
After Mexico's most-wanted kingpin was killed, cartel henchmen rampage across the country
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BBC Narrator
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Quentin Somerville
hello. Today, Donald Trump strikes a triumphant tone in his State of the Union speech. But are Republican voters convinced? Russian soldiers share their stories from the front line in the war in Ukraine and the consequences for those who defy orders. And we're in Benin in West Africa, traveling on a slow boat down the Black River. But first, Jalisco's state in Mexico was rocked by a violent rampage this week after the drug lord El Mencho died following a firefight between his bodyguards and Mexican military commandos. As Mexico's most wanted man, he was leader of the Jalisco New Generation cartel, and his death fuelled retaliatory attacks by cartel members across the country. It's evidence of the challenges facing Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum as she vows to take on the country's biggest criminal gangs. Quentin Somerville reports on the disturbingly violent fallout of this battle following the earlier capture of another major kingpin from the rival Sinaloa cartel.
It was weeks before the capture of Nomisio El Mencho Oceguera Cervantes, Mexico's most wanted drugs kingpin. Or I asked the country's president, Claudia Sheinbaum, how she would defeat the cartels. Intelligence. Lots of intelligence, she said confidently from the stage in her regular press briefing in Mexico City. What is clear is that confrontation leads nowhere, she said. Direct confrontation leads nowhere. It is about arrests, arrests, arrests, and addressing the root cause. And sure enough, it was a smart intel operation that led to the capture of Mr. Oseguera, the head of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel, one of the world's biggest criminal gangs the cartel split from the notorious Sinaloa cartel some 15 years ago, and the two have battled, cooperated and profited from the illegal trade of fentanyl, methamphetamine and inhuman trafficking. It was Mr. Oseguera's lover that was his undoing. Mexican intelligence officials said she led them to his hideout, the cartel stronghold of Jalisco State. Sometime after she left, Mexican special forces moved in and in an ensuing gun battle, the crime boss was captured while being transported to Mexico City. He died. The group's power was on full display in the aftermath. Violence erupted in Jalisco's capital, Guadalajara, and spread throughout the country before the government was able to bring it under control. Despite President Scheinbaum's reply, the Mexican State is now in direct confrontation with two of the world's most powerful drugs gangs, Jalisco, New Generation and the Sinaloa Cartel. But will decapitating the Jalisco Cartel bring about its end? And will it stop the violence? The problem in Mexico is when you cut off the head of the snake, you're often left only with more snakes. That's the case in Sinaloa. I traveled to the state late last month. I thought I knew all there was to know about violence until I went to Culiacan. Sinaloa's capital city is a prosperous place with fancy car dealerships, well tended parks and high end shopping malls. It was by the steps of one of those malls that early one chilly morning, a man's body had been dumped. I was some distance away and even from there it was clear he died a touch terrible death. It looked as if he'd been tortured. His body was covered in wounds, but still I couldn't make sense of the scene. So I zoomed in with my camera and even then my brain struggled to comprehend what I was seeing. The man's skull had been flayed and the dismembered pieces placed on his corpse along with his eyes. The police were there and they lifted a sign covering his body. It was from one faction of the Sinaloa cartel to another, declaring the man a traitor and warning that his associates would be next. The following day, by a main road heading out of the city, a nearly identical dismemberment. And shortly after, a body dumped by some newly built houses. The day before, a 16 year old boy was shot dead, his feet still on the pedals of his bike where he fell, and as many as a dozen bullets were fired into him at close range. There were other murders too. Too many for me to attend. At each Incident, I'd meet Ernesto Martinez, a Veteran crime reporter, 27 years on the job. He says they average about six homicides a day in Culiacan. Look, we're in the economic heart of Culiacan. Look at the tall buildings, he said. Near the man's corpse, by the steps of the shopping mall, federal troops, soldiers and marines stood armed and watchful around the crime scene. This area should be the most secure, said Ernesto. But the authorities can't handle the violence. That's why it's called organised crime, because they're more organized than the authorities. The Sinaloa cartel is tearing itself apart after the son of one of its founders betrayed another. The removal of that cartel leader, Ismail El Mayo Zambada, who is now in prison in the us, has wrought mayhem across Sinaloa and provides a warning of the dangers facing the country. Later, I sat