Hunting El Chapo

by Andrew Hogan

  “Can’t even begin to explain what’s happened the last week, Dad. We’re going to have to root him out of his hole, and it’s not going to be pretty. But it’s our only option.”

  “When you going in?” my dad texted back.

  “We’re gearing up now. Moving bases and command center into enemy territory. We wave the green flag Monday,” I wrote. “Going to burn the city down.”

  Follow the Nose

  I TOSSED MY BAG through the door of the DEA King Air and grabbed a seat on the left side of the aircraft; Brady, Nico, and Leroy followed close behind.

  I could feel the momentum building; SEMAR had become reenergized. I watched out my window as the MI-17s loaded with marines began to lift off. But SEMAR wouldn’t be following us—they were headed straight to the Batallón de Infanteria Marina No. 10 (BIM-10) military base, Topolobampo, Sinaloa.

  In thirty-eight minutes the King Air crossed the Sea of Cortez and touched down at the Mazatlán International Airport, roughly 125 miles southwest of Culiacán.

  I groaned when I saw our rig. Someone in the DEA Mazatlán office had lent us the shittiest armored Chevy in the entire fleet: a six-year-old Suburban with 200,000 miles on the odometer. Even the dark-tinted film was peeling from the windows. I had specifically requested two armored vehicles, and this was what they gave us?

  “The USG at its finest,” I said, turning toward Brady, but there was no time to get stuck in anger or frustration. We shoved our bags into the back of the rig and jumped in.

  “How’re the lines?” I asked.

  “Quiet,” Brady said. “Too quiet.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows we’re here already,” I said.

  Nico took the wheel and Leroy the passenger side, handing back to us a couple of beat-up M4s painted in desert camo.

  “We may need these,” El Roy said with a grin.

  “About fucking time,” Brady said. “I’ve been feeling naked since I crossed the border.”

  I flipped open my MacBook and pinged Top-Tier. No luck. I tried a few more times.

  “I think it’s off. Maybe dead.”

  “We’re going to need a little more luck,” Leroy said.

  Brady called Joe and Neil back in El Paso and told them to begin digging for the next Top-Tier number.

  “Hang on, boys,” Nico said, slapping the dash. “I hope this old girl makes it.”

  We left north out of Mazatlán, shooting up the backbone of Sinaloa, eventually meeting up with two SEMAR rápidas along Mexican Federal Highway 15D, just south of Culiacán, who escorted us the remainder of the way to join SEMAR at BIM-10 in Topolobampo. The base was located on a small port along the Sea of Cortez, not far from Los Mochis—the stronghold of Cholo Iván.

  The sun had already set, leaving a faint row of pink in the sky and casting a hazy glow across the highway.

  Nico pulled over so we could take a leak. I got out to stretch my legs and found myself trying to read the expressions of the marines as they stood in the rear beds of the rápidas, dressed in full camouflage and body armor, carrying all their tactical gear and their black machine guns.

  I suddenly realized that I had no idea which brigade these guys were with.

  “Hope these guys are from DF,” I said to Brady as we stood in the ditch, cars whizzing behind us on the highway.

  “If they’re local, yeah, we’re compromised,” Brady said. “He’ll know we’re pissing in his backyard.”

  Standing there in the open, I experienced another burst of paranoia: I imagined a couple of marines on Chapo’s payroll walking up behind us, drawing pistols, and shooting us, execution style, right on the edge of that ditch.

  “Vámanos,” I said.

  The 245 kilometers should have taken us more than three hours, but Nico pushed the rig to ninety miles per hour. Along the way, we passed exits for Las Isabeles, Cinco y Medio, and Benito Juárez, suburbs of Culiacán that I’d studied for hours, zooming in on my Google Map.

  The highway was eerily quiet now, pitch-black, its rutted black-top strewn with gravel. I was finally on the same narrow road that Chapo and his sons drove to get to the secret hideaway on the Ensenada de Pabellones.

  We were now just a fifteen-minute drive from the blocks that I had lasered into my memory—Chapo was at our fingertips . . . I could sense it now. A beacon, pulsating, emanating from the city’s center . . .

