The Island - Prologue

Here is my most current story I've started:

Prologue:

Two men sat at a table in a room lit by a single bulb hanging from the bare ceiling above their heads. One was middle-age, with a thick thatch of salt-pepper and a thin nose. Pale blue eyes stared over wire-rimmed glasses. The other was fifteen years his junior; a lanky athletic man, with hardly any hair what so ever thanks to sparse crew cut. He drummed his fingers on the table as he spoke in a hushed tone to the older man.

Spread out between them was five black and white photographs and five blue files, neatly stacked in five separate piles.

The younger man reached for the first picture directly in front of him and held it up under the light. It was a teenage girl.. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Beautiful smile.

“Christine Linville. 5’6”. Nineteen-years-old. Born in and resident of Denver, Colorado. Parents: Jack and Terry Linville. Honor student and valedictorian of her class. Now a freshman in college, Majoring a degree in nursing. No criminal record.”

“How was the pickup?” the first man asked.

“Smooth as butter,” he replied,” She thought we were one of her father’s business associates.”

The older man cracked a crooked grin.

The second man set down this photograph and picked up a second. This one was of a young man.

“Ryan Littleton. 6’. Nineteen-years-old. Born in Forth Worth, TX, resident of Abilene, TX. Parents, step-dad Bill and mom, Cindy Littleton . Biological father, Darren Rankin deceased. Recently enrolled in the National Guard as of six months ago. No criminal record. He still believes our holding him is a part of his training.”

The listener cracked a second grin, this one more of a smirk.

“He will be their leader, Wyatt,” he stated calmly.

Wyatt paused staring at the young man a moment longer and then set it down and retrieved the third photograph. Another nineteen-year-old male.

“ Parker Eaton. 5’11”. Nineteen-years-old. Born in London England, resident of Los Angles, CA. Parents: Emily and Andre Eaton. Former high school soccer/football champ in London. Moved to the states at after high school graduation at eighteen and joined the ranks of our growing young Hollywood actors.”

Wyatt said this with a touch of sarcasm to his tone.

He continued on.

“Several incidents have been recorded of his drug use and drinking sprees, which included the stealing of a car. He was dead drunk when we picked him up. Other than that, pretty clean. You catching all this boss?”

The “boss” merely rubbed his hands together gleeful.

“Continue,” he replied with a nod of his head.

Wyatt did so, now picking up a fourth photo. This one was a young black-haired girl, with sad dark eyes.

“Emery Stalker. 5’4”. Nineteen-years-old. Born Orland, FL, current residence Chicago, IL. Parents: Tanner and Beth Stalker, German immigrants. Mother deceased, father currently in prison. Emily herself has served time for robbery and attempted murder when she was fifteen. Currently out on probation and attending an art school. Works part times as a waitress. And well, her record speaks for itself.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows raised as he set down her picture and picked up the very last one. This was a young middle-eastern looking man.

“Kasim Ahmed. 5’10”. Nineteen-years-old. Born in Baghdad, Iraq, current residence, Baton Rouge, AL. Seminary student, freshman. A radical.”

The older man held up his hand,” Explain radical, Wyatt.”

Wyatt cleared his throat,” He’s not Muslim, but a Christian.”

“Sets aside one extreme to embrace the other, eh?”

“This is the one we’re most after, Albert,” Wyatt explained,” He also happens to be the son of one of El Quida’s top dogs, so to speak.”

“A devout Muslim,” Albert mused ironically.

“Yes sir.”

Albert removed his glasses,” And you say all five are prepared for removal to the island.”

“Yes. In exactly twelve hours, they will begin their new life,” Wyatt’s looked pleased with himself.

“Don’t be over eager about this, Wyatt,” Albert warned him, replacing his glasses,” We are just beginning.”

Wyatt replaced the last photo, face growing solemn.

“What are the chances for success, sir?”

“A million to one,” Albert replied, in a low voice.