down with some cartel members to try to understand how their civil war might end. I've met traffickers before, and these men conform to type. Heavily armed, amoral, vicious criminals capable of the kind of horrors I'd seen all week in Culiacan. But something struck me afterwards. They lacked the swagger I'd seen before. They were worried about the future. They said they wanted government forces to leave Sinaloa so they could fight it out with their rivals in the cartel. And whomever was left standing would win control of an illegal drugs business worth billions. Imagine the bloodbath if they got their wish. And this is the danger for Mexico and Jalisco too. When cartels fragment, when there is a power struggle, the violence increases exponentially. For middle ranking cartel members like the men I met, it is a fight to the death. And anyone who gets in their way is expendable. When I wasn't visiting crime scenes, I spent most of my time with two volunteer paramedics. Julio Cesar Vega, who's 28, and Hector Torres, who's 53 years old. Julio began the volunteer service 10 years ago when he was just 18. The two men and a handful of young women respond immediately whenever they hear of another cartel shooting. They say their callouts have increased 73% in the last year. In such dismal circumstances, I could only admire their dedication and selflessness. And their bravery. Sometimes cartel members return to the scene to finish the job. If their target was merely injured, they're usually the first medics on the scene. Fast and furious, Culiocan Ictor joked as we sped to an incident downtown, their ambulance siren blaring as we weaved through traffic at speed. And nearly all the call outs. There's little for them to do beyond check vital signs and place a blanket over a corpse the cartels rarely miss. When we arrived at that day's shooting, two men were badly wounded, bleeding out on the pavement. One was screaming and the other wasn't responding. He was critically injured. It was the first time that week, despite attending the aftermath of several shootings, that we'd come across anyone still alive. The two men survived, and Hector said, removing his bloody blue medical gloves, that in fact they were the first still breathing victims they'd treated since November. The fear is everywhere. The fear is constant, the paramedic told me. But so too, is heartbreak. Thousands have been disappeared in Culiacan. Serencio Umberto was a calm and kind man, not yet 30 when he disappeared. His handsome face stares back at me from the white T shirt his mother, Maria Isabel, wears in his memory. She's part of a group called Mothers Fighting Back, which searches for missing family members. I joined them in some waste ground at a town not far from Culiacan. Buzzards flew overhead. They had long iron probes, which they forced deep into the ground, wherever they think a body may have been buried. The women, all mothers, sisters, daughters of the disappeared, raised the iron pole to their noses, alert to the telltale smell of decomposition. When her son went missing, Maria Isabel quit her job and joined the group to search for him. And eventually Crescenzio's dismembered body was found. God returned him to me, she said tearfully. My heart broke when I saw my son's skull, his ribs, his bones. I had no words. Honestly, I don't wish this on other mothers. I don't wish this on anyone. Whatever they did to my son, I know karma exists. Sooner or later, they will pay for it. My son did not deserve a death like that. That's the truth. There are two wars going on in Mexico. The one with the cartels and the state's fight against the drug traffickers producing drugs and transporting them from South America to the United States and far beyond. But there's another consideration, too. The United States, where most of the toxic fentanyl the cartels produce ends up, has threatened military action against Mexico if it doesn't act against the criminals. The disintegration of the Sinaloa cartel would be a victory for the government and for mothers like Maria Isabel. But she, like others, is under no illusion. With so much money at stake, other traffickers will likely take their place. The capture of El Mencho in Jalisco was a stunning achievement. But it, too comes with consequences for Mexico's drugs. Cartels are at their most dangerous, their most vicious, when they're wounded.
Quentin Somerville Next Our country is winning again. That was Donald Trump's rallying cry at his State of the Union address this week in Washington. In the speech, which lasted a record one hour and 47 minutes, he repeated themes that he says signify success rising incomes, a growing stock market and reduced crossings on the southern border. But his sinking approval ratings suggest he's not necessarily convincing the public. The address came within days of the Supreme Court ruling, which struck down his tariff programme, a pillar of his presidential policy. Following news of the 63 verdict, the President told a press conference he was deeply disappointed in the justices. But as midterm elections loom, President Trump will now need to regain the confidence in the voters who returned him to the White House.
