DEATH BY CHEERLEADER

“Look behind the seat. There's a duffel bag. Take that uniform out and put it on. Hurry up.”

Behind my seat is a black bag, like the ones athletes carry sneakers and balls and things like this. I open it up and there's a strappy black sports-bra type top along with a black skirt and sneakers. I unfold the skirt and realize it's very short.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Cheerleader's costume,” Moc answers. “Congratulations, you're going to be a cheerleader today.”

I don’t know what his real name is. Apparently, he earned the ominous nickname Moc when he was younger because, unlike a rattle snake, he struck without warning like a water moccasin. Perpetually mean and ill tempered, he’s definitely some sort of snake. Unfortunately, he’s also my boss.

“You need to hurry up and put that uniform on,” he orders. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” “You’ll find out when we get there,” he snorts. “We’ve got a job. Uniform is part of the job. Now, put it on.”

I should be accustomed to getting dressed in the back of a van. Wait, that didn’t sound right. I’m not usually naked in the back of a van, after all. But, my job calls for me to make quick wardrobe changes while traveling.

I’m a member of an American undercover death squad. We get paid to take out criminal targets. When I say “take out”, I mean kill, of course. When I say, “we”, I mean me. Most sixteen-year-old girls earn extra money by baby-sitting. As the orphaned child of a Chechen suicide bomber, I guess this is my equivalent. I was trained for it so it’s not a big deal, I suppose. I mean, it’s not like I had other options.

This top is weird but I figure it out. I can feel Moc’s eyes peering at me through the rear-view mirror as I put on the clothes. I have to kill a stranger I’ve never met while I ride around with a man I truly despise. He knows it, too. That’s why I’m not allowed to carry a weapon and he never informs me of the job until the last minute. He doesn’t trust me.

Nor, should he.

We drive for another thirty minutes when Moc takes an exit off the interstate. He turns right onto a city street, filled with restaurants, gas stations and various stores and shops. Another right turn leads to a line of hotels. He pulls into one of the hotel parking lots and kills the engine.

“Second floor, Room 208,” he says, “a man is hiding out in there. He's a sex trafficker, brings girls into Mexico from Texas and sells 'em. Cops finally got after him and chased his ass into Arkansas. They don't want him arrested. They want him dead and they're paying us to make that happen. Capeesh?”

“Kill him with what? My charm? Why am I wearing this outfit? I can't hide a gun in this. What if he's not alone? How am I supposed to get into the room?”

Moc reaches back and touches my shoulder, which sends an ice sickle shiver down my spine. “Calm down,” he says. “He's alone. He's been under surveillance. Nobody has been in there with him for two days. He's a sex fiend, ordered himself a prostitute, told them he wanted her to dress up like a cheerleader for him. He is armed, though.”

Moc reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a plastic bag. “Here,” he says.

I open the bag and remove a tiny blade with a yellow plastic grip. I fiddle with it for a second and see that the blade is adjustable. I can push it out to make it longer.

“It's an Exacto knife,” he explains.

“You want me to kill an armed man with this? How big is he?”

Moc scowls. “About six-foot, probably a hundred and sixty pounds or so. Hell, are you an assassin or not? You're supposed to be trained for this.”

“I am but I don't appreciate walking blindly into a deadly confrontation. I have enough training to realize what you're asking me to do is extremely dangerous.”

“That’s why we’re paying you to do it,” he says with a snarl. “There’s a McDonalds up the street. You can run over there and fill out an application when you finish here. But as for right now, go knock on the door and say, Red Riding Hood is looking for the big bad wolf.”

I hope he’s kidding.

“You're late,” Moc says. “Hurry your ass up. Remember, be discreet. The rooms next to him are unoccupied but we still don't need any attention. Get it done and get back down here.”

I carefully slip the blade into the waist band of my skirt. One last big breath and I exit the van, which is parked close to the hotel stairwell. I don't like this. I don't have enough information. What is the skill level of this man? Is he right-handed or left-handed? What are the dimensions to the room? Is there a mirror in the room? Is it open or is it crowded with furniture and beds? I take my hair out of the bun and try to comb it with my fingers. Do I look like a prostitute? Wait, he asked for a cheerleader. Do I look like a cheerleader? So many questions and scenarios run through my mind. Before any are answered, I'm standing in front of Room 208.

After one more big breath, I knock four times in rapid succession. I listen carefully and hear someone stirring inside. The television, on before, is suddenly quiet. I stand directly in front of the peep hole, which I'm sure he is peering through.

“Who is it?” a gruff voice asks.

“Uh, Red Riding Hood. I'm looking for the big bad wolf?”

