The outskirts of Sinaloa were an empty expanse.
Located in the tropical dry forests of Sonora State, Sinaloa, after all, wasn't far from the hottest desert in the entire North American region—just a few dozen kilometers away as the crow flies.
There were no skyscrapers, but to fend off the Anti-Drug Force's attacks, these drug traffickers had begun digging trenches.
In a V-shaped trench, numbered "17," Roberto Torres Morales leaned against the side, knees wearily bent, pulling out some rations from his chest to eat. He got choked not paying attention and quickly picked up his water to wash it down.
"Roberto, got any more food?" asked a nearby companion in a hushed voice. Hesitating, he handed over his biscuit, which the other wolfed down in two or three bites, then looked at him expectantly.
Roberto Torres Morales spread his hands to show he had no more.
"Hey, why did we even come to fight in Mexico? Wasn't Colombia good enough?" his companion heaved a sigh of despair.
