At 4:30 in the morning, when the city is still yawning in the shadows, Guadalupe Moreno is already up in her small kitchen in the El Saus neighborhood of Zapopan, Jalisco. She is 68 years old, with calloused hands, knees that crack every time she bends over, and a flowered apron that is practically part of her skin. She puts the coffee pot on the stove and, while the water begins to boil, she mentally reviews the day ahead: oranges from Veracruz, mangoes from Nayarit, papaya from Colima, watermelon from Sonora.

She’s been selling fruit at the Benito Juárez municipal market for 35 years, at stall 143 in the central aisle. That’s where she earned her lifelong nickname: “Doña Lupita.” The lady who always gives an extra orange to the child who comes with their mother, the one who listens without judgment, the one who never speaks ill of anyone.

A widow for twelve years, she lives alone in a small two-room house. Her only son, Francisco, studied law on a scholarship, became a lawyer, and, against all odds, rose to become Attorney General of the State of Jalisco. But almost no one knows this. At the market, when people ask her about him, she only replies:

—My son works in the government, in offices—and changes the subject.

He doesn’t brag. He doesn’t show off. He knows that in a place like that, with the CJNG breathing down every corner, there are things that are better left unsaid. Especially since six months ago, when a pig’s head appeared in front of the Prosecutor’s Office building with a note: “Prosecutor, we know where your mother lives. Stop messing around or we’ll kidnap her.”

From that night on, Francisco never slept the same way again. He ordered covert protection for his mother: four agents disguised as market vendors. The butcher, the shoemaker, the florist, and the clothing seller were actually prosecutors, armed and communicating with each other via hidden radios.

Guadalupe has no idea. She only knows that life is hard, but she carries on. That Wednesday morning, July 9, 2025, as she arranges mangoes on the top shelf of her stall, she still can’t imagine that in a few minutes her whole world is going to be shaken up… and that her name will end up being the origin of the largest anti-extortion operation in the history of Jalisco.

The Benito Juárez market smells of cilantro, grilled meat, and freshly made tortillas. Shouts of “Get it, get it!” mingle with the clinking of knives at the butcher shop and the ranchera music blasting from an old speaker. It’s just another Wednesday, with its usual hustle and bustle and its little everyday dramas.

Until, at 10:15 in the morning, three men enter.

They’re dressed like any other neighborhood kids: jeans, sneakers, baggy t-shirts. But they walk differently, with the heavy arrogance of those who know they’re feared. Leading them is a thin, 24-year-old with a skull tattoo on his right forearm. In the underworld, he’s known as “Chucky.” For the CJNG, he’s more than just a hitman: he’s the market’s extortion racket.

The four undercover agents spot him immediately. Ramirez, the supposed butcher, lowers the knife slightly and presses his lips together.

—Three male targets entering through the north entrance—he whispers into the microphone hidden in his wrist—. Civilian attire, aggressive demeanor. Assessing threat.

In his ear, the voice of Commander Elizondo, head of special operations:

—Identify. Do not intervene, except in the case of a direct threat against the prosecutor’s mother. Hold your positions.

Chucky strides through the aisles as if he owns the place. He gives a half-hearted nod to some stalls, looks down at others with disdain. Many vendors lower their gaze. They know him: they know about the burned stalls, the screams in the early hours, the smell of gasoline and fear.

It stops right in front of stall 143.

Guadalupe is facing away, arranging a box of Manila mangoes on the top shelf. Chucky bangs his knuckles on the counter.

—Ma’am, we need to talk.

She turns around, wipes her hands on her flowered apron, and smiles as always.

—Tell me, young man. I’ll give you some mangoes, they’re very sweet.

He smiles too, but his eyes are icy. A few feet away, Ramírez stops cutting ribs. Martínez, the florist, peeks into the hallway. Torres, the shoemaker, reaches into the toolbox where he hides his Glock. Hernández, the clothes man, pretends to fold pants.

Chucky takes out his cell phone and shows her a list of names and amounts.

—Mrs. Lupita Moreno. Stall 143. You owe one thousand two hundred pesos monthly. First installment is due today.

Guadalupe blinks. She grips the handle tightly in her hand.

—Son… I didn’t know about any fee. Nobody told me.

He puts his cell phone away, leans over the counter, invading her space.

—Well, now you know. Twelve hundred today… or close the stall.

In her head, Guadalupe does the math in seconds: three full days of sales. If she pays, it won’t cover the stall rent, transportation, or gas. If she doesn’t pay, she risks losing the space that has been her life for 35 years.

Take a deep breath.

—Young man, give me until Friday. I don’t have that amount on me right now. I’ll get it all together on Friday.

Chucky shakes his head.

