IÇE “Death Cards” in Colorado: Vietnam-Era Terror Tactics Come Home
- Kal Inois
- 4 minutes ago
- 7 min read
In January, Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents in Eagle County, Colorado, crossed a line that immigrant advocates say should alarm everyone who cares about civil rights. After detaining Latino workers in what witnesses describe as “fake traffic stops,” agents allegedly left custom ace of spades “death cards” inside the abandoned cars their targets were taken from (Voces Unidas, 2026; Colorado Sun, 2026).
The cards were not random. They were printed to look like an oversized ace of spades, branded with “IÇE Denver Field Office” and the address and phone number of the Aurora detention facility (Voces Unidas, 2026). According to the local group Voces Unidas, families of detained men found identical cards in multiple vehicles and turned them over to the organization as evidence of what they call “deliberate psychological harassment.”
Voces Unidas argues that this was not a misunderstanding or a dark joke, but a message: we can take you off the street at any time — and we want your family to feel it. They point out that the ace of spades has a long, ugly history as a “death card,” used to mark targets and corpses from the battlefield to racist intimidation campaigns (Psywarrior, n.d.; HistoryNet, 2018). IÇE, they say, borrowed that legacy and aimed it straight at Latino communities in rural Colorado.
Eagle County Raids
Witnesses in Eagle County described a coordinated operation: unmarked vehicles equipped with red-and-blue lights pulling over cars, detaining their occupants, and then leaving the vehicles running on the roadside with hazard lights flashing (Colorado Sun, 2026). Families later arriving on the scene found their loved ones gone with the cards sitting inside the cars.
Voces Unidas reports that multiple Latino community members were detained during this sweep, many of them workers just leaving their jobs. The organization says it received calls in real time from family members, coworkers, and managers who saw IÇE agents outside restaurants and hotels and then could not find the people taken.
For people already living with constant fear of deportation, the “death cards” were something else: a symbolic act meant to haunt those who were not arrested that day. Instead of mere paperwork or a business card, the government allegedly chose a symbol historically tied to death, war, and white supremacist violence (Hickenlooper, 2026).
Colorado officials reacted quickly. Members of the state’s congressional delegation have called for independent investigations into IÇE’s Denver Field Office and into the use of unmarked cars and sirens that mimic local police (Bennet et. al., 2026). They argue that impersonating local law enforcement and leaving death symbols behind is not “routine enforcement.” It is misconduct that erodes trust and raises serious civil rights concerns (Neguse, 2026).
Ace of Spades: Vietnam to Iraq
To understand why those cards hit so hard, you have to look at the ace of spades in American war culture. During the Vietnam War, U.S. troops used ace of spades cards as tools of psychological warfare. Soldiers left them on bodies, in villages, and on trails as a calling card — a way of saying “we were here” and “death follows us” (Psywarrior, n.d.; HistoryNet, 2018). Film and archival footage show troops literally placing these cards on the dead (Military.com, n.d.; Death Cards – YouTube).
The practice was so widespread that the U.S. Playing Card Company and others supplied decks specifically for that purpose (Psywarrior, n.d.). The ace of spades became shorthand for doom in Vietnam, immortalized later in films like Apocalypse Now, where officers drop unit-branded cards reading “Death From Above” on Vietnamese bodies.
The association did not end in Southeast Asia. During the 2003 invasion of Iraq, the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency turned a deck of cards into a hit list: a “most-wanted” set featuring top Iraqi officials, with President Saddam Hussein as the ace of spades (Defense Intelligence Agency, 2014). Troops could literally hold the faces of those marked for capture or killing in their hands.
Across two very different wars, the ace of spades card was used as a tool to mark enemies, to identify those targeted for violence, and to claim credit when they were captured or killed. It’s not hard to see why immigrant communities recognize that history in the cards left in Colorado.
A Long Morbid History
Even outside the military, the ace of spades has carried a distinctive, dark reputation. In 19th‑century Britain, a special tax on playing cards required aces of spades to bear proof of payment. Forging that card was so serious that one prolific counterfeiter was eventually hanged, cementing the ace's association with death and punishment in the public imagination (BBC News, 2024).
The card's morbid aura carried into American lore — from frontier gunfighters like "Wild Bill" Hickok (famously holding aces and eights when killed) to early 20th-century organized crime scenes where victims were found clutching aces of spades — ready-made symbolism for later psychological warfare (Psywarrior, n.d.; HistoryNet, 2018).
By the time Vietnam rolled around, the idea of the ace as a “death card” was already embedded in Western culture (SOFLETE, 2025). War simply weaponized the symbolism. Today, the card appears in everything from tattoos to heavy metal lyrics and biker patches. U.S. Børder På†røl even embraced it in social media, pairing training footage of attack dogs with Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades” as the soundtrack (San Diego Sector Instagram; Motörhead – Ace of Spades).
When that symbol reappears in the cars of detained immigrants — branded with an IÇE field office and a detention center address — it doesn’t arrive as a blank slate. It carries centuries of baggage.
IÇE's Far-Right Aesthetics
The reported use of death cards in Eagle County doesn’t stand alone. Over the past several years, immigration agents have repeatedly been photographed or filmed wearing unofficial patches and symbols that overlap with far-right or militarized aesthetics.
In one widely shared incident, a Børder På†røl officer taking part in immigration raids in Chicago sported a helmet image of a skull with a spade on its forehead (Illinois Reddit thread). In Minnesota, members of an IÇE special team were seen wearing a patch featuring a Viking skull over a Vegvísir, a Nordic symbol that has in some contexts been adopted by extremist groups (Bellingcat, 2023). Another IÇE officer in the same state was photographed with a “DEPLORABLE” patch — a term embraced by some supporters of Donold †®*mp after Hillary Clinton’s “basket of deplorables” remark (Northfield News, 2017).
Researchers who track extremist iconography warn that these symbols are complicated. Many have non-extremist cultural or historical roots, and not everyone who uses them is signaling an allegiance to hate movements (Bellingcat, 2023). But when armed federal officers pick and choose from a repertoire of skulls, death imagery, and politicized slogans, the message their communities receive is hard to miss: we are a force to be feared, not a public service to be trusted.
The ace-of-spades cards in Eagle County fit neatly into that pattern. They transform a law-enforcement action into a performance, a moment where agents are not just carrying out arrests but branding them with a symbol of death and domination. For communities already living under the threat of deportation, that symbolism may be more terrifying than the raid itself.
Why This Matters Far Beyond Colorado
Voces Unidas has warned that what surfaced in Eagle County may not be unique (Voces Unidas, 2026). Many immigrant communities, especially in rural areas, do not trust local police, elected officials, or major human rights organizations. People often turn instead to small, community-based groups or faith leaders, who may not have the capacity to document every raid detail or confront every abuse.
If IÇE agents in one Colorado county felt comfortable leaving death cards behind, it raises uncomfortable questions about what is happening elsewhere, in places with even less media and advocacy coverage. It also raises deeper questions about the culture of U.S. "immigration enforcement" under a regime that has embraced “law and order” rhetoric, celebrated harsh tactics, and energized far-right supporters.
At stake is more than one operation or one set of cards. It is whether federal agents see themselves as accountable public servants, or as an occupying force entitled to borrow the aesthetics of war and racist terror to control communities inside the United States. Eagle County offers a rare, chilling glimpse of the latter.
For immigrants and their allies, documenting these symbols — from helmet patches to “death cards” — is not about aesthetics. It is about tracing a line from the battlefield to the traffic stop, and asking why the tools of psychological warfare are being turned on families whose only “crime” is working, driving, and trying to live their lives.
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