosas blancas, girasoles amarillos, don Esteban las trae cada domingo religiosamente, cumpliendo su promesa. Patricia visita la tumba cada 15 días. Trae a su hijo de 11 años.

le cuenta historias sobre el tío Armando, cómo vendía los mejores elotes de Tlaquepaque, como siempre regalaba uno gratis a los niños que no tenían dinero, cómo silvaba canciones rancheras mientras empujaba su carrito. El niño escucha con atención, dibujando en su cuaderno escenas imaginadas de un tío que apenas conoció.

Patricia usa parte del dinero anónimo para pagar colegiatura de escuela privada para su hijo. El resto lo guarda en cuenta bancaria para emergencias. Nunca gasta en lujos. Sabe que ese dinero tiene peso, historia, significado que va más allá de números en billetes. Estela continúa su vida simple. Vende tamales en el mercado San Martín, los mismos que vendía antes, pero ahora camina con menos miedo.

Nota que ciertos hombres jóvenes con tatuajes la saludan con respeto inusual cuando pasa. Que comerciantes que antes le cobraban cuota de protección ya no se acercan. Que policías locales la tratan con cortesía casi exagerada. No es tonta. Entiende que su hermano muerto le dejó herencia invisible.

protección que funciona mejor que cualquier testamento legal. No sabe si sentirse agradecida o asustada. Decide aceptarla simplemente como último regalo de Armando. Jesús o Seguera Ramírez, el deudor que desencadenó toda la tragedia, aparece muerto en junio. Su cuerpo es encontrado flotando en presa de chapala, manos atadas, señales de tortura.

Authorities identified the body through fingerprints. The case was never solved. No one claimed the body. It was buried in an unmarked grave in the municipal cemetery. The 200,000-peso debt was collected in the most definitive way. The CJNG doesn’t forgive, but it’s in no hurry either.

They waited until Jesús thought he had escaped, that he was safe. Then they found him. It’s a message for other debtors. You can run, but you can’t hide forever. The 30 hitmen arrested in the operation are being prosecuted in federal courts. 23 are sentenced to only between 12 and 22 years in prison.

Five are released for lack of sufficient evidence after six months in pretrial detention. Two die in fights inside the Puente Grande prison before their trial. Their families are devastated. Wives must work double shifts to feed their children. Elderly mothers sell their homes to pay for useless lawyers. Teenagers drop out of school to look for work.

It’s the hidden cost of violence. The invisible victims who suffer the consequences without having pulled a trigger. Nemesio, or Ceguera, never visits his brother’s grave. It’s too risky. Satellite images, surveillance drones, and undercover agents constantly search for any sign of his location, but every month he sends anonymous flowers through intermediaries who don’t know who they’re working for.

White roses with a simple card from your brother who never forgot you. Cemetery workers place the flowers without asking. In Jalisco, some gestures are best understood in silence. Nemesio also arranges for an anonymous donation of 200,000 pesos for general maintenance of the municipal cemetery. Potholes are repaired, walls are painted, and better lighting is installed. It’s an indirect way of honoring Armando.

The Special Prosecutor’s Office continues to investigate the case of the six missing hitmen, “El Toro” and his group. Their bodies are never found. Security cameras near the funeral home were successfully hacked, and the recordings were deleted. Witnesses say they saw the hitmen enter the wake, but none saw them leave.

It’s as if they vanished. Investigators suspect execution and enforced disappearance, but without physical evidence, without cooperating witnesses, without confessions. The case is closed after eight months as a disappearance with unknown causes related to internal conflicts involving organized crime. The truth remains buried deeper than any corpse.

The ghost gets a promotion. Nemesio appoints him head of personal security, a position of utmost trust. Now he coordinates protection for the CJNG leader. He selects bodyguards. He plans escape routes. He identifies threats. He gains responsibility, power, money. But every night, before going to sleep, he thinks of Armando’s serene face inside the coffin.

Think about how such a humble man, so insignificant to the world, unleashed an operation that changed the entire structure of Jalisco. Think about the irony. Armando spent his whole life fleeing the drug cartels, but his death provoked more violence than if he had been a kingpin. There’s no clear moral, only the brutal reality that in this world, even the innocent cannot escape the consequences of the surnames they carry on their birth certificates.

Before we reach the end, I want you to tell me what your favorite part of this story has been so far. What moment impacted you the most? Let me know in the comments. Saturday, March 22, 2026, exactly one year after Armando’s death. Don Esteban walks through the municipal cemetery as he does every Saturday, carrying a bouquet of freshly bought red carnations.

It’s 8 a.m., the sun is still gentle, the shadows long among the graves. He arrives at plot 47, kneels before the marble headstone, wipes the dust with an old handkerchief, places the carnations in the ceramic vase embedded in the ground, and quietly recites the Lord’s Prayer. When he finishes, he notices he’s not alone.

A burly, 59-year-old man stands about 3 meters behind, silently staring at the grave. Don Esteban turns around. The man is dressed simply: a denim shirt, work pants, and a worn straw hat. But his eyes have a weight that Don Esteban instinctively recognizes. He has lived long enough in Jalisco to know when he is facing someone dangerous.

