RAMIRO VILLARREAL HAD KEPT HIS END OF THE DEAL WITH THE DEA AND told them where they could find Miguel. The Zeta leader, surrounded by his bodyguards, sat calmly near the finish line watching his horses win at the racetrack on the outskirts of Nuevo Laredo.
It couldn’t have been too much of a surprise, since Miguel had reopened the racetrack after it had fallen into disrepair when the government ran it. Nearly a year had passed since the Zetas’ rupture with the Gulf Cartel, and Nuevo Laredo was still in a state of siege. La Familia Michoacana, a religious-cult-like cartel from western Mexico, had joined the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels in a federation to wipe out the Zetas. And the Zetas had responded in kind by allying themselves with the Juarez and Tijuana cartels and the Beltrán-Leyva organization, a former arm of the Sinaloa Cartel. A full-blown civil war was erupting among Mexico’s most powerful drug syndicates.
In Nuevo Laredo, the Zetas blocked city streets with hijacked semis and buses, ambushing government soldiers or enemy gunmen. Day and night, a cacophony of high-caliber weapons echoed in the streets. The government, after Calderón’s failed military offense, was battling to regain some semblance of control as territories were invaded and lost and then reinvaded by the two warring alliances. Innocent civilians could only watch in dismay and horror as their neighborhoods were turned into battle zones.
The Zetas had been preparing for independence for years. School buses with blackened windows shuttled new recruits to training camps in the states of Veracruz, Coahuila, and Tamaulipas. They’d even hung giant banners over highways advertising for military or ex-military to join their ranks, with a phone number to call. “We offer a good salary . . . You won’t suffer from hunger and we won’t give you sopa Maruchan [instant noodle soup],” promised one banner in Nuevo Laredo—a dig against the Mexican army and its low wages. The cartel also stockpiled weapons from U.S. gun shows and the Guatemalan military. They had M-16s, rocket launchers, grenades, bazookas, and belt-fed machine guns. And Lazcano had bought a helicopter and a Cessna to monitor their expanding territories.
With the constant skirmishes, Miguel never stayed anywhere for too long. But he still found time to watch his horses at the track, which sat in the arid ranchland south of the city. Usually it was only half full because no one wanted to be near the kingpin or his bodyguards if there was a confrontation. But at the DEA’s insistence, a handful of undercover Mexican federal police, who had been vetted and trained in Quantico, were sent to the racetrack to arrest Miguel.
Special Agent Amarillas and the other DEA agents waited for news of their progress, then waited some more. Nothing happened. When they inquired with the federal police they were told that it had been too risky. There were not enough of them, and too many people might have been killed if they had moved in to arrest Miguel. It was yet another frustrating setback for the DEA. Miguel had been less than five miles from the United States, but in Mexico he was still untouchable. When Villarreal got news of the botched arrest, he begged to be let out of their agreement. But the DEA wasn’t about to let a good informant walk away.
A FEW DAYS AFTER the failed operation at the Nuevo Laredo racetrack, Villarreal received a call from Omar. Miguel wanted him to come to his ranch in Coahuila. José and Nayen would also be there. Omar told Villarreal that Miguel wanted to know where everyone stood with his horse expenses. Villarreal had no idea whether the brothers knew of his betrayal yet, but he knew that not showing up for the meeting would make Miguel immediately suspicious, which he couldn’t risk. Omar had already made a point several months ago of letting Villarreal know they knew where his parents lived in Monterrey, and how to find them.
Much to his relief, when he arrived at Miguel’s ranch, the brothers acted as they normally did, calling him “Gordo” and slapping him on the back. At the meeting, José presented Miguel with a spreadsheet that listed more than $1.8 million in expenses. People in the States were clamoring to be paid. Villarreal had become adept at laundering and moving money across the border to handle expenses just like these. But when Miguel directed that the $1.8 million be sent to Nayen’s accountant in Nuevo Laredo, a tall, chubby thirty-year-old named Ricardo Carabajal, known as “Yo Yo,” it became even more clear that his services were no longer needed.
Nayen was still basking in the glory of Mr. Piloto’s win at the All American Futurity, the horse that Villareal had first purchased for Treviño. Villarreal watched as José presented his younger brother Miguel with the trophy from the race. He was sure Nayen had something to do with his misfortunes. Ambitious and manipulative, Nayen had always been jealous of Villarreal’s success, and now he was making himself indispensable to Miguel. Villarreal had already been pushed out of the deal on Tempting Dash and Mr. Piloto. He’d not only bought them, but he’d even risked his life taking Tempting Dash away from Mamito. Still, he remained quiet for most of the meeting. He didn’t want to anger Miguel or his brothers. When the meeting was finally over, he was relieved when Miguel let him leave. For the moment he was safe.
Back home in Monterrey, he tried to find new clients. But it felt like a noose was tightening around his neck. Miguel was no longer asking him to buy horses, and he already knew too much about Miguel’s plans with his brother in Texas. This made him a liability. He knew his time was running out.
A COUPLE OF WEEKS passed before Miguel summoned Villarreal to another meeting, this time in Nuevo Laredo. If he didn’t show, he knew there would be consequences for his family.
In Nuevo Laredo, he waited where he had been told at a convenience store. A truck arrived full of sicarios, brandishing their weapons, who forced him into the truck’s bed next to two fifty-five-gallon drums: the kind he knew that the Zetas used to burn bodies. A gunman sat next to him and didn’t take his eyes off of Villarreal until they were at the outskirts of the city. In the twilight, they waited in a barren expanse near a deserted ranchhouse. The minutes felt like hours. Finally Miguel’s convoy arrived.
Miguel greeted Villarreal and hugged him. “You’re not screwing me, are you, Gordo?” he asked.
“No, of course not, Papi,” Villarreal stammered.
Miguel’s gunmen unloaded a blindfolded man from one of the trucks in his convoy. Miguel excused himself for a moment, then walked over to the trembling man, ripped off the blindfold, and shot him in the head.
Villarreal’s knees buckled and everything went black. When he regained consciousness, Miguel was slapping his face and laughing.
“What’s wrong, Gordo?” he said. “You can’t handle seeing me kill someone? Next time, I’m going to have you do it.”
Miguel strode back to his convoy and left the terrified Villarreal standing in the field with the two fifty-five-gallon drums—one of them for the blindfolded man, the other one still empty.