The smell of burning poppy sap filled the air, thick and pungent under the Sinaloan sun. The once-quiet hills, where farmers used to toil under the watchful eye of landowners, now belonged to men with guns and ambition.
Three men stood at the edge of a sprawling field, watching workers scrape raw opium from the delicate flowers. They were no longer boys hiding in the shadows of a public execution. Years had hardened them, turned them into something else—something powerful.
Pedro Avilés Páez, known now as El León de la Sierra, stood tall, his presence commanding respect. He was a born leader, a man whose name was already whispered in the cantinas and back alleys from Culiacán to the border. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon, always wary, always watching.
Beside him, Rodolfo Valdez Osuna—El Gitano—grinned as he flicked open a silver-plated knife, its blade glinting in the sun. He had always been the wild one, unpredictable yet fiercely loyal. He thrived in the chaos, embracing the violence their new world demanded.
And then there was Pedro Eleodoro Cázares Laija—El Culichi—the quietest of the three but perhaps the most dangerous. He had a mind built for strategy, a patience that made him deadly. While others acted on impulse, he calculated every move, ensuring their survival in a business where betrayal was currency.
They had spent years waiting, building their network, learning the game that Jesús had started. And now, the business was theirs.
A Chinese man approached, his expression unreadable as he handed a small leather bag to Avilés. The weight of it was familiar—gold, payment for the latest shipment. Their alliance, born from the blood of corrupt soldiers, had turned into something far bigger.
"This is just the beginning," Avilés muttered, tossing the bag into the air before catching it again. "We control the fields now. Soon, we'll control everything."
El Gitano smirked. "And if anyone stands in our way?"
Avilés glanced at the workers, at the land they had taken, at the empire they were about to build. His voice was steady, cold.
"Then we do what Jesús taught us."
El Culichi nodded, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip. "We take what's ours."
The three men stood together, no longer just boys avenging a fallen legend. They were the future.
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An Eye for an Eye
The year was 1944. The air in Mazatlán was thick with humidity, the ocean breeze doing little to cool the restless crowd gathered in the town square. At the center of it all stood a grand wooden stage, draped in banners of blue and white. The governor of Sinaloa, Rodolfo T. Loaiza, adjusted his tie, preparing to deliver yet another speech about peace and unity—a speech laced with hypocrisy.
Among the sea of faces, one man stood at the back, his lips curling into a smirk. Rodolfo Valdez Osuna—El Gitano.
He leaned against a post, arms crossed, watching as Loaiza took the stage. The governor's voice rang through the square, smooth and calculated. He spoke of order, of justice, of ending the bloodshed that plagued Sinaloa. The crowd cheered, some out of hope, others out of fear. But El Gitano knew the truth.
Loaiza wasn't a man of peace.
Behind his polished words and rehearsed speeches, he was the architect of countless murders. He ordered the deaths of farmers, mothers, and men who dared to challenge the system. And years ago, it was under his rule that Jesús Malverde was left to hang, his body abandoned as a warning.
El Gitano had been just a boy then, standing in the back of the crowd, fists clenched as he watched the life drain from Jesús' eyes. Now, he stood in the same position, in the same crowd—but this time, he wasn't just an observer.
Loaiza raised his hands, calling for peace.
El Gitano laughed.
Peace? There would be no peace. Not for men like him.
He exhaled slowly, pushing himself off the post. His boots crunched against the dirt as he moved through the crowd, weaving between men and women who hung onto Loaiza's every word.
As he neared the front, his hand slipped inside his jacket, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of his revolver.
He thought of Jesús. He thought of the bodies buried in unmarked graves. He thought of the years of lies.
An eye for an eye.
Loaiza never saw it coming.
The first shot echoed through the square, silencing the governor's words mid-sentence. The second shot sent him crumbling to the wooden stage, blood staining the polished floor beneath him.
Screams erupted as panic spread like wildfire. Men ran, women ducked, soldiers reached for their weapons. But El Gitano was already gone, disappearing into the chaos, a ghost in the crowd.
By the time Loaiza's body was carried away, the message had already been delivered.
This wasn't just a killing.
This was retribution.
And it was only the beginning.
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The Fall of the White Guards
El Gitano's bold act of killing Governor Loaiza had set the White Guards on a path of conflict, a path that would lead them into direct opposition with the Mexican government, now under the leadership of President Lázaro Cárdenas. From that day forward, their influence grew rapidly, and their name became a symbol of rebellion and resistance to the corruption that ran deep within the government.
For two and a half decades, the White Guards—El León de la Sierra, El Gitano, and El Culichi—fought on two fronts: one to expose and overthrow the rotten regime that ruled Mexico, and the other to build an empire of opiates and marijuana. They controlled vast stretches of land, from the hidden poppy fields in Sinaloa to the marijuana plantations that thrived in the fertile soil of Durango.
Their revolution was funded by blood—blood of their enemies, blood of their allies, and blood of those who dared to cross them. But no matter how powerful they grew, no matter how many battles they won, the government fought back with every resource at their disposal.
The tension was palpable, the war never-ending. Each victory led to another loss, each step forward brought them closer to the point of no return. But the White Guards had one advantage: they were united. Their bond, forged through years of struggle, seemed unbreakable.
That was until one fateful day, in the heart of the Golden Triangle—the treacherous region where Sinaloa, Chihuahua, and Durango met.
The Golden Triangle had always been a place of danger, an area where alliances were fragile, and betrayal was a constant threat. It was here that El Gitano, El Culichi, and El León de la Sierra had built their strongest hold. It was here that their destinies would collide, for it was here that Pedro Avilés Páez, **El León de la Sierra**, would meet his ultimate demise.
The news of the meeting had come in whispers, a clandestine gathering that promised to solidify their power. But El Gitano and El Culichi had begged Pedro not to go.
"You don't have to go, Pedro." El Gitano's voice was rough, filled with concern. "This is too risky. Too many eyes watching. It's a trap, I'm sure of it."
"The deal is too important." Pedro's voice was steady, unshaken. He had always been the bold one, the one who refused to back down. "We can't afford to lose ground now. We've been fighting too long for this."
El Culichi's expression darkened. "Don't do it, Pedro. You know better than anyone that the Golden Triangle is where men disappear. We can't trust anyone there. Not even our own people."
But Pedro was resolute. The fire in his eyes reflected the same fire that had fueled his rise to power. "I've fought this war for twenty-five years. I'll see it through to the end."
The men shared a long look, a silent understanding passing between them. They knew the risks, they knew the dangers—but they also knew that if they didn't take this step, they would lose everything.
That evening, Pedro rode alone into the heart of the Golden Triangle. The air was thick with the scent of pine and dust, the landscape as unforgiving as the world they had created. He didn't know it, but the moment he crossed into the region, he had already sealed his fate.
El Gitano and El Culichi stayed behind, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. The hours passed slowly, the tension mounting. Then, in the dead of night, came the call.
Pedro had been ambushed...