—There are no deadlines, ma’am. Either you pay today… or we’ll take the merchandise.

One of the men accompanying him, with a scar on his cheek, approaches the crates of oranges. He takes one. Then another. Then the whole crate.

—Please, young man, don’t take my merchandise… it’s all I have to work with today —Guadalupe pleads, without shouting, with a trembling dignity.

No one answers. The man lifts the box. Chucky kicks one of the oranges, which roll across the floor. He smiles.

—That’s how they learn. Next week, pay on time or we’ll burn the place down.

Guadalupe feels her face burn. Tears fill her eyes, but she swallows them back. She won’t cry in front of them. She’s seen her husband die, raised a son alone, worked through rain and sun. She won’t give them that pleasure.

“Okay,” she says, her voice breaking. “I’ll take the lesson to heart. I’ll pay next week.”

The three men walk away carrying boxes of oranges and mangoes, about five hundred pesos worth of fruit, sweated by hand.

Ramirez speaks into the microphone.

—Targets exiting through the north entrance. Stall 143 with stolen merchandise. Prosecutor’s mother unharmed, emotionally distressed. I request instructions.

Elizondo has no doubts.

—Follow them. Identify the vehicle and direction. Don’t lose visual contact.

Hernández leaves his clothing stall and follows them at a safe distance. He sees them get into a gray Nissan Frontier. He takes a picture of the license plate and sends it to headquarters. In less than a minute, they have the owner’s name, address, and previous extortion reports.

Fifteen minutes later, prosecutor Francisco Salinas’s personal cell phone vibrates in the middle of a meeting with his commanders. He sees the name on the screen: “Elizondo Urgent.”

He leaves the room and closes the door.

—Tell me, Hector.

The commander’s voice is tense.

—Prosecutor… twenty minutes ago, three CJNG hitmen extorted your mother at the market. They stole merchandise and threatened to burn down her stall if she didn’t pay 1,200 pesos a month.

Francisco closes his eyes. He clenches his fist so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Five seconds of silence that seem like an eternity.

Is my mother okay?

—Yes. No physical harm. The agents have her under surveillance. We’ve already identified the leader: Carlos Iván Gutiérrez Ochoa, alias “El Chucky.” He collects extortion payments in several markets. His vehicle has been tracked, and his address is known.

Francisco looks out of his office window at the city that stretches out beneath the blue July sky. And he sees, as if he were there, his mother picking up the oranges that a coward kicked off the ground. The same flowered apron. The same hands that fed him when there was no money for meat, only for beans.

Take a deep breath.

—Hector, activate Operation Mercury. Level three. I want a complete trace of El Chucky and his people. Calls, movements, debt collector network. Agents infiltrated in markets throughout the metropolitan area. Identify every extorted merchant. Document everything: photos, testimonies, audio recordings, transfers. We’re going to dismantle his entire cell.

He pauses. His voice hardens.

—And Hector… this is personal. But we’re going to do it through official channels.

For three weeks, the Benito Juárez market has followed its routine, but something has changed. Among the boxes of tomatoes and bouquets of flowers, there are now discreet cameras, hidden microphones, and trained eyes.

Agent Ramirez, wearing a butcher’s apron, recognizes Chucky’s pattern: Monday at one market, Tuesday at another, Wednesday and Friday at the Guadalupe market. Always the same routine: a list on his cell phone, a brief threat, a cold stare. “Pay up or I’ll burn your stall down.” Some have been paying for months. Others hold out until they see the flames licking at a neighbor’s stall.

Agent Martinez, disguised as a florist, gains the trust of Doña Chela, the vegetable vendor next to Guadalupe’s stall. She convinces her to go to the prosecutor’s office, secretly, to give her testimony. Then more vendors come forward. Little by little, the numbers become faces, stories: a man who lost everything in an “exemplary” fire, a woman who prefers to eat less in order to pay her dues, a young man who dreams of saving for a house, but every month watches as the envelope of money ends up in the hands of criminals.

On the whiteboard in the prosecutor’s office, the names are connected by red lines: at the top, Miguel Ángel “El Toro” Ramírez, plaza commander for the CJNG cartel; below, five debt collectors, including El Chucky; below them, 247 extorted business owners. Nearly three and a half million pesos annually, extracted through violence and threats from the poorest residents of the city.

Francisco circles Chucky’s name in red. But he’s not planning a backstreet revenge. He’s planning a surgical, legal operation, impossible to overturn in court.

Wednesday, July 30, 4:53 a.m. Seven unmarked black SUVs pull out of the Prosecutor’s Office parking lot. Forty-odd special operations agents, wearing bulletproof vests and helmets, carrying assault rifles. In the command center, a windowless basement, Francisco watches the screens displaying the city map and the locations where his teams await orders.

