Free Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller by Stephen Templin Page A

appreciate the irony of this next one.” He pointed to another blade. “A Chinese cleaver, used for chopping through bone. And the last is a boning knife, which does what its name implies.”
    Bo’s mouth was dry, and his head felt like it was on fire. Screaming, he yanked on his handcuffs.

8
    _______
    I n the morning, Chris, Hannah, Victor, and Jim Bob took separate routes to make sure they weren’t under surveillance by any of the foreign spies that often targeted Langley. After shaking any tails and making sure they were “clean,” they would rendezvous at the Montreal-Trudeau Airport, where they’d assume their new identities.
    Unlike traveling abroad, Chris was on his home turf and had the advantage of blending in more easily and noticing anyone who exhibited a marked appearance or behavior—such as a foreign operative whose dress was too casual or too formal in comparison to the other people in his environment, a commuting salary man without a bored look on his face, or anything else out of the norm. Also to his benefit, surveillance would probably only be solo or a small team rather than a large team, such as the KGB used in Russia during the Cold War to observe suspected CIA officers.
    Chris took a taxi to a nearby hotel, briskly walked in the front door, and quickly walked out the back. If enemy agents were following him, they’d struggle to keep up. He didn’t want to be obvious and turn around to look for a tail, so he checked the window reflections. No one suspicious. So far, so good.
    From the rear of the hotel, Chris hailed another taxi. As he sat down and told the driver where to take him, he observed the hotel door to see if anyone came out. When the taxi driver pulled away from the curb, the hotel door remained still.
    No surveillance vehicles seemed to pursue, but Chris remained alert as his taxi dropped him off at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport—the busier the airport, the easier it was to disappear into an ocean of people. DC was also a hotbed for spies, so the farther from DC, the better. From there, he flew to New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. Inside JFK, Chris switched carriers and hopped on a plane to Montreal, Canada.
    In a restroom stall of the Montreal-Trudeau Airport, he changed into a green polo shirt with Adventure Tours embroidered on the left breast. He proceeded to the security gate, where he showed his navy blue Canadian passport with his alias— Chris Grey —written inside. He placed his wallet on the counter between them. In it, he had a Montreal driver’s license, Visa card issued by Canadian Tire, a business card with working phone number and email address that the Agency manned daily, and a Tim Hortons card, the Dunkin’ Donuts of Canada. In his carry-on, there was a Canadian edition of the Bible and some business papers.
    After passing through security, he found a seat in the Swiss International Airlines lobby near the gate for Zurich, the next stop on their circuitous journey to Latakia, Syria. Chris wore the face of any other tired traveler, but he maintained situational awareness, watching out for anything that didn’t belong.
    Hannah arrived at the gate, wearing her green Adventure Tours shirt, carrying a drink, and strutting as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But Chris knew better—Hannah was switched on, too. She sat down next to him. Any moment, Victor and Jim Bob were due to arrive wearing their Adventure Tours shirts, too.
    Hannah took a sip from her straw. “You ever know a shooting instructor named Ron Hickok?” she asked randomly.
    Ron was the toughest SEAL instructor Chris had had at BUD/S. Later, he’d taken an honorable discharge from the Navy and opened a gun school called the Blaze Ranch for military and law enforcement personnel and US citizens. Teaching guns was his true destiny. Before he’d agreed to teach Chris beyond the advanced levels, he’d sworn Chris to secrecy. Chris hadn’t understood why, but