When Removing Drug Lords Creates More Violence, Not Less

"The fear is everywhere and the fear is constant," said paramedic Héctor Torres from the front seat of an ambulance in Culiacán, Mexico.

We'd just left a shooting scene at a garage in the city center. The owner lay dead in his office, blood spreading across white tiles. As Torres and his partner entered, a woman ran in wailing—the victim's wife. There was nothing to be done except check for vitals and cover the corpse with a paper blanket.

This scene plays out daily in a city torn apart by something counterintuitive: the removal of powerful criminals creating more violence, not less.

When Family Becomes Enemy

For 18 months, the Sinaloa cartel—one of the world's largest drug trafficking organizations—has been at war with itself. It began when the son of one leader betrayed another, triggering a cascade of violence that has transformed this prosperous Mexican city into a war zone.

The removal of cartel leader Ismael "El Mayo" Zambada, now imprisoned in the US, has wrought havoc across Sinaloa state. Torres explained the transformation: "Sinaloa cartel was like a family. Everyone was united in a single cartel. They were friends, they ate at the same table. They were like brothers—parents, uncles, sisters—and suddenly they were fighting and locked in a deadly feud."

That "family business" had grown into a billion-dollar enterprise producing fentanyl and flooding US streets with opioids that have killed tens of thousands. President Trump has declared cartels terrorist organizations and labeled fentanyl a weapon of mass destruction, threatening Mexico with direct military action.

14kg of Body Armor for a Day's Work

Both paramedics wore 14kg of Kevlar and armor plating—essential equipment in a city where emergency responders have become targets. "We don't know if the people responsible for the attacks are still at the scene," explained Julio César Vega, Torres's 28-year-old partner. "We run the risk of being caught in crossfire."

Last year, their callouts increased by over 70%. During my week with them, almost every incident ended the same way: a dead body and grief-stricken relatives asking for answers. Few cartel victims survive. Schools, hospitals, and even funerals have been attacked.

As sunset approached, this once-vibrant nightlife city would soon be deserted. The Mexican government has deployed thousands of troops to Sinaloa, setting up checkpoints on most roads. When the garage owner was killed, three men were simultaneously kidnapped—the heavily armed soldiers were searching every car.

The Message in Blood

Kidnapping in Culiacán can be worse than death. A body found outside a main shopping mall told that story. The victim had been tortured—body intact, but skull flayed and eyes removed.

A sign left with the corpse carried a message from one cartel faction to another, accusing the dead man of being a traitor with a warning: "We are coming for the rest of you."

Ernesto Martínez, who has covered violence here for 27 years, witnessed a 16-year-old boy shot dead, legs still tangled in his bike frame, surrounded by more than a dozen bullet casings. "There used to be more police officers, more soldiers, more security," he said. "You'd find checkpoints on every corner, yet homicides continued at an average of five or six a day. The same trend continues."

"Nothing Will Calm Down Until One Faction Remains"

What might end the violence? I met with one Sinaloa faction to ask that question. Before the meeting, I was told to bring no phones or tracking devices.

They arrived fully armed, donning face masks for the interview. When I asked "Marco" (not his real name) about guilt, he said: "Yes, it's true because innocent people die. Children die. There's a lot of death of innocent people."

Sitting beside him, "Miguel" (not his real name) was more ruthless: "A lot of people will keep dying because the cartel is still fighting, and it keeps getting worse. The war will continue. Nothing will calm down until there's only one faction left."

Their solution is chilling: the government should step aside and let them murder each other—regardless of civilian casualties—until one faction emerges victorious.

Finding Sons in 250 Bodies

The violence isn't just driving up body counts but also missing persons reports. Reynalda Pulido's son Javier Ernesto disappeared in December 2020. She leads "Mothers Fighting Back," still searching for him and others.

On a chilly morning at a gas station near Culiacán, Pulido and more than a dozen other mothers—nearly all wearing white T-shirts with pictures and names of missing loved ones—prepared for another search.

With a military escort of six heavily armed soldiers in armored vehicles, they used metal probes, pickaxes, and shovels in fields where buzzards circled overhead. They probed earth, smelling dirt for the distinctive odor of human remains.

"Every day when I wake up, I ask God: 'Tell me why I'm here?'" Pulido said during a break. "What gives me strength is realizing that no one else is going to look for them. A mother will always look for her child, no matter if it's to the ends of the earth."

After hours in midday sun, they found nothing but animal bones. When I gently asked if she thought she'd ever find her son, tears filled her eyes: "I've already found my son in the 250 bodies I've located, and in the 30-something people I've found alive. They are my children, too. My son is there, in each and every one of them."

The Fentanyl Factory

The root of Culiacán's misery lies in the fentanyl trade. In a cartel-owned basement, "Román" (not his real name) showed me his latest shipment—more than half a dozen packages of tightly pressed white powder bound for the United States.

Wearing a face mask and gloves while handling the deadly bundles, he opened one package pressed solid with the number 300 indented on its surface. The business continues because, as he put it, "As long as there are consumers, we're going to keep doing this."