Dean looked at the extended hand and grasped it, smiling. "Your eyesight is good."
Their palms lightly touched.
When they let go, the scar-faced Barton looked at Dean with a new hint of confusion.
This guy looks tall and sturdy, but his palms lack the thick calluses from handling firearms, and their texture is soft and supple, not the firm roughness of someone who exercises regularly. But seeing the two of them interact, the other person seems to defer to him. So, is this good-looking fellow someone who uses his brain for a living?
This series of analyses flashed through Barton's mind.
Without changing his expression, he shrugged. "I come from the CIA, and I'm all too familiar with those silly training marks of the FBI. But you, I can't tell where you're from."
Cheston En, hearing himself referred to as 'silly,' felt irked. But seeing the three men and one woman vaguely surrounding them behind Barton, he pretended not to hear.