Anthony Zirka
Anthony Zirka the view for reporters covering the State of the Union address at the Capitol isn't a great one. From my balcony vantage point, I could barely see the back of Donald Trump's head. What I did have, though, was a commanding view of the gathered legislators, cabinet heads and other government officials who were packed into the chamber Democrats on the right, Republicans on the left. As the president spoke, his party faithful regularly popped up from their seats. They cheered. They chanted, usa. Usa. It was like a school pep rally. Democrats, by contrast, were a study and icy glower. They stared at their phones. They scowled. They glared. Most were silent. But few, like Ilhan Omar of Minnesota and Rashid Tlaib of Michigan, snapped back at the president in voices loud enough for those of us up top to hear. Coming into this speech, some of the analysts and experts I spoke to said that Trump needed more outreach to his supporters, who have soured on his agenda. The president's poll numbers have dipped precipitously since his inauguration last year. Observers say he needed to show the nation that he understands their unease about the economy, about high consumer prices, about the harshness of his immigration enforcement policies, and that he will address it. Trump has run headfirst into some adversity in recent weeks. His tariff program has been ruled illegal by the Supreme Court. A handful of the justices sat stone faced in the front row during Trump's speech. The latest economic news showed a nation not growing as fast as expected. The president's military buildup around Iran had led to reports that his top general, Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman Dan Kang, who also attended the speech, was quietly expressing concern about the dangers of military action. But contrition or course correction was not part of Trump's plan on Tuesday night. Instead, his speech was more like a pitch from the salesman in chief, a rallying cry for his party faithful and a chance to jab at the Democrats seated before him. If Americans were upset about the state of the nation, it's because they had not been properly convinced of how good things have been going. Last month, Trump groused about how his popularity issues may have been because he had bad public relations people. The risk for Trump is that the public's dissatisfaction may be more than just a messaging problem. Americans may be legitimately unhappy, and the president telling them that petrol is cheap but when they know that's not true only inflames the disconnect between the people and the president. It's not an uncommon situation. Joe Biden tried to convince Americans things were better than they thought just a few years ago. His failure is one of the main reasons why Trump is back in the White House. The presidency can be a bubble, protecting the occupant from the outside world. Donald Trump, who spends many of his winter weekends at his Mar A Lago resort in Palm Beach, Florida, can be even more insulated. Two weeks ago, I traveled in Trump's press pool for a long weekend in what has been called his Southern White House. For Trump, it's like a security blanket, warm and comforting. Left behind were the harsh realities of politics in the nation's capital, the cold bite of winter winds, the crowds of anxious allies and relentless critics. In its place were the luxuries of the president's private club, the open fairways of Trump International Golf Club, the warm breezes and sunny skies of South Florida, and the always present crowd of devoted supporters cheering as his motorcade passed by. But Mar a Lago isn't real life, and while it may be a nice escape from the pressures of Washington, it's hardly a means for Trump to interact with everyday Americans. His golf partners are politicians and celebrities. His Mar A Lago membership, some of whom drove to the club one day in their classic cars from Ferraris, Rolls Royces and Aston Martins, is full of the super wealthy and well connected. It's not without unwanted guests, though. Last weekend, and not for the first time, a man said to be armed was shot dead by Secret Service agents trying to unlawfully enter the estate. Trump's state of the union was a rare moment when he was face to face with his critics, the Supreme Court justices who derailed his beloved tariffs, including two of the Republican appointed justices, the Democrats who were blocking parts of his agenda in Congress and it seemed to annoy him. These people are crazy, he said at one point, referencing the Democrats. In just over eight months, Americans will head to the polls to choose between keeping Republicans in charge of Congress or handing power back to those crazy Democrats. The White House has said that the president will hit the campaign trail hard, continuing to tout his record in an effort to boost his party's chances. But if Trump doesn't regain his political touch outside of Washington and the friendly confines of Mar A Lago in eight months, American voters may give him a rude awakening.
