Ghostman the Truth Behind the Capture of Joaquin 'El Chapo' Guzman

By Marcos "Killa" Munoz

The decade long search for one of the world's most dangerous men, Joaquin "El Chapo" Guzman led Mexican and U.S., authorities on a bizarre journey that cemented his infamy in history. Mired in violence and lore, the leader of the Sinaloa cartel escaped prison in 2001 and went on a thirteen year terror spree that ended on February 22, 2014. Lost behind the headline grabbing details is a story of a man's journey of redemption which provided the facts eluding authorities necessary to capture the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634176323

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DEDICATION

In memory of Ghost who inspired the man to come forward and tell his story.

PROLOGUE

The worldwide manhunt for Joaquin El Chapo Guzman ended on February 22, 2014, when Mexican marines stormed his hideout, in the Mexican resort town of Mazatlan. The capture of the notorious Sinaloa cartel leader, who had been on the run for over thirteen years, ended without a gun battle. When marines swooped in, he was still sleeping. Cooperation between Mexican and United States officials was the key to breaking the case and finally pinpointing the actual location of the elusive Guzman. As the excitement surrounding the event grew, details began to emerge about the people and circumstances that helped authorities zero in on their target. None of these accounts will mention the Ghostman, and the role he played in the capture of Joaquin El Chapo Guzman.

This is the true account of the Ghostman, Marcos Killa Munoz, and the leading role he played in bringing down a monster. Living in obscurity, long removed from the game, Marcos Munoz reappears like the elusive shimmering heat waves on the desert horizon and takes a new side. Rising from the past, he stuns the DEA and sets into motion the events that would lead authorities to Mazatlan. His obdurate refusal to remain buried in the past is an amazing story that will never make the headlines. Long forgotten, the Ghostman is back with vengeance.

CHAPTER 1

The soft metallic click the payphone receiver made as I placed it gently down on the holder reminded me of gun hammer pulled back. Fitting, I guess, as the call I had just made could lead me to hear that sound again. It had been a long time since that kind of thought had crossed my mind. I looked around the parking lot, feeling my eyes drawn past the gas pumps to study the convenience store. Only one other car parked near the entrance with a seemingly middle-aged woman walking to it with a plastic bag and purse swinging from her bent arm. The warm air seemed to be charged, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and a sense of dread was growing in the pit of my stomach with uneasy predictions of the future sparking paranoia.

Bright light filtered through my closed eyes with the morning sun warming my face as I thought about what I had just done. I had just called the DEA. I had just talked to an agent and brought myself back from the dead. Though nothing funny had transpired during this call, I could not restrain a small smile. I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to force myself to remember every detail of the call. It was important to know if I had made any mistakes in my statements and recollections, and I needed to force myself to think clearly. Ghost was gone, dead, and I might join him sooner than desired if I wasn’t careful.

My attempt at redemption and a new life began with a call to the DEA where a dispatch operator attempted to forward me to an agent’s voicemail machine. I knew I could not leave a simple message and warned the woman that I would hang up. The tone of her voice suggested I might have irritated her. I imagine now that she may have been exasperated with my weak warning, and that she had no inclination to hide her indifference as to whether or not I hung up the phone. The agent transferred me to answer the phone in a seemingly similar fashion as the operator, leading me to believe he might have little interest in keeping me on the line long enough to share what I had intended. In a clear, deep, and somewhat robotic-sounding voice, he had asked how he could help me, though it really had sounded like what do you want? I didn’t tell him I wanted a new life, instead, I had told him what I thought he would need to hear so that I could find that new life.

Since yesterday, I had rehearsed a simple and precise statement at least two dozen times in my head. I told this agent that I had information about a major Tucson drug ring that had direct connections to Mexico and some very big players. He didn’t respond at first, and I could swear I had heard a small sigh before he finally spoke. Did I have any names? I almost answered, No, just information without any real information. However, I knew that being a smartass would not sway him to believe me. He wasn’t going to waste his time with a story unless there were names and connections I could deliver.

I gave him two names. I can still feel the emptiness and eerie silence on the line as I waited for his response. I wasn’t sure what to make of the long silence, and I found myself thinking about the two people I was naming. One of those names was my half-sister, and even now, I was struggling with my decision to name her. The other name, her husband, my brother-in-law, Jorge Alberto Gonzalez, was much easier to offer. Fuck that asshole and all the shit he had brought to my door. Nevertheless, Luz Griselda Gonzalez was still my family despite the fact that she had let her husband betray me.

