Some people in her shoes might call what she was doing akin to suicide, but Maria—or Marisol, as her various id’s stated, the one thing she chose to retain from her family of origin—preferred to think of it as boldness. She was 20-years-old; she had the excuse of the youthful sense of invincibility to blame her reckless decisions on. The only other lifelong impression the Calaveras left on her was, surprisingly, the infamous family motto: No somos presa. The Desert Wolf had no intention of being anyone’s prey either.
That thought was what drove her to execute this mad scheme that she called reconnaissance. Waltzing all by her lonesome deep into the middle of the Calaveras stronghold would be considered a ballsy move by anyone. And she wasn’t exactly hiding. She’d gotten herself in as the guest DJ through proper channels at the company she would obtain freelance gigs. Well, maybe she greased a few palms to help ease the way, but it was nothing that would down an unusual degree of scrutiny down upon her.
No, she wasn’t hiding at all. Standing at the DJ booth on the raised dais that overlooked the main dance floor of the club, her headphones were wedged against the crook of her shoulder. She liked being able to hear and enjoy the reaction of her audience in real-time surround sound while keeping an ear properly tuned in to the beat she spun. To say that her state of dress was skimpy at best would be something of an understatement. The heated dimness of a packed discoteca in Mexico didn’t allow for too many layers. She bopped to the beat, one hand in the air while the other kept scratching, though her whole body swayed as she lost herself to the joyful rhythm of the music. Killing was easy and sure, it provided its own kind of high. But music... music was truly la vida.