Quentin Somerville
Anthony Zircher now to the war in Ukraine and the Russian soldiers fighting on the front line. For Vladimir Putin, the exact toll on Russian forces has been closely guarded by the Kremlin, but there are estimates of over a million casualties. For those soldiers who refuse to fight and face near certain death, the consequences can be severe. A BBC investigation has heard testimony from Russian troops who say they witness commanders ordering the executions of their own men. Ben Steele recounts a meeting with some of those who managed to escape at an undisclosed location outside Russia.
BBC Narrator
Russian jets scream overhead. A helicopter circles nearby. The blades cut through the air. I'm standing in an abandoned Soviet factory, its windows smashed in, the floor covered in dust. There's no electricity, no running water here. Dima, a Russian military paramedic, paces in front of me. He's recently escaped the front lines. A A smile passes across his face like a memory as he shows me a photo of the old Dima taken before the war, embracing his wife and young daughter. Dima speaks good English and motioning at the photo on his phone, he tells me, I'm wanted by Russian military police and if they try to catch me here, I should destroy this, he continues. I have eyes on my back. I don't know what's happening tomorrow. Dima is a strikingly good looking man, with a Johnny Depp goatee and an easy charm, but he speaks with the intensity of no one else I've ever met. Three years ago, Dima was walking to the metro station after work when police in Moscow stopped him and asked to see his papers. Within weeks, he was sent to occupied eastern Ukraine. Despite no previous medical experience, Dima was assigned a role as a battlefield medicine and has medals to prove it. There's no pride in his voice, only irony as he shows me paperwork pointing out Putin signed the order. I send the medals to my mum and my wife because I don't need them. In October 2023, Dima's regiment was ordered into a frontal assault on Ukrainian positions with no reconnaissance no armoured vehicles, no artillery and no drone support. It's a tactic analysts say verges on being a suicide mission. Russian soldiers simply call it a meat storm. Dima tells me we had 200 dead in three days. Our regiment was destroyed. The UK Ministry of Defence confirms that meat storms are a tactic Russian commanders are employing across the entire front, with an estimated 900 to 1500 Russian soldiers killed or wounded every single day in 2025. But despite these staggering losses and an advance that's moving slower than a snail crawls it allows Russia's high command to claim momentum on the battlefield. In mid-2024, Dima's situation worsened. His medals and the high casualty rate meant he was promoted. Now an officer, he himself was ordered to send men into battle. I wouldn't have to go forwards myself, but I couldn't just give them the order, he tells me, taking a long drag on his cigarette. I called my wife. I told her what I was doing. A violation of direct orders. Do you understand that? They will come for me, he told his wife. Dima was right. The military police did come. He clenches his jaw. He looks at me, then looks into the middle distance. I don't want to remember it, but I remember. I remember very good. Dima tells me he was tortured for 72 days. I can see the pain on his face. They are torturing me with electric shock. He shows me where they attached electric cables to the fingers of his right hand and the back of his right ear. After this, I am different. Not like before. Really not like before. Just ahead of New Year January 2025, Dima was released. Commanders needed more men for their attacks. Dima was taken back to the front, where he expected to die. Here he witnessed the man being shot on the spot under the orders of Alexei Ksenafontov. Callsign Tiger. The bearer of Russia's highest state medal, the Gold Star. A hero of Russia, a man Dima calls a butcher. I see it. Just 2 meters, 3 meters. He gestures in front of him, adding, just murders. Click, clack, bang. It's not a drama. It's not a movie. It's real life. The Russian government told us they are unable to verify the information provided. The Russian armed forces operate with utmost restraint, treating personnel with maximum care, and stated alleged violations and crimes are duly investigated. The odds. Dima managed to survive months of relentless assaults, working as an evacuation medic. Then, unable to take any more, he rolled the dice once more and fled the front, talking his way out past checkpoints and border guards. It's not clear if Dima will ever see his wife or daughter again. But he has escaped the front. He's somehow still alive, but he does not sleep well at night. Dima sums up his experiences of war the adversary is in front of you, but the enemy is your commander behind you. He looks at the floor and continues, I'm not a hero, I'm a fool. Cursing, he adds, I'm a criminal and nobody cares. My crime is just I don't want
Quentin Somerville
to kill Ben Steele. And you can watch the documentary the Zero Line Inside Russia's War on BBC iPlayer.