The man takes off his hat, holds it against his chest with both hands, and speaks in a hoarse voice. “Did you know Armando?” Don Esteban nods. “He was my friend. He used to buy corn from his cart 15 years ago. He was a good man.” The burly man nods slowly. “He was my brother, the best of all of us.” He says nothing more. He doesn’t need to.

Don Esteban then understands who is standing before him. Nemesio approaches the tomb, kneels on the opposite side from where Don Esteban was, and places his right hand on the cold marble, fingers outstretched as if he could touch his brother through the stone. He remains like that for a full two minutes, motionless, silent. Don Esteban doesn’t dare interrupt. Finally, Nemesio speaks, his voice barely audible.

Forgive me, Armando. I chose the path that gave me power, but it took everything else away. You chose the path that gave you peace. You were right. I was wrong. He crosses himself awkwardly, as if he’s forgotten how to do it properly. Then he gets up, brushes the dirt from his trouser knees. Don Esteban finds the courage to speak.

His brother was a happy man, poor, but happy. He always smiled, always had a kind word for everyone. He died without enemies. That is more valuable than any fortune. Nemesio looks at him directly for the first time. His eyes are moist, though he doesn’t cry. He’s right. Armando won life.

I only won battles that don’t matter. He puts his hat back on. Please take care of this grave. I’ll keep sending flowers, but I can’t come often. It’s too dangerous. Don Esteban nods. Don’t worry. I’ll keep coming every week until I die. It’s the least I can do for my friend.

Nemesio takes out his worn leather wallet. He extracts ten 1,000-peso bills. He offers them to Don Esteban. “For the flowers, for upkeep.” Don Esteban steps back, raising his hands. “No, sir, I respect you, but I buy the flowers with my own money. It’s my way of honoring Armando. If I accept payment, it’s no longer friendship, it’s business.” Nemesio observes the old man for five seconds, then smiles slightly.

His first genuine smile in months. Armando knew how to choose his friends. He puts the bills away, shakes Don Esteban’s hand firmly, then walks off among the graves, discreetly escorted by four hitmen who were waiting in vehicles outside the cemetery.

The story of what happened at Armando Ceguera López’s wake never makes it into the newspapers, it’s never officially reported. But in the working-class neighborhoods of Tlaquepaque, in the markets, in the taco stands, in the barbershops, people talk in hushed tones. They tell distorted, exaggerated versions, but with a kernel of truth: that hitmen stormed into a wake, that they didn’t know the deceased was El Mencho’s brother, that they disappeared that same night, that an entire cell was dismantled as a result.

The story becomes an urban legend with a clear moral. In Jalisco, even the dead are protected if they have the right last name. For federal authorities, the operation of March 26, 2025, is a success story. Positive statistics in annual reports. Press conference photos archived as evidence of an effective fight against organized crime.

No one investigates too deeply. No one asks why that entire cell was handed over simultaneously with such precise information. No one connects the operation to the wake of a humble corn vendor who died of a heart attack two weeks earlier. The dots are there, but no one wants to connect them. It’s safer to celebrate a superficial victory than to unearth uncomfortable truths.

Armando Oseguera López now rests in true peace. His grave receives constant visits. Patricia with her son, Estela with tamales she leaves as an offering. Doña Rosa with her grandson, who never met the deceased but learned to respect him. Don Esteban fulfills his religious promise, and once a year, on the exact date of his death, extraordinarily expensive white flowers appear without a sender, brought in a black pickup truck that arrives at dawn and leaves before anyone can see who left them.

The marble of his tombstone gleams under the Jalisco sun, engraved with truth. He was an honest man in a dishonest world. And that honesty, though it brought him neither wealth nor power, gave him something far more valuable, a legacy that no one can tarnish. His name is spoken with respect. His memory inspires others to choose dignity over easy money.

And in Jalisco, where drug trafficking contaminates everything, that’s a small but significant miracle. The last time Nemesio speaks of his brother is three years later, in a conversation with the ghost during a sleepless night in a safe house. They are sitting on a dark terrace drinking cheap tequila, listening to coyotes howl in distant mountains. Nemesio says, “You know what the saddest thing is, ghost? Armando lived 63 years invisible. Nobody knew him, nobody knew his worth.”

But when he died, his death had more consequences than my entire life. Thirty men fell for spitting on his coffin. An entire plaza was reorganized, and I finally understood that the power I built is worthless. If I couldn’t protect my younger brother’s wake, the ghost doesn’t answer.

There’s no right answer, just listen, fulfilling his role as silent confidant of Mexico’s most wanted man, whose last name means death to enemies, but meant an honest life for his brother, who chose to sell corn under the relentless Jalisco sun. If this story captivated you, if you felt every moment, if it made you think about loyalty, family, decisions, and consequences, then don’t leave without sharing your thoughts in the comments.

Tell me what you learned, what you felt, what part impacted you the most, and if it was truly worth your time. Subscribe to the channel, turn on notifications, like the video, but above all, share this story with someone who needs to understand that in this world, respect for the dead is not optional; it is sacred, even in Jalisco, even when the deceased is El Mencho’s brother.