Behind her, five men stood, all of them wearing black masks across their faces. They were dressed in the manner of a guerrilla army, with heavy ballistic vests, ammo belts across their chests, many-pocketed cargo pants, and combat boots. Four of the men carried AK-47 rifles. They stood in front of a black banner with white lettering in Arabic.

The fifth, a man wearing the black hood of an executioner, carried a long heavy knife, like a machete. He held it aloft, and at times, gestured with it.

The imagery made Luke sick—sick with anger, with rage, with a helpless feeling. Inside of him, there was an animal trapped in a cage, a brute, wanting very badly to kick its way out. If it got out, God help every man in that video, and anyone who worked with them or aided them in any way. God help entire regions and an entire religion.

He glanced at Ed Newsam. The man’s huge right fist was clenched. His jaw was set. He stood by the table in what could be mistaken for a relaxed posture—except his entire body was alive with electricity.

Luke took a deep breath.

“My father is an imperialist and a crusader,” the girl was saying. Her eyes darted, looking at something off screen. Clearly, it was the script she was being forced to read.

“He is… he is a nitwit, and a dupe of the Western ruling classes… who… use and degrade women, and who… who deliberately corrupt the morals of the youth in the entire world. They are in league with Satan, and my father…”

Here she turned her head and began to cry. Within seconds, she was weeping abjectly, utterly unable to continue. The video jumped, and cut. Now she was facing forward again.

“They cut it to give her time to compose herself,” Mark Swann said.

“And my father is their willing servant,” the girl said. “He is a coward and a running dog who has used the might of the West to make war on Allah’s faithful people, even while in his youth he used his wealth to escape his own military responsibilities, and his country’s dirty wars.”

“Jesus,” Luke said.

“Do not cry for me,” she said now. “I am young, but was not naïve. I willfully ignored the suffering my father and his ilk have inflicted on masses of the faithful throughout the world. I am the spawn of evil, and I am not…”

She began to cry again.

“I am not innocent.”

She lost it again. She could not speak. She kneeled there, head hanging, face obscured, her entire body shaking with sobs.

The screen jumped again, revealing yet another artless cut. She was kneeling up straight again. She was no longer crying.

“My capture and punishment is a glory to the prophet, and confirmation to Allah’s people that their faith is rewarded. I go to my…”

She stopped and took a deep breath.