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Quentin Somerville
And finally, to the West African nation of Benin, where the modest population is made up of more than 50 different ethnic groups and languages. Most of the population is concentrated in the south, home to the country's main cities such as the port of Cotonou. While Benin has only a few main highways, its lush, interconnected lagoons provide a vital commercial artery often navigated by small boats known as pirogues. Sarah Wheeler took a trip down the Black River.
Sarah Wheeler
A Jacana wader pipecleaner, legs forging forward, skittered over the dark river. That, said my friend Laurent as he poled our dugout into the dawn light, is a Jesus bird. Of course it walked on water. The problem with the cornucopia of wildlife on the Black river that curls through the Benin wetlands is getting names down in the right dialect. Laurent's first language as a Nago is, yes, the eponymous Nago Wikipedia. And AI will tell you, he told me confidentially as he polled north, that we Nago speak a variant of Yoruba but we don't exactly Nago is our own language. Yes, it's related to Yoruba, but so are and he launched into a list of such confounding complexity that I looked up at the sunlight filtering through the raffia palms. Benin, half the size of the uk, is shaped like a club, long and thin with a knobbed bit on top. Its 14 million people speak 55 tongues, and those are just the official ones. Fon, Ghur and Yoruba are the most commonly heard in the humid south, where the bite of Benin eventually meets the Gulf of Guinea. The country as it exists today is a truncated part of the old Dahomey Kingdom. The place where the infamous Benin bronzes were looted lies in present day Nigeria. We passed a cluster of white flags marking a Vodun shrine. Voodoo, as Vodun is known in English, was born in Benin. The word means God or spirit in Fon. I rarely passed a row of houses or a market stall without a unique shrine marked out with fetishes embodying a particular spirit, empty bottles, perhaps a mummified hedgehog, and generally a a few old shoes. We left the dugout on the makeshift wharf at Vagnon and walked through the village, Laurent yammering to men stacking palm branches in vertical bundles. Each of Laurent's cheeks are scarified with three vertical the nago mark. The other men have no stripes. That is because they are Torre people, Laurent explained as we continued down the red earth path past a stall selling tabletop petrol fuel smuggled across the estuary from Nigeria and sold in plastic Coke bottles up and down Benin. Next to the fuel shop, someone had painted a picture of a supplicant in front of a shrine on a free standing brick room. This is the graveyard of the souls of five villagers who died in 2013, Laurent explained. Their bodies are in the cemetery at Cotonou, he says, referring to Benin's largest city and chief port an hour away by car. The dead are Catholic ancestors. He had several times referred to the incorporation of Vodun spirituality into Christian denominations. Wagnon and its people rely economically on the production of palm oil. A woman further down the path was bending over a stone tank, squeezing cornflake coloured juice out of hefty bundles of fibre. When she had finished each bundle, she placed it on the rim of the trough and the squeezed vegetation would be used for cooking fuel. The tank of oily liquid shimmered in the shadows. Later, as the sun began to sink with its equatorial haste, Lauro and I headed back to the wharf and home. First down the river and then by car to Ouidah. I was staying there next to an impressive, if half built, Chinese marina and elaborate hotel complex, an investment signalling no doubt the way forward for Benin. As we poled placidly south on the water on the first leg of our journey, another boatman, identified by the same vertical cheek scars as Laurent's, passed in the other direction, his own dug out bearing six erect Toro women amidst bulging plastic bags. The man spoke loudly to Laurent across the water. I had been pondering the intricate web of languages that connects this strip of West Africa, its bond more secure than those created by borders and concepts of statehood. Keen to learn more as we continued, I asked Laurent what the other man had communicated to him. He said, Laurent replied, polling now with more zest that man United are one up at the Emirates.
Quentin Somerville
Sarah Wheeler. And that's all for today, but you can hear more dispatches from around the world on BBC Sounds. We'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join us.