At 5:02, he takes the microphone.

—All units: proceed. Mercury code active.

In a matter of minutes, doors were broken down, shouts of “Prosecutor, get on the ground!” rang out, and cuffed hands were pressed against the concrete. El Toro was lifted from his bed, face down on the floor. Chucky tried to reach for the gun on the nightstand, but an agent stepped on his wrist. He fell, handcuffed, in his underwear, in front of his pregnant girlfriend.

“I didn’t do anything,” he stammers. “I was just getting paid.”

“You did it in front of witnesses,” the agent replies, relentless. “It’s all documented. Shut up.”

By 5:37, the six main targets are in separate cells. The evidence: videos, audio recordings, GPS tracking data, signed testimonies. The operation is a success.

At 8:30, Francisco puts on a gray suit and blue tie. He enters the Prosecutor’s Office auditorium to announce the results. Fifty journalists, cameras, microphones. He speaks in a professional tone: he explains how many arrests were made, how many merchants were freed, and how much money the cell is estimated to have moved.

And then he drops the phrase that will resonate throughout Jalisco.

“This operation began after a complaint from a victim of extortion at the Benito Juárez market,” he says, looking directly at the cameras. “That victim is my mother, Guadalupe Moreno de Salinas, a fruit vendor for 35 years.”

A heavy silence fills the room. There are no keys, no whispers. Nothing. Only the image of a prosecutor who, for the first time in a long time, speaks not only as an official, but as a son.

“They extorted my mother without even knowing who she was,” he continued. “But even if she hadn’t been my mother, the outcome would have been the same. No one in Jalisco should pay protection money to criminals. No one should work in fear. This prosecutor’s office will prosecute extortion with the utmost rigor.”

A few kilometers away, in the El Saus neighborhood, Guadalupe is pouring herself a cup of coffee when she turns on the television. She sees her son on the podium. She hears the words, “That victim is my mother.” The cup slips from her hands, shatters on the floor, and the coffee spills like a dark stain on the white tiles.

She sits down slowly, her heart racing.

—My God, Panchito… what did you do?

The cell phone rings. “Panchito,” the screen says. He answers with a trembling voice.

—Son… why didn’t you tell me anything?

“Because if I told you, you’d get scared, Mom,” he replies, still in the Prosecutor’s Office building. “You had four agents watching over you at the market. I didn’t want you to close your stall out of fear.”

Guadalupe bursts into tears.

—I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. I was going to pay the fee quietly… like everyone else.

“Your problem is my problem, Mom,” Francisco says, with a lump in his throat. “You sold fruit in the rain to pay for my books. Now it’s my turn to protect you.”

They hang up. Guadalupe looks at the puddle of coffee on the floor and understands something painful: her lifelong job, so humble, has placed her in the middle of a war she never asked for. And, unwittingly, she has become the heart of a battle that has only just begun.

The following months confirmed what many feared: the CJNG was not about to relinquish control of its territories so easily. Although El Toro and Chucky were in prison, the organization was reorganizing. A new boss took command. From his cell, a regional leader issued precise orders: do not touch the prosecutor’s mother—they didn’t want open warfare with the federal government—but neither would they forgive the humiliation.

Four months after Operation Mercury, in November 2025, the Benito Juárez market seems to have returned to normal. Without debt collectors, without direct threats, sales have even increased. Guadalupe earns a little more, has learned to use her card at the ATM, and keeps the money in an account her son opened for her. But the calm is deceptive.

One afternoon, as she was closing her stall and walking toward the bus stop, a black Suburban suddenly stopped in front of her. Three men wearing ski masks got out and grabbed her arms.

“Let me go! Help!” she screams.

On the other side of the parking lot, Agent Ramirez runs, drawing his weapon.

—Prosecutor’s Office! Release the woman!

She fires into the air. The men respond with gunfire. The night fills with the echoes of metal. Martínez, the florist, arrives running and punctures one of the truck’s tires. The hitmen release Guadalupe, climb in as best they can, and flee with the flat tire, leaving a trail of sparks on the pavement.

Within minutes, the market is surrounded by patrol cars. Commander Elizondo speaks over the radio, ordering all access points to be closed, the truck to be tracked, and the use of lethal force authorized. Francisco, who was at an official dinner with the governor, gets up from the table without saying goodbye and rushes out. Twenty minutes later, he is hugging his mother in a secure room at the Prosecutor’s Office.

“If your agents hadn’t been there…” she stammers.

“But they were there,” he replies, barely containing his anger. “And they’re going to continue to be. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Mom.”

That same night, in front of a digital map of Guadalajara illuminating the crisis room, Francisco makes a decision that is no longer just that of a grieving son, but of a public servant tired of seeing how criminals feel untouchable.