  We circled Culiacán, heavier with traffic—Nico swerving around a couple of tomato trucks, heading north. As we passed Guamuchilera Segunda, my phone and Brady’s vibrated simultaneously.

  It was HSI in El Paso—they’d broken through with a new number.

  “Top-Tier is back,” I said, smiling. “We’re still in this!”

  TWO HOURS LATER, just after midnight, we rolled into BIM-10.

  The Topolobampo infantry base was perched high on a hill overlooking the dark waters of the Pacific. Out front, I read the marines’ slogan on a large sign:

  * * *

  TODO POR LA PATRIA

  * * *

  “All for the Homeland.” A sudden fog had rolled in, covering the military base in a thick white blanket. I could barely see twenty feet ahead of the Suburban’s headlights.

  I jumped out and took a deep breath of the foggy sea air—there was a different aura here at Topo than in La Paz.

  I was hearing that old Metallica song in my head—like I would before every Tiger football game back in Pattonville, strapping down my shoulder pads, taking the field in those tense moments before kickoff. I didn’t realize I was singing aloud—at a decent volume, too. I sang the verses of “Enter Sandman” as we hauled our bags through the fog and into the barracks, bounding up the stairs to the second floor two at a clip.

  “The vibe here’s different,” I said.

  “Yeah, I feel it, too,” Brady said.

  “These guys are ready to fight.”

  One of the baby-faced marines ran up and told us that Admiral Garra had called an emergency briefing in the command room for 1:00 a.m.

  Brady and I were the last ones to arrive—SEMAR officers and other marines were already sitting around the conference table, and there was hardly space for us to squeeze in.

  THE LIGHTS WENT OUT, and everyone was staring at my PowerPoint maps projected on the large screen.

  Before I could say anything, a pair of SEMAR intel analysts took charge of the briefing. These were the same guys who I’d suspected were on the payroll of los primos. I glanced warily at Brady: I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The SEMAR intel analysts were trying to steer the operation back toward following up on the capture mission for Mayo Zambada.

  “Mayo?” I said. “Again?”

  “What the hell?” Brady whispered.

  When I looked around the room, even in the darkness, I could detect nods—some of the SEMAR captains and lieutenants were buying into this bullshit. Even Nico and Leroy were standing on the other side of the room, going along with it all. I couldn’t take it any longer—I interrupted one of the analysts.

  “Hold up a minute,” I said. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Easy, man,” Brady said, taking me by the forearm.

  I couldn’t lower my volume.

  “Mira! Listen to me: we have the world’s most wanted fugitive here—at our fingertips.” I stepped forward and pointed to the screen. “We’ve got Chapo dialed in to a block radius—and you’re saying you want to switch up targets and go after Mayo again?”

  I took a deep breath, remembering how badly we needed SEMAR’s full cooperation, lowered my voice, and addressed Admiral Garra respectfully in Spanish.

  “Señor,” I said. “Our intel will never get better than this.”

  I wanted to say it even more bluntly: this could be the greatest counter-narcotics success in the history of Mexico and the United States. We were only hours away from nailing the most wanted fugitive since the US Navy SEALs took out bin Laden.

  “We’re on the verge of something histo
ric here, señor. In thirteen years, since he escaped from Puente Grande, no one has got closer to apprehending Chapo Guzmán than we are right now.”

  The room went silent.

  My chest was heaving. I swallowed, glancing at the SEMAR intel analysts. I could hear Brady’s heavy breathing, too, and—very faintly—the Pacific surf crashing on the cliffs just outside the barracks.

  The admiral was weighing his options, eyes ping-ponging between the intel analysts and me.

  After a long pause, Garra folded his hands decisively in front of him on the table. He’d made up his mind.

  “Vamos,” he said, calmly, “a activar Operación Gárgola.”

  Gárgola.

  It was the first time I’d heard the word, which was Spanish for “gargoyle.” Gárgola was the perfect code name for the capture op—G for Guzmán.

  Duck Dynasty was dead; Operation Gárgola was in effect. The analysts had already sat back down and didn’t say another word.

  Someone hit the lights, causing everyone to squint. It was before 2 a.m., but no one was getting any shut-eye. Instead, the entire brigade rushed off to get to work.