Here is where I focused relying on my memory as the sun pierced my eyelids even though my tightly shut-eyes. Tucson’s desert heat and sun had quickly changed from comfortable warmth to beads of sweat collecting on my brow. I gave the names: Jorge Alberto Gonzalez and Luz Griselda Gonzalez then heard a soft rasp or flutter as I imagined that he had cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. An eerie silence followed. I can remember my stomach tensing, thinking he was probably checking to see if those names meant something.

Time passed in silence, and I finally had to open my eyes, instantly regretting it, as the glare left me seeing stars. At least the parking lot was still empty. The heat and sweat made me think of how the desert seems to be a fickle bitch who knows how to tantalize you one moment and then brazenly torture you. The desert in Tucson teases you with a pleasant June morning that progresses into a day of sordid heat. It was not pleasant to think of the heat to come even though the media was announcing the first half of June as historically mild. If you consider that these readings, taken six feet off the ground in the shade, you may not think there is anything normal or mild about it. It was almost 10:00 a.m., and I could sense through my inherited Mexican genes that the day was going to get hotter than the news people had predicted.

There was no choice. If I were going to figure this out, it would have to be in my truck with the air conditioning on. I still had a few hours to kill before the meeting, and with nowhere to go but home, and that did not seem like an option, I opted to sit with the engine running, my thoughts mired, helplessly clawing for something I had missed.

I know it sounds stupid, sitting here, replaying a phone conversation that had occurred just a few moments ago; but I was reeling because I had just taken the step from former drug dealer to informer. Trapped is the only thing that comes to mind, between what I had been, what I was now, and where I would end up.

The previous evening I had buried my best friend, Ghost, and now, I was becoming the one thing I never believed was possible. I was turning into an informant. Would anyone who knew me understand that the only thing that kept me connected to the world was gone, and I was angry? It was anger that had wavered into despair before clenching my heart and filling my eyes and mouth with salty tears. That’s what I had done, buried my best friend, gotten high, looked at the dirt beneath my finger nails, become irrational, and made a decision to do something I felt needed doing. Maybe no one else would have followed through. I did not waver or have second thoughts. I did it. Now I was waiting in my truck, in my mind, trying to figure out if I was right or crazy.

It turns out I may have been right because the same airy ruffle happened again, telling me the agent was ready to continue. My imagination may be contributing to my recollections, but I am almost certain the tone of his voice had changed, carried a hint of optimism. He had simply stated, Will you give me your name?

Whether I had been hoping, praying, or imagining the positive inflection in his voice did not really matter. In my current state, I had felt it and did not need my ears to confirm it. Just a second of hesitation on my part before I could respond, much longer now that I was rehashing it, No, not until we meet in person, was the best I could summon. I can recall having a brief flashback of him laughing and hanging up, but that is not what happened.

Will you meet with me today? He had asked the question almost exactly as I had finished speaking.

This time, I had hesitated for what seemed like a minute while I struggled trying to process exactly what that would mean. Would I end up in cuffs? Would they just laugh at me? It was sad, but I remember thinking that finding myself sitting somewhere waiting for nothing would actually be the worst thing. I know that is what I had been thinking, but something from long ago made me finally blurt out, you name the time and place, before anything else sensible came to mind. That mania that made me respond as if a challenge had been offered rang a little hollow now that I was sitting here waiting to go meet the cops.

It was still him calling me out no matter how you looked at it. I had laid out my game, and he had considered the offer. Now he wanted to deal. That thing, that macho response to his challenge was all me, from my days of moving weight. I had the goods, and they wanted to deal. They had the money and wanted to meet. This was the point that I needed to step up and slap back, hard, and get control of the situation. Yea motherfucker, I got the weed. We need to do this shit. It felt good to think like this again even though I didn’t actually call him anything. I simply had agreed to meet him. I hope I remembered right that my voice had at least been a little louder.

Now that I’m sitting here thinking about it, knowing that I had just agreed to drive all the way to the south side of Tucson and spill my guts to a cop, how I sounded did not seem that important. All I could think as I gripped the steering wheel of my idling truck and stared out the windshield at the bank of payphones was what the fuck am I doing? It may not be poetry, but it is exactly what I was thinking. I really needed to calm down.

He had named the time and place to meet. The gas station on the corner of Valencia and Tucson Boulevard was a challenge. It was the pushback. I had told him that I was man enough to make the deal, and now he was accepting. Everything was back in my hands now. Sitting here burning gas that cost $3.40 a gallon, I had the choice to show up or not. In the old days, I would not have thought twice about entering a dark alley behind a bar to finalize a thousand-pound deal; but just two hours from now was our 12:00 o’ clock meeting, and I was full of doubts.

I was born in Tucson. I lived almost all of my life here and knew every street corner. The gas station was on the southwest corner of Valencia and Tucson Boulevard. On the northwest corner was the Southside DPS headquarters. The Department of Public Safety had their hands in everything, and I did not know if DEA business was included. Why else would he want to meet me there? It could not be a whim or a coincidence. Despite this ominous dilemma, I was sitting here pondering, something inside me was screaming to stop thinking and just do what you need to do.

