There are moments in life that never fully go away.
They do not fade with time. They do not soften with distance. They remain there—in silence, patiently—waiting for the world to stop long enough to return.
For me, those moments almost always arrived after the chaos.
After the operations.
After the tension.
After those days when every decision had consequences that were felt long after the sun had set.
In Chapter 4 of The Reign of Terror, I wrote about one of those nights.
I remember getting home, the atmosphere still charged with everything the day had demanded of me. I poured a glass of Merlot, went outside, and watched as the sun hid behind the silhouette of Cerro de Chipinque in Monterrey. I was always captivated by how the sunlight cast golden tones and intense orange hues over the white rock and lush vegetation of the mountain, with the backdrop of a blue sky so clear it seemed unreal. It was breathtaking.
There was silence.
Not the absence of noise, but something deeper.
A stillness that felt almost unfamiliar.
Because in that kind of work, silence was rare. And when you found it, you learned to hold on to it.
At that moment, I didn’t fully understand what I was looking for.
Maybe I would have said I was just trying to relax. To decompress. To leave work behind, even if just for a few hours.
But over time, I understood the truth.
I was looking for peace.
The culmination of Operation Canicon was one of those breaking points.
It carried weight—more than others. Not just operationally, but personally. It left a kind of residue… one that doesn’t wash away when the day is done.
And like many other times after that, I found myself seeking something to stabilize me.
Not conversation.
No distraction.
But music.
It was almost always instrumental.
The soft sound of jazz filling the space…
or the distant and melancholic notes of a wordless mariachi guitar.
No lyrics. No noise. Just emotion.
The music became a bridge—something that carried me from one world to another.
From chaos… to something resembling calm.
And there I would stay, often alone, with the mountains in the distance and the sky transforming into colors that reminded me that beauty still existed in the world.
Despite all that I had seen.
Despite all that I knew.
As I contemplated that landscape, I sometimes whispered a small prayer of gratitude—nothing elaborate, just a moment of thankfulness for being there, for having returned home, for the chance to feel something different than the weight of work.
In those moments, something else would also return.
Faith.
Not in a grand or dramatic way.
Not the kind that is announced.
But something quieter.
The recognition that there was something greater than all of that. Greater than violence. Greater than fear. Greater than the darkness that sometimes seemed to follow you home.
It didn’t last forever.
It never does.
Because sooner or later, the phone would ring.
Or the next operation would arrive.
Or reality would remind you exactly what world you lived in.
But for a moment…
Just a moment…
There was peace.
And maybe that’s what I’ve come to understand over the years.
You don’t always find lasting serenity in a life like this.
But you find moments.
Small.
Ephemeral.
And if you’re lucky… you learn to recognize them when they arrive.
You learn to sit with them.
To breathe them in.
To let them remind you who you are—beyond the badge, beyond the work, beyond everything life has forced you to carry.
Because in the end…
Those moments of silence were not an escape.
They were survival.
Leo Silva is a former special agent in charge of the DEA (Monterrey Office) and the author of Reign of Terror and El Reinado de Terror. With decades of experience on the front lines of the fight against transnational cartels, Silva offers readers an intimate look at some of the most dangerous operations directed against high-level leaders and organizations.
Since the publication of his memoirs, Silva has become a recognized voice in the media and the speaking circuit. His story and analyses have been featured in interviews with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Jorge Ramos on Univision (Así veo las cosas), three-time Emmy-winning journalist Paco Cobos (La Entrevista), and Ana Paulina (Voces con Ana Paulina), where his participation generated millions of views. He has also been invited on prominent platforms such as the podcast Cops and Writers with Patrick J. O’Donnell, Game of Crimes with Steve Murphy, and Llamados a Servir with Roberto Hernández.
Through his books, lectures, and media appearances, Silva continues to illuminate the realities of organized crime, the work of law enforcement, and the human cost of the war on drugs, while sharing lessons in resilience, leadership, and truth.
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