The door cracks open with the chain still attached. A man sticks his head into the opening. He's balding, splotchy skin, burned from too much sun. He has slight stubble on his face and bloodshot eyes. He's not wearing a shirt but appears to have on light blue pajama bottoms. He stares at me for a second and grunts. “Back up a step,” he orders.

I do as I'm told while he looks me up and down and nods. “You'll do.”

The door closes and he removes the chain. He opens it again and invites me in. “Welcome to Sherwood Forest,” he says, ushering me inside with a wave of his arm. This idiot doesn't know the difference between Robin Hood and Red Riding Hood. He probably thinks they're brother and sister. A quick glance reveals he's a bit shorter than Moc described. He's not too big but his arms and chest carry the scars of a man who has been in some battles. His knuckles are scarred and I'm pretty sure I see the remnants of an old knife wound starting on his right hip and disappearing beneath the stained pajamas. He's barefooted and, if he has a weapon, I don't see it. The room, with the shades drawn tight, is dark and cramped with a freshly made queen-sized bed in the center. At least room service has already been in for the day. It's barely enough room to walk around. Of course, that's not why he invited me in.

“Have a seat?” he says and points to the bed. I start to sit down and he stops me. “Wait. Spin around for me.” I slowly turn around, giving him an opportunity to ogle my body from every angle. “No,” he says impatiently. “Spin around so your skirt flies up a little bit. Give me a little peek.”

I spin again, this time faster and intentionally flip the back of my skirt so he can glimpse the white underpants. He nods approvingly. “You got a cheer for me?”

What the hell?

“A cheer? Uh, sure.”

The man has taken a seat on the bed. Between the bed and the wall, however, is a small writing desk with a chair. The desk barely fits. It would be impossible for an adult male to actually use it because the space is so small.

“Can you sit over here in this chair?” I ask him in the sweetest voice I can muster. “Sit here and I'll make sure you like what you see.”

His grin reveals a dentist's worst nightmare. The man has about four teeth in his mouth and he doesn't appear to be caring for them.

“Well, alrighty then,” he says, mimicking a character played by comedian Jim Carrey. I follow him as he pulls the chair from the desk, spins it around and takes a seat. When he looks up, I raise the bottom of my skirt a bit, which causes him to make sort of a hooting sound.

“You might want to go ahead and pull your pants down for this, baby,” I say in, what I hope is a cooing voice. I guess it works.

“Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. You don't have to tell me twice.” The man quickly pulls his pants down and they fall around his ankles. I start to spin again, faster and faster. I can feel my skirt flying parallel to the floor. Who knew the one year of ballet I took as a little girl would come in handy like this? With each revolution, I inch closer to the chair.

Finally, as he's about to reach out and grab his basket of goodies, I go into the waistband of my skirt. I spin around and, with the blade in my right hand, I slash him once in the throat. The blade is small but it's sharp and does its job. He grabs his throat with both hands. Blood spurts through his fingers and splatters onto the front of my skirt and blouse. As he's falling forward, I jump onto the bed beside him and force him face first to the floor as hard as I can. I drive my knee into the back of his neck. I don't know if his neck is broken but, just in case, I take the knife and cut his neck from one side all the way to the other. What little gurgling sounds he was making before quickly stop.

My heart is racing. I have to get out of here but I have blood splattered all over my clothes. I stop into the bathroom and gaze into the mirror and see I have blood on my face as well. I grab one of the small towels, dab it with water and wash my face. I use the towel to get my blouse and skirt as clean as I can and then wipe more blood from my legs. I can't leave any evidence behind so I wrap the towel around my Exacto knife and slowly crack open the door. Thankfully, there is no one around. I make sure the door is locked and then quietly shut it behind me. I head down the stairs.

Panic sets in when Moc and the van aren't parked in the same place. But, as soon as I reach the ground, he drives right up in front of me and the rear door slides open.

“Any problems?” Moc asks as I jump inside.

I'm so out of breath, I can't speak. I shake my head and fall back into the seat before he speeds away.

I don’t like what I do but my tiny cut of the pay is still much more than I would make in six months working at a fast food place. Still, as we pass the McDonalds he talked about, I wonder if that isn’t a better option.

Moc’s brother is a Ranger in the United States Army. He saved my life and is the reason I’m in this country. He’s the real founder of this death squad. I’m here to pay off my debt to him.

As for Moc, I owe the man nothing. He flashes a crooked grin at me and nods his head. For once, I smile back. I can tell he’s confused by my response. I guess he doesn’t realize … he forgot to take away my Exacto knife.