The Algorithm Picks Sides. So Do the Cartels.

In a two-front war, ambiguity is treason to both sides. That’s why the flyers fell. And that’s why, if you’re counting Xs on those sheets, you should count how many faces haven’t been crossed out yet.

The flyers didn’t whisper; they thundered. Earlier this year, small planes circled Culiacán and shed hundreds of leaflets—a grid of faces, many known to the public. The captions called them financiers, close collaborators, and money launderers. Influencers. YouTubers. Corrido kids who grew platforms on lifted trucks, Montblanc pens, and the adrenaline shimmer of proximity to power. The message was simple: we see you, we know you, and we decide who gets crossed out next.

A few months later, Ensenada: lunchtime, a seafood spot off the coastal road. Gail Castro, brother of the Sinaloa mega-influencer Markitos Toys, was cut down in the doorway. He’d been on those flyers. He’d also been warned. The gunmen came anyway. Police may have arrested an initial suspect; the investigation is still open. The killing was less a mystery than a memo.

Last weekend brought another lesson. Camilo Ochoa, known online as “El Alucín,” a Sinaloa-born influencer who taunted rivals on camera, was shot dead in Morelos. He, too, had appeared on those Culiacán leaflets and had chosen sides publicly. In this war, the algorithm isn’t neutral, and neither are the people who master it.

Why the influencers are under fire

This isn’t random slaughter. It’s a playbook. The Sinaloa Cartel is fighting itself, Los Chapitos (the sons of Joaquín Guzmán) versus La Mayiza (the network loyal to Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada). What began as back-room friction snapped into open conflict last year and keeps rippling across Sinaloa and beyond. When a cartel splits, anything that looks like messaging becomes a weapon.

For years, creators made a living by orbiting the narco spectacle at a careful distance, vlogging off-road rides, corridos bélicos, backstage meet-ups, the occasional cameo with someone whose nickname everyone knows but no one writes. As long as the cartel’s ruling families coexisted, the performance could pass as a lifestyle. Now, with the house divided, lifestyle reads as loyalty.

Patronage becomes proof. In Sinaloa, the line between an influencer and an operative is razor-thin. Accept a “sponsorship” from one plaza boss, film a convoy, show up at a party, or even move money through a business, and rivals will treat it as evidence of allegiance. The Castro family learned that the brutal way.