Helicopters Over Navolato: The Fall of Sinaloa’s “El 27”

The gunfire started just before sunset. Locals in the dusty community of Bariometo, Navolato, watched as helicopters circled overhead and the familiar rattle of high-caliber weapons echoed off the sugarcane fields. Inside a house on the edge of town, one of the most feared figures in Sinaloa’s criminal underworld was about to meet his end.

Jorge Humberto Figueroa Benítez, known as El Perris and El 27, didn’t go down quietly. The man who once fired a .50-cal machine gun at Mexican soldiers during the Culiacanazo in 2019 died the same way he lived—surrounded by gunfire, armed to the teeth, and refusing to surrender.

“El 27” wasn’t just another sicario. He was the backbone of Los Chapitos’ security—an enforcer, a battlefield tactician, and a ghost that had repeatedly slipped through the government’s fingers. But on May 23, 2025, his luck finally ran out. A special forces raid in Navolato brought his reign to a violent close, marking the most significant blow to the Chapitos’ war machine since El Nini’s capture.

The Raid

The operation unfolded in Bariometo, a sleepy stretch of farmland outside Navolato. Soldiers moved in with helicopters overhead, backed by National Guard and local police. What followed was a violent firefight. Gunmen opened fire, two soldiers were wounded, and two civilians were caught in the crossfire. When the dust settled, El Perris was dead—shot inside a safehouse bedroom with a rifle by his side and bullet holes tearing through the walls.

The Commander

At just 35, Jorge Humberto Figueroa Benítez had become the most powerful enforcer in the Chapitos’ ranks. He had risen through the ranks of Los Ninis, eventually taking command after El Nini’s arrest. “El 27” wasn’t a nickname—it was his radio code, and within that world, it meant command, power, and fear. He was the guy who never missed a convoy, who personally led ambushes, and who inspired both fear and loyalty in the narco ranks.

His resume read like a war record. Culiacanazo? He was there, pulling the trigger on a .50-cal. The Tepuche massacre? His handprints were all over it. Dozens of operations across Sinaloa, from Badiraguato to Tres Ríos, were believed to be under his control. And yet, he always managed to disappear when it mattered—until this week.

A Trail of Violence

The stories surrounding him are not just violent—they’re brutal. He was accused of injecting live victims with fentanyl to test its strength. Others say he coordinated kidnappings and executions with the cold detachment of a battlefield general. The U.S. had placed a million-dollar bounty on his head, describing him as a top-level Chapitos lieutenant and fentanyl trafficker with a taste for torture.

Despite this, he was never seen as reckless. He was methodical, calculated. He evaded military raids more than once, famously escaping through a drainage canal during a 2024 standoff in Culiacán. That near-mythic ability to vanish had earned him an aura that few cartel figures could match.

The Final Hours

In the weeks before his death, rumors had swirled. Some said he betrayed Los Chapitos from the inside, leaking intel that led to arrests of their inner circle. Others said he was growing too powerful, becoming a liability even to his allies. Whatever the case, the net had been tightening. Intelligence traced him to various safehouses around Navolato, and this time, authorities made their move before he could slip away again.

They didn’t come to talk. They came to finish it. And they did.

Beneath the Surface

This wasn’t just a tactical win. It was symbolic. El 27 wasn’t a capo, but he was the guy who made things happen for Los Chapitos in Sinaloa. His removal creates a gap in their security structure and rattles the foundation of their armed wing.

But no one should confuse this with the end. The Chapitos are too deep, too spread, and too organized to fall with one bullet. Someone else will take his place—maybe already has. What’s more telling is the silence after the raid. No blockades. No public retaliation. That’s either a sign of disarray… or a sign of something worse brewing quietly.

In the narco world, calm doesn’t mean peace—it means planning.

By the next morning, the town of Bariometo was back to a strange normal. Army trucks patrolled the roads. Locals whispered. And the house where El Perris died sat riddled with holes, a monument to the end of one of Sinaloa’s most violent commanders.

They took him down, but what happens next will say far more than the gunfire that ended him.