When young DEA agent Elena Villarreal searches for the help of a retired compatriot (the famous man who took down two of Colombia's biggest cartels), to catch the gang leader "El Pinzón", all the missing pieces of her puzzle start to fall in place...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Laredo, Texas (1996)
Before I first came to the States, I used to think that the entire territory was cold regardless of the season and that people across the border could only get along with anyone that spoke their language or looked remotely like them.
One of those things turned out to be a lie.
As a little Mexican girl that was raised in the coast, it was easy to believe all sorts of things about the gringos, cause I only ever interacted with them whenever they'd stay in town for the holidays. My mom told me that they liked coming here because our beaches were always warm and it was a cheaper destination. That's how I ended up believing the first thing.
Back then, I had nothing that could make me consider myself an 'American' other than a foul knowledge of the language and my birth certificate, which stablished that by being born in a small hospital in El Paso, I could gladly claim the nationality. But that was it. My skin, traditions and education all made me a whole-ass Mexican.
And if I'm being honest, I never really had much interest in the US... That was, of course, until my dad passed. Actually, I think saying that he "passed" is awfully disrespectful to his memory; no, my dad was killed. Needless to say that this experience drastically changed my life and its course forever. It was an odd situation, the details still blurry in my mind from the shock I suffered. But I'll never forget how horrific it all was.
Alfredo Villarreal, my father, used to work at a farm here in Laredo. All the money he'd earn, he would send it back home so my mom could pay for my school and all sorts of needs. And even if my dad would worn himself down on a daily basis, the money sometimes wouldn't be enough. It was winter when he died. I can recall because he was given his Christmas vacations at the time.
I was but a thirteen year old when it all happened; my mom and I went to pick him up at Tijuana so we could spend some time there and enjoy the city. Imagine my surprise when instead of all those plans we were met with the tragic news. "Shooting between two rival cartels leaves five deaths behind, three of them civilians," was the headline that predicted our misery.
I'll always remember the moment when we arrived at the scene, reporters and police cramping the place as we tried to comprehend the gravity of the situation. The sight of cars pierced by bullets, the smell of blood and gun powder heavy in the air, are details that ended up seared in my mind. Mom wouldn't let me see my dad's body, but I peeked anyways. I wasn't even allowed to mourn him properly, not whilst being consumed by anger— fueled by the fleeting of the criminals that caused all of this.
Now, fourteen years later, I'm standing outside of Pope's dinner and drinks, about to meet up with the man that, hopefully, can help me avenge my father.
