The U.S.–Mexican border has mutated. Huge new walls stretch for hundreds of kilometers. Thousands of additional Border Patrol agents and a tough immigration policy from Washington have made the porous border both more controlled and more violent. Sneaking into the U.S. is getting harder than ever, and the price of an illegal trip has soared. For a Mexican or Salvadorean, the price of entry is $4,000–$7,000. For Asians, including the Chinese, the average price is closer to $40,000.

The deportation flights are organized by the Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Known as “ICE,” it is the largest investigative agency within Homeland Security, with 7,000 agents around the United States—and this is one of their security missions, deporting hundreds of foreign criminals from the country.

Aboard the plane, prisoners are reluctant to speak with a reporter. One criminal, Pablo Morales, a 32-year-old from El Salvador, tells his story, or at least his version of it. “They caught me with cocaine. But just a bit. They call it criminal . . . I was driving and, on the passenger side, they found a little bag of cocaine. Maybe a friend left it there?” Even Pablo does not sound convinced by his weak excuse. “It was a tiny bag, and they call that a crime!”

When asked about the infamous Mara Salvatrucha street gang, Morales twists his face into a scowl, “They should all be prisoners. Those guys are bad boys. They are like a cancer on society.” But what Morales does not know is that, two rows behind him, in the middle seat, is Joselito Hernandez, a 24-year-old member of MS-13, convicted, and now being sent home.

I approach Joselito, his eyes drill me, and his tough-guy smile says Stay The Fuck Away. As I attempt to interview him, the tension rises. The other criminals begin shifting about; I can hear the rattle of chains behind me, and I wonder how long it would take before the guards rushed down the aisle to pull the gangsters off if I got jumped. And, more importantly, after they pulled them off, what would be left of me?

Joselito’s not talking. Nada. But ICE provides me with his rap sheet, his arrest records, and the background details of his local clique, a neighborhood gang that the ICE agents believe is linked to the international MS-13 organization.

As the flight levels out, the prisoners are allowed to use the bathroom—escorted, they are taken to the back of the plane one by one. A phalanx of guards watch, making sure that prisoners can’t attack an enemy or start a fight. It is early in the flight, and we are too full—24 prisoners, half Mexicans and half Salvadoreans. With rival gangs and rival nationalities aboard the same flight, the 15 guards are on high alert—and without guns. “It’s illegal for us to arrive in a foreign nation with guns,” explained one ICE agent. Tear gas is impractical aboard the stuffy air aboard a jet. So, what lies between me and these bad boys? A row of Akal Security guards with enough muscle power to smash the convicts into submission. “They are very protective of the cockpit,” the co-pilot told me. Visions of 9-11 type attacks flash into my head.

Uprisings are infrequent since the heavy chains make it difficult for prisoners to wipe their ass or scratch their ear, never mind organizing a rebellion. The convicts tend to lean back, stare at the ceiling, and plot their return to the United States. As the prisoners talk among themselves, I imagine the lurid details, the plans for more crimes. When they see me taking notes, they mouth to me a singular greeting: “mother fucker.” To get away from the tension, I am sent into the cockpit. Here, the calm view of the Gulf of Mexico drops my blood pressure, until the pilot lets me sit at the wheel and feel the power of a 737, putting me at the helm of CONAIR.

Heading back to the passenger cabin, I see a doctor aboard, dishing out blood pressure medicine to three prisoners because their blood is pumping too hard. Oxygen bottles are readied, as it is common for inmates to pass out from the stress of these flights.

“I will be back here [in the U.S.A.] in less than a month,” a prisoner tells me as the plane crosses the Gulf of Mexico on the way to San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador. “They tell me that, if they catch me again, I will get 20 years, but I am still going home.” When this man says “home” he means South Texas, which today resembles “Little Mexico,” given the huge Hispanic population, endless rows of taqueria shacks, and the poverty-induced chaos that leads to high murder and assault numbers.

During the flight, I convince four inmates to detail their stories of crime, their years in prison, and their plans for the future. These men are determined to escape El Salvador and be smuggled back into the U.S. as fast as possible. They will return on what analysts describe as the immigration “conveyor belt.” Critics of the deportation flights worry that the CONAIR flights help gang members travel for free and set up remote branches of their growing gangs. Like franchises, the MS-13 gang is now nationwide in the U.S., and dominant in both El Salvador and the Honduras. Powerful Mexican gangs working both sides of the border include the Mexican Mafia, the Texas Syndicate, Tango Blast, and Los Bandidos.

When the plane approaches El Salvador, the men begin cheering, hooting, celebrating. “They talk back [to us] and say ‘I’m going home, nothing you can do to me now,’” says Bradford, an ICE agent.

At the airport, the criminals are handed over to Salvadorean officials, but many will sneak back into the United States where they may resume their criminal paths. However, conviction this time means a 20-year jail sentence, so they are armed and more dangerous—possibly risking shooting their way out of any encounter with the police in the future.

The men march down the gangway of the plane as El Salvador’s thick tropical heat welcomes them. Hands above their heads, the men form a line between two rows of policemen and walk towards a grove of palm trees. Despite their slow shuffle and slumped bodies, it will not be long before some of them have mobilized back into action—heading north, planning new crimes, leaving more destruction in their wake.

Morten, the photographer, snaps a shot of a tattooed criminal. The man stiffens, his shackled hands clench together, his head snaps away as he tries to hide his identity. Then, he raises his hands and forms a gun barrel, firing an imaginary weapon, and whispering, “Puuffffffffffff!” Had this been the open streets of Houston, Mexico City, or San Salvador—and not a law enforcement-prisoner exchange—the story would have had a familiar ending: a few shots, a pool of blood, and yet another dead reporter.

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