  The middle of the night was ideal for the raid: Nico would ride with a crew of marines in the Suburban, while El Roy and his equipment would roll with more marines in a black Nissan Armada. Nico’s crew was essentially running security for El Roy as his rig cut grids through the Colonia Libertad neighborhood—the one-block radius—around the safe house where I was almost certain Chapo had spent the past twenty-four hours. Their sole objective was to find a door.

  I was worried now about Cholo Iván. That killer couldn’t wait to get his green light—he’d jump on any chance he got to pull the trigger. If Cholo Iván and his people in Los Mochis detected any movement from the Topo base down to Culiacán, south through his territory, things could rapidly spiral out of control. And if that happened, SEMAR, Nico, and Leroy would quickly find themselves in a massive gunfight.

  I hugged Nico and Leroy. “Give ’em hell, guys,” I said, just as I’d done so many times with Diego back in Phoenix before a major UC meet.

  It was 3 a.m. as Brady and I turned to walk back into the command center through the fog.

  We quickly set up shop like we’d done at La Paz, moving Nerd Central into Topolobampo. I pulled up a map on which I was tracking the phones of Nico and Leroy as they headed south down Mexican Federal Highway 1D, the orange icons on the Find My Friends app dotting along as they neared Culiacán.

  “Nothing in the lines about Cholo Iván,” Brady said. “Don’t think that he knows our boys are rolling through.”

  “Good,” I said, nervously pacing back and forth.

  BUT AS SOON AS dawn broke, the city lit up with news flashes. Brady and I were following along with all the Top-Tier exchanges in real time. Chapo was getting updates roughly every twenty minutes from Lic-F and Sergio, who had their halcones on every corner, on every street, instantly reporting how many SEMAR rápidas were in and outside the city and precisely where they were patrolling.

  SERGIO: Ahorita estan por la canasta bienen puro gafe de agua no traen intel andan en rg en 19 a ver k cae hay las teniamos monitoriadas duraron paradas en la col popular en la calle rio usumasintris y rio grijalba

  “Right now they’re in the basket [city]. They all come from the special forces of the water. They didn’t bring intel with them. They are headed to the RG in 19 [Culiacán] to see what happens. We have been monitoring all their stops in La Colonia Popular on streets Rio Usumacinta and Rio Grijalva.”

  Admiral Garra had sent groups of rápidas down behind the Suburban and the Armada to run security, but they’d been instructed to stay along the city’s edge, circling like distant sharks. They were to respond only if Nico, Leroy, and their crews were in trouble.

  Sergio’s message to Chapo continued.

  Hay estan como escondidas toda la mañana y se movieron rumbo a la canasta

  “They were hiding there all morning, and they moved toward the basket.”

  All the halcones in the city knew which cars and trucks didn’t belong; but there was no way to do this stealthily in any case, no way to avoid having Nico’s and Leroy’s teams hunting within that block radius of Top-Tier to locate a specific door.

  “Man, what’s taking these guys so long?” Brady said, pacing near the rear of the MI-17 just outside the door of the command center.

  “Don’t know,” I said, “but they need to hurry. The city’s getting hot. They’re not going to be able to stay in those streets much longer.”

  Nico, Leroy, and their crews had been circling La Colonia Libertad and the surrounding neighborhoods for more than nine hours already, but we were still no closer to locating Chapo’s door than when we started. Pinpointing that Top-Tier device from the ground was more difficult than we expected.

  Then an incoming message appeared from the HSI war room in El Paso on our WhatsApp group chat. It was from Chapo to his cook, who was using the code name “Lucia.”

  Lucia, aplasten la tina del bano. Y para ke tesalgas en el yeta con memo la aipa la tableta. La traes tambien

  “Lucia, flatten the bathtub so you can leave in the Jetta with Memo. And the iPad tablet. Bring it also.”

  Lucia, bengase fijando ke no las siga ningun carro y borre los mensajes

  “Lucia, when you come make sure no cars are following you and erase the messages.”

  I stared at Brady.

  “‘Flatten the bathtub?’” I said.

