Jacob Diaz

I'd seen bodies in the street, admits Diaz.

You'd hear gunfire sometimes, but I was lucky.

I was never involved in violence like that, but I knew it was out there.

One of Diaz's friends' brother, Humberto, a rich kid that thought it was cool to hang out with narcos, was at Club Palladium in Acapulco when nearly a dozen Zetas entered the club.

They gunned down nearly 20 Sinaloa associates along with Humberto.

He was in the wrong place, wrong time.

Officer Russell with the Ocala Police Department noticed Diaz's Chevy Blazer swerve out of the gas station at an excessive speed.

It was slightly after midnight on April 17, 2008.

Immediately, he flipped on his lights.

Diaz heard the whoop-whoop of the cruiser's siren before he noticed the light.

Fuck, he hissed to his buddy, Christian Santana, who was sitting in the passenger.

Diaz had $150,000 in a backpack resting in the back seat, cash that belonged to the cartel.

He and Ole had just finished reimbursing Aviles for the $200,000 seized by the DEA.

This is so bad.

He'd been drinking, although he doesn't believe he was legally intoxicated, and his license was expired.

There is no way the officer wasn't going to search the vehicle.

Diaz grabbed the bag in the back seat, turned to Santana, and grunted, I'm gone.

No, no, don't do it, he replied as Diaz pulled the SUV to a stop.

He shot out of the driver's side and took off running.

He heard the officer screaming, however, he didn't slow down.