BRYCE CHECKED HIS BABY G; 13:00, it was time. He gathered his paraphernalia and moved his arse to the café. The salt-and-pepper-haired Asset, a relic from the past, looked the same as always. Dressed impeccably in a suit, polished leather shoes and accessorised by his Cartier wristwatch, the Asset looked the part of an expatriate executive.
Bryce eased himself into the seat opposite. The blazing Australian sun had tanned him to a dark shade of brown; his thick brunette hair was a windblown mess on his head.
The Asset appraised him.
In his casual, long-sleeve black tee and denim Rexford pants, Bryce looked super fit.
‘You look good.’
‘Thanks,’ replied the Australian, long used to people complimenting him, although in truth he often thought it odd. He didn’t rate himself as good looking
