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I land in the late afternoon, then sit around the airport until the evening hours, hoping a stranger will tap me on the shoulder and tell me he is a friend of Alonzo’s and that I should leave with him.

It also occurs to me, once again, that I might be under the eyes of Mexican intelligence or the DEA. So I board a flight later that evening on my own, and return to Los Angeles.

Espinoza and I have traveled many roads together, but none as unpredictable as the one we are now approaching. Whether he’s standing in the midst of a slum, a jungle or a battlefield, his idiosyncratic elegance, mischievous smile and self-effacing charm have a way of defusing threat. Finally a respite from the cyber technology that’s been sizzling my brain and soul.

Pope Francis blazed a trail and left town two days before. Regis Hotel with my colleague and brother in arms, Espinoza.

It is not he who necessitated weeks of clandestine planning.

Instead, it’s a man of about my age, though absent any human calculus that may provide us a sense of anchored commonality. And reminded myself over and over of the incredible life loss, the devastation existing in all corners of the narco world. “I don’t usually drink,” he says, “but I want to drink with you.” After a raise of the glass, I take a polite sip. When we return to the picnic table, it seems to me that we accomplished what we came to do.

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The subject did not ask for any changes.t’s September 28th, 2015. The streets are abuzz with the lights and sirens of diplomatic movement, heads of state, U. As we exit onto 55th Street, the sidewalk is lined with the armored SUVs that will transport the president of Mexico to the General Assembly.

In the weeks that follow, I continue to make attempts to contact El Chapo.

In that time, massive sweeps by military and law enforcement lead to hundreds of arrests, seizures and several extraditions of cartel personnel to the United States.

I have a fleet of submarines, airplanes, trucks and boats.” He is entirely unapologetic. ” His unguarded will to speak freely, his comfort with his station in life and ownership of extraordinary justifications, conjure Tony Montana in Oliver Stone’s . I only know that if I was going to take the short couch, it would be at gunpoint. In this case, the rain falls hard enough that soldiers have abandoned their posts for cover. Rather than risk being vaporized in a small aircraft by a lightning storm, we opted for the eight-hour drive back to the city where we’d started. I’d imagined us arriving to a gentle apology, that for some unexplained security reason the visit could not take place, and we’d be going home to Los Angeles empty-handed. When we land back on home turf, Kate and I part ways. I turn on the phone to the explosion of a two-day backlog of e-mails and text messages. What I didn’t know, and what was not yet being reported, was that from the time the weather cleared, a military siege on Sinaloa was imminent.

Against the challenges of doing business in such a clandestine industry he has ––built an empire. It’s the dinner scene where Elvira, played by Michelle Pfeiffer, walks out on Al Pacino’s Tony Montana, loudly assailing him in a public place. Espinoza reclines in the passenger seat to rest his back. Evidently, El Chapo and his men, after leaving us the night before, had skirted through the jungle back to a ranch property.

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