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“We’ve met before.”She smiled. “In a manner of speaking. I was at Quantico three years ago when we had that SWAT/HRT training seminar that you attended. I was one of the coordinators and taught one of the symposiums. You made quite the impression, Sergeant Reaper.”I remembered that seminar. It was about six months after I made it to the Tactical Response Team, and Crowley and Jenkins had sent me to the FBI training complex in Quantico, Virginia when a training slot had opened. It had been very educational, but perhaps not quite the way it was originally intended. I gave a sheepish smile. “I’m surprised the FBI wants anything to do with me these days.”She laughed, and Hank Jenkins asked, “What happened, Grim? What did you do to the FBI?”“Hank! It was nothing!”Special Agent Delahoye laughed again. “That’s not quite the way I remember it.” She turned to the others and said, “Let me explain. The seminar was for experienced SWAT officers, police officers, from around the country. It. They looked at me, startled. The gaijin stood up; the Japanese, nonplussed at this demonstration of western courtesy, tried to stand up too, knocked over his chair, bent over and picked it up, and sat down on it again firmly. I couldn’t help giggling. “Good morning Yuri-san,” said the gaijin. “I hope you slept well after all your hard work last night. You are looking very fresh and beautiful today, if I may say so.” I blushed and stammered. Japanese men do not compliment girls on their appearance; I know that it is normal in the West but I always find it difficult to respond gracefully. The gaijin noticed my embarrassment and quickly changed the subject. “You must be hungry. Won’t you join us for breakfast?” Without waiting he brought up a third chair. Like the others it was plastic-covered: looking appreciatively at my nudity, he produced a freshly laundered kitchen-cloth from a drawer and spread it neatly over the seat. “I expect you’ll find that more comfortable,” he said with a.
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