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It only took me forty minutes to crosstown because I wanted to be early. This was the old me taking control again. Pulling up to the gas pumps and checking out every car in the parking lot, looking for any unmarked cop cars or people who seemed to be just hanging around. This was the old me, from fifteen years ago, pulling into a mall parking lot, cruising up and down the lanes of cars, looking for anything out of place before I committed to the deal. This was the old me trying to feel like a player again in the same game but on a different side. Pulling away from the pumps, I had to laugh to myself, thinking that maybe this was just being paranoid.

My laugh was cut short as I rounded the last row of gas pumps and had to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting a shiny black SUV that just turned into the parking lot. It was a newer Tahoe with tinted windows that made seeing inside impossible as it slowly cruised past. I waited as it came into view in my side mirror, checking to see the plate. It was not a government plate but was a standard issue state one. That did not mean anything. I had to turn and look over my shoulder as it veered around the aisle of pumps and accelerated past the store parking spaces and back out the same entrance it had come in. All I could make out were two male figures and not much else. They were cops. Maybe I wasn’t being paranoid.

Why would they be over an hour early? I was here early because I didn’t want to drive home first and had nowhere else to go. They were cops and had plenty of things to do besides this. Did it really matter? They did not know what I looked like or what kind of truck I was driving. I’m American, born and raised, and they could not know my Hispanic roots from the phone call. I don’t have a damn accent. I can speak Spanish as well as English, and I had been careful with the few words I had spoken during the conversation. There was no way they could be looking for me already.

The urge to follow the SUV out of here, throw a U-turn, and hit the freeway was building. I expected them to take me seriously because those names I had given them would draw a lot of attention from certain people. Staking out this place, an hour early seemed like overkill. Biting my lower lip, I made my choice and pulled into a parking spot on the side of the store. I was going to wait it out. Fuck it. There was no turning back.

This is where the shit gets crazy, and I almost fouled myself. With my hand still on the shifter, which I had just thrown into park, I heard the squeal of tires and watched the rearview mirror fill up with the passenger side doors of the black SUV. It must have come in from the Valencia side entrance and pulled up a foot from my bumper, blocking me in. Despite the AC blowing cold air on my face, I started sweating.

Keeping one eye on the side mirror, I shut the AC off and turned the truck off. Quickly, I placed my hands on the steering wheel in the ten and twelve positions and started waiting. How in hell did they know who I was? That was the only notion that was running through my head as the rest of my thoughts vanished. My body was shutting down as a tingling started in my feet and hands. The only thing I could see in my mirrors now was the front passenger fender from the side and the passenger door and part of the rear side panel in the rearview mirror. The passenger door was too close to my truck to open, and there did not appear to be any movement from the driver’s side. This got my mind to kick back into gear and squash the buzzing deep inside my ears.

I was keeping track of time passing by the pounding in my chest, and believe me, this was not a good way to do it. Still nothing, no movement from the SUV, and the last of my cab’s cold air was succumbing to the glaring sun, radiating in through the windshield and side window. I don’t wear a watch. The truck was off so the digital clock on the radio was too. It could be my nerves, but I could swear ten minutes had already passed.

My initial panic was just starting to wane and take a backseat to that old friend anger when a second SUV, the exact twin of the first, screeched to a stop in the space to my right. Just as quickly, anger receded again and fear flowed back. The driver’s door of the second SUV opened up, and a short, stocky figure appeared in the frame of my passenger window.

The view I had was of his jeans just below the crotch up to the bottom curve of a black T-shirt neckband. However, the important part was staring me right in the face—a badge clipped just above his right pants pocket and the gun in a black holster right behind the badge. He was short and stocky. He was a cop. He was talking, but I could not make out the words. Whether it was the pounding pulse in my ears or that he was talking softly, I could not be sure. It was at this exact moment that I began to relax and knew it was going to be all right.

If these guys believed I was a threat, or they wanted to arrest me, they would already have their guns pointed at me flat on my stomach, embracing hot asphalt. If I were dangerous to them, then this guy would not be exposing his groin and torso while he talked to the other guys in the vehicle behind me. I still could not take my eyes off the badge and gun. I could only sit here and hope for the best.

He moved up on to the walkway of the store, next to the ice machine, and turned to face me, a slight smile on his face. Extending his left hand, the right resting on the butt of his gun, he rapidly opened and closed his fingers signaling me to come. He was short, maybe five feet six inches or seven inches, and stocky, close to two-hundred pounds, but not fat, as the tucked in T-shirt showed