![]() ![]() When I raised my hand to join the Tijuana cartel as a sicario, or assassin, I didn’t care that the price for living like a king was killing people. The life of a millionaire was something I never thought I’d experience growing up as a street kid in San Diego. MORE: Secrets of a Secret Agent Read article ![]() Others ended up melting in a barrel of acid. ![]() Some of the kids in these wealthy families were fascinated by the life of a narco-terrorist and did business with us. Occasionally the two worlds did collide, and we had to handle these “legitimate” people who decided to play with fire. Our business was dope and murder, and our enemies were people whose business was dope and murder. But the neighbors kept their mouths shut because we didn’t have any dealings with them. They couldn’t help but see the heavily armed 24-hour security force that patrolled the grounds or the caravans of SUVs, packed with armed men, coming and going in broad daylight. Of course, everyone in the neighborhood knew exactly what was going on behind the walls of the Office. Our neighbors were judges, politicians, businessmen, and old-money families that made their fortunes a hundred years ago in gold, oil, cattle, and crops. The Office was in one of Tijuana’s best neighborhoods, the equivalent of Beverly Hills, or Sutton Place in New York. We had women who cleaned, cooked, and did our laundry, and old men who maintained the grounds. To us, it was just “The Office.” But it was a mansion with a huge atrium, a pool, a waterfall, a koi pond, and a staff. ![]()
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