  “He might’ve jumped in a tunnel already.”

  “Yeah, he’s starting to panic,” I said. “Our boys have got to be close—right on top of the house.”

  I called Nico to relay the news.

  “Any luck, brother?” I said.

  “No, man, it’s been rough,” Nico said. “Every time we get a strong signal we lose it. We’ve marked a few points of interest—but nothing solid yet.”

  THROUGHOUT THE AFTERNOON and into the evening, Chapo was getting increasingly detailed intel: SEMAR was intercepting local two-way radio traffic, and the city’s halcones were calling out every turn the Suburban and the Armada made—right down to the exact color of the rigs and how many men in camouflage fatigues were inside.

  “Lines are starting to drop,” Brady said. “Second-Tier has gone down.”

  “Fuck, we’re too hot, man.”

  Brady jumped back on the phone again and immediately switched up strategy with Joe and Neil in El Paso.

  “We’ve gotta rove!”

  Rove—a roving wire intercept—was the fastest way we could legally track the members of Chapo’s DTO, who were dropping phones and turning on new ones while on the run.*

  “Stand by,” Neil told Brady. “We’ll be back up in no time.”

  Joe, Neil, and their team in El Paso had been working nonstop, getting about as much sleep as Brady and I were, laying all the legal groundwork so they could get that roving intercept authorized quickly with the help of Camila, their lead prosecutor.

  Just after 9 p.m., my iPhone buzzed.

  “Drew, the fuckin’ cops won’t leave us alone; they’re all over us,” Nico said. “They’ve tried stopping us multiple times. This entire city knows we’re here. Everyone’s tired and hungry—getting burned out. Dude, this shit isn’t working.”

  Brady and I walked back out onto the helo pad. Brady lit a cigarette he’d bummed from one of the marines. This was our eighth time walking in circles around the MI-17, knowing that Nico and his crew badly needed actionable intel.

  “Fuck it,” I told Nico. “Naris is our next best option. Find him and he’ll tell us exactly where Chapo is at.”

  “So go after Naris?” Nico asked. “Yeah,”

  I said. “Follow the Nose.”

  BACK INSIDE the marine command center, Admiral Garra was furious with us.

  “What the fuck is going on? We’re in the same damn position as when we started. Our guys are on the ground and haven’t found shit. I’m getting major pressure from my pe
ople in DF, asking me what we’re even doing in Culiacán. We can’t go on much longer—a few more hours and I’m going to have to call it off.”

  I could understand the admiral’s frustration; I felt it, too.

  “Señor,” I said in a quiet voice. “We have to go after Naris.”

  “Chapo’s courier is our best shot, sir,” Brady added.

  “If we don’t find Naris, then we can reevaluate,” I said. “But if we grab him, I’m confident he’ll tell us exactly where Chapo is.”

  Admiral Garra just stared at me and, without saying a word, left the command center.

  NOW THE COMMAND CENTER was empty; all the other marines had walked out to get some sleep. It was just me and Brady alone, so I cracked open a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. I’d bought it before leaving Mazatlán and smuggled it onto the base in my laptop bag, hoping it would be a celebratory bottle . . . I found some red plastic cups and passed one to Brady. My stomach ached for food. How long had it been since I’d eaten anything solid? Eight hours? Eighteen hours? I had no clue.

  Brady and I had bloodshot eyes—neither of us had slept in two days. The SEMAR brigade was finally sacked out—a wall of exhaustion had hit them like a tsunami. I sipped the Scotch and glanced at the time and date on my phone: 12:00 a.m., February 17, 2014.

  I cursed softly, shaking my head. A father’s promise, broken: Before I left DF, we’d picked out the piñata, gift bags, and invitations for my son and his friends.

  “Dude, what’s up?” Brady said.

  “Hold on—gotta text her,” I said, exhaling. “It’s the seventeenth.” I thumb-typed as quickly as I could and hit send at 12:02 a.m.

  Sorry I’m going to miss it baby. This week has been one of the hardest in my life. I’m a zombie, exhausted & missing you guys. Having one hell of a struggle here. Give my son a big kiss & hug for me and wish him a happy birthday. I love you guys so much.