Helena Merriman
If journalism is the first draft of history, what happens if that draft turns out to be flawed? In 1999, four apartment buildings were blown up in Russia, Hundreds killed. But 25 years on, we still don't know for sure who did it. It's a mystery that sparked chilling theories because these bombs, they're part of the origin story of one of the most powerful men in the world, Vladimir Putin. I'm Helena Merriman and in a new BBC series, I'm talking to the reporters who first covered this story. What did they miss? First time round, the History Bureau. Putin and the apartment bombs. Listen. First on BBC sounds.
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From Our Own Correspondent – “Mexico's deadly drug cartel feud”
BBC Radio 4, February 28, 2026
Presented by Kate Adie, Main Report by Quentin Somerville
This episode provides gripping, on-the-ground insights into the aftermath of the death of El Mencho, the leader of Mexico’s Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG). BBC correspondent Quentin Somerville reports from Jalisco and Sinaloa, examining the power struggles, staggering violence, and human cost of Mexico's long-running battle with drug cartels. The episode further explores the perspectives of those caught in the crossfire: journalists, medics, and family members of victims, all while reflecting on the challenges facing President Claudia Sheinbaum. Additional stories in the episode address Donald Trump’s State of the Union, the Russian war in Ukraine through the eyes of defected Russian soldiers, and a travelogue along Benin’s Black River. This summary will focus on the main feature: Mexico’s cartel feud.
Quentin Somerville delves into the destabilizing impact of El Mencho’s demise. He explores the violent repercussions, the recurring pattern of cartel fragmentation after leadership decapitations, and the immense challenges faced by authorities and civilians.
[01:08–02:17]
[03:20–05:05]
"The problem in Mexico is when you cut off the head of the snake, you're often left only with more snakes." – Quentin Somerville (03:30)
[05:10–06:40]
[06:45–07:45]
[07:50–08:40]
[08:45–10:25]
Somerville rides along with volunteer paramedics Julio Cesar Vega (28) and Hector Torres (53), who respond to cartel violence.
Often, medical teams can do little but confirm death:
“There’s little for them to do beyond check vital signs and place a blanket over a corpse… the cartels rarely miss.” (09:30)
The rare survival of two gunshot victims is described as an exception, marking the first time since November these medics treated living victims.
[10:26–11:00]
“My heart broke when I saw my son's skull, his ribs, his bones. I had no words. Honestly, I don't wish this on other mothers. I don't wish this on anyone.” – Maria Isabel (10:52)
[11:01–11:21]
“With so much money at stake, other traffickers will likely take their place. The capture of El Mencho… comes with consequences for Mexico's drugs. Cartels are at their most dangerous, their most vicious, when they're wounded.” – Quentin Somerville (11:15)
On the futility of decapitation tactics
“The problem in Mexico is when you cut off the head of the snake, you're often left only with more snakes.” – Quentin Somerville (03:30)
Cartel brutality
“A man’s body had been dumped… it looked as if he’d been tortured… the man’s skull had been flayed and the dismembered pieces placed on his corpse along with his eyes.” – Quentin Somerville (05:40) “It was from one faction of the Sinaloa cartel to another, declaring the man a traitor and warning that his associates would be next.” – Quentin Somerville (06:00)
On organized crime outpacing authorities
"That's why it's called organised crime, because they're more organized than the authorities.” – Ernesto Martinez (07:10)
On the risk of further violence
“When cartels fragment, when there is a power struggle, the violence increases exponentially. For middle ranking cartel members… it is a fight to the death. And anyone who gets in their way is expendable.” – Quentin Somerville (08:15)
On the paramedics’ grim work
“There’s little for them to do beyond check vital signs and place a blanket over a corpse the cartels rarely miss.” – Quentin Somerville (09:30)
On the sorrow of the disappeared
“My heart broke when I saw my son's skull, his ribs, his bones. I had no words. I don't wish this on anyone.” – Maria Isabel (10:52)
The report is vivid, compassionate, and unflinching, blending harrowing testimony with evocative scene-setting. Somerville and others speak directly, often with emotion, reflecting the gravity of the situation without sensationalism.
This episode of “From Our Own Correspondent” lays bare the escalating violence and complexity of Mexico’s ongoing cartel wars in the wake of high-profile kingpin decapitations. Through first-hand accounts, the podcast captures the pain, fear, and resilience of those living amidst the conflict—and raises sobering questions about the future for Mexico’s citizens.