“This is no longer just a case of extortion,” he tells his commanders. “It’s a direct attack against the institution. I propose Operation Justice: we’re going after the entire CJNG structure in the metropolitan area. Not just collectors. Commanders, plaza bosses, hitmen, financiers, informants. Everyone.”

The plan will take six months to prepare. Hundreds of phones are tapped, agents are infiltrated, cameras are installed, and solid case files are built. Meanwhile, Guadalupe stops going to the market on her son’s orders. She stays locked in her house, surrounded by bodyguards, missing every smell, every voice, every piece of fruit. She, who had always walked freely among the crates and haggling, now feels imprisoned by her own self-importance.

—I prefer the risk of working to the safety of being locked up —she tells Francisco one day, sadly.

“Just a few more months, Mom,” he replies. “When this is over, you’ll be able to go back to the market without fear. Not just you, thousands like you.”

Tuesday, May 13, 2026, 4:05 a.m. Operation Justice begins. Helicopters hover over the city, one hundred agents deployed in more than one hundred directions simultaneously. Doors are forced open, weapons are seized, bags of drugs are confiscated, and stacks of cash are counted under the bright white light of raided warehouses.

Among those arrested are Rubén “El Güero” Cortés, the new commander who ordered the attempted kidnapping of Guadalupe, and three hitmen whose blood was found in the Suburban that night at the market. One of them confessed: the plan was to kidnap the prosecutor’s mother and demand a five million peso ransom.

By the end of the day, 183 members of the CJNG were arrested. More than 300 weapons, tons of drugs, and millions of pesos were seized. It is the biggest blow to the cartel in the history of Jalisco.

In a press conference, now wearing tactical gear and a bulletproof vest, Francis speaks plainly:

“This operation began after the attempted kidnapping of my mother,” he says. “And I want to send a message: attacks on the families of public servants will not go unpunished. Attacks on honest workers will not go unpunished. Jalisco will not be a haven for criminals.”

Seven months later, in June 2026, Guadalupe walks through the central aisle of the Benito Juárez market again. The vendors greet her with applause, hugs, and flowers. Doña Chela takes her hands.

—The market wasn’t the same without you, Lupita.

Her stall, number 143, is still there, untouched. Francisco paid the rent all those months so she wouldn’t lose it. Guadalupe is back arranging oranges, mangoes, and papayas. She’s back smelling that sweet aroma that, for her, means home. She’s back giving the children an extra piece of fruit. But now something is different: there are no more tattooed men with cold stares loitering in the aisles. There are no envelopes hidden under the counter. There’s no fear clinging to her chest when she hears footsteps behind her.

Security is still present, yes, but discreet. Butcher Ramírez and florist Martínez are not just their protectors: they’ve become part of the market family. Life resumes its course, but with more dignity, a lighter touch.

The figures confirmed it in the following months: extortion in Jalisco fell drastically. Hundreds of business owners stopped paying protection money. Sales increased. Families invested in improving their businesses and educating their children. The Operation Justice case was studied in other states. Francisco traveled to share the methodology. Years later, he would be appointed Attorney General of the Republic and would push for a landmark reform that made extortion a serious crime, with much harsher penalties.

But for Guadalupe, all that is distant noise. Her world remains the five-foot counter where she carefully stacks fruit. At 73, she still arrives at the market at 6:30 in the morning. She no longer works alone: ​​she has an assistant, Lucía, a 22-year-old who studies business administration and sells fruit part-time.

“Doña Lupita, you are my inspiration. I want to be like you when I’m your age,” the young woman tells her.

Guadalupe smiles, with the calm of someone who has seen too much.

“Don’t try to be like me, my daughter… She wants to be better. Each generation has to do things better than the last.”

Sometimes, customers ask him, half-jokingly, half-seriously:

—Excuse me, is it true that your son is the Attorney General?

She wipes her hands on her flowered apron and replies simply:

—Yes… but I only sell fruit.

He doesn’t boast. He doesn’t lie. He only knows that, thanks to that weary son who one day clenched his fists in rage because someone touched his mother, today he can work without fear. That, thanks to a 68-year-old woman who refused to give in when a criminal kicked her oranges, thousands of merchants in Jalisco stopped bowing their heads.

Stories like Guadalupe and Francisco’s remind us of something we sometimes forget: that big changes begin in small places. In a market. At stall number 143. With a woman who, no matter what, gets up at 4:30 in the morning to keep fighting for her life with the only weapons she has: her honest work and her undiminished dignity.

And you, if you were in Guadalupe’s place… would you pay in silence or would you dare to report it? Because in the end, whether Mexico changes or not also depends on the answer to that question.