The Dangers of Islam: The Terrorist

Prologue

     Cynthia Keller was known for her innate journalistic senses. If there were a story to be found, Cynthia would be the one to find it. She had broken the story about her local mayor's affair before any news agency in the city had even gotten wind that something was up. That was all merely in her first year of high school. Now, as she stared at the pillar of muscle that stood in front of her, she knew she had stumbled on the story of the century. Cynthia glanced at the man that stood next to her and whispered, "What are we waiting for, Richard?" "Our security clearance. We have to be cleared before we can see my client," Richard replied. "They're clear!" The pillar of muscle bellowed before stepping out of Cynthia and Richard's way. "Mr. Burton," another man called out as he walked over and shook hands with Richard. The man then added, "Your client is being processed for your meeting."

     "I'd like to brief you about the precautions and procedures for meeting with Mr. Burton's client. Since no one has ever been given permission to see him, other than Mr. Burton, you should know that every move you make, every word you speak, and even the air you breathe will be monitored. You will be transferred to a secure facility, via secure transport, for the interview and will not be able to see the client in his natural setting due to security concerns. I will remind you that even though the client may seem placated, he is still the most atrocious terrorist the United States has ever seen and is still enemy number one in the eyes of the U.S. Military. You will not be able to bring recording equipment, laptops, tablet computers, pens, pencils, or anything else, with you. All recording equipment and other utensils deemed necessary for you will be provided by the security staff," the man thoroughly explained. "I get it. Thank you," Cynthia nodded. "I don't think you do, ma'am," the man said with a slight scoff. "That man is responsible for the most vile terrorist attack on U.S. soil the world has ever seen. Worst of all, he's one of our own."

     Cynthia frowned and looked at Richard, "Who is this guy? Does he think I'm stupid?" "I am the head of security for this entire detainment camp, Arthur McKenny. No, I do not think you are stupid. However, I do believe you will try to portray a humanistic side to this man. I assure you, there is none." Cynthia watched as Arthur walked towards a set of doors and sighed. She had decided to come in here with an open mind, to try to crack why this man had killed thousands, but even she was feeling enraged towards him for the acts that he committed. It had been nearly ten years since he had been indefinitely incarcerated in this detention camp and no one, not even the most elite journalists in the world, were able to secure an interview with him. Before Cynthia could wonder why the man had finally agreed to an interview, she found herself being ushered into a windowless van.

     She remembered reading stories of how this camp had been thrust into the hands of the world's top private security firms after years of protests by American citizens. Many could not live with the thought that they were illegally holding citizens of other countries in a prison that was run by their own government. Once the military withdrew their forces from the prison, the citizens seemed to be at ease knowing that technically, they were no longer detaining these men indefinitely; it was all the work of hired contractors. "Tomato, to-mah-toe," Cynthia mumbled to herself. She felt uneasy knowing that if something went wrong at this camp, that if a prisoner died or a riot ensued, her government would look the other way and let the security firm handle it as they deemed necessary. This camp had never been the shining example of human rights since the day of it's inception, but at least classified reports were eventually declassified when the military was in charge. Now, no one had any inkling as to what went on behind these walls. As far as what was used to "break" the prisoners, the security firm's motto was, "Anything goes."

     "You are required to wear these hoods as we transfer you to the interrogation cham-, I mean interview room," a young security worker, who had been sitting in front of them, called out as he handed Richard and Cynthia a hood each. "You want me to wear this? I'm not a prisoner," Cynthia protested. "It is regulation, ma'am. We do not trust anyone here, not even his lawyer here and he's been here a few times," the young man said as he pointed at Richard. "Get them on and I'll secure them before you're escorted to the room." No amount of mental preparation could ready her for what came next. She was pushed out of the van and felt herself collide with someone who then gripped her arm roughly and led her forwards. With her temporary blindness, she felt her other senses heighten. She tried her best to focus on the sounds around her and heard only the waves crashing on a nearby shore and the rhythmic turn of the helicopter's blades. It seemed even the sounds around her had